On the return of the boys to the house of Dr. Manning, Val’s hospitable young mind had been somewhat disturbed as to how he should amuse his new friend during the remaining hours of the afternoon.

“To-morrow,” he said, “I’ll get father to lend us the carriage, and we’ll have a grand drive, and next day we’ll do something else. Maybe we’ll go fishing. There’s plenty of fun evenings, but what’ll we do now?”

“One thing I’d like to do,” said Bar.

“What’s that?”

“Why, I never saw so many books and things in all my life as there are in your library. Do you suppose your father’d object to my taking a closer look at them?”

“The library?” exclaimed Val. “Why, that isn’t much. Father’d be glad enough if I’d put in more time there than I do. Then he’s got a[Pg 125] whole lot of things in his laboratory. Fun there, now!”

“I should say so,” said Bar. “I know something about that. We had to work up a whole lot of experiments once.”

“We?” said Val, inquiringly.

“Yes,” said Bar. “I and some other fellows. Only we just learned enough to play our tricks, that’s all.”

“That’s more’n I know, except to spoil my clothes with acids and things,” said Val. “Anyhow, if you can amuse yourself in the library I’m glad of it. Go ahead.”

It seemed to Bar Vernon that afternoon, as he wandered vaguely from one treasure of printing to another, as if he were soaking in learning from those elegantly bound volumes. The very leather on their backs had something wise and instructive in the smell of it.

So it seemed, indeed; nor was Bar’s notion so far wrong as it might be thought. A man is always a good deal influenced by his companions, especially if he takes a personal interest in them.

The companionship of books is only less[Pg 126] powerful than that of human beings, just as their “study” is. As for the reverse of the proposition, if anybody doubts that human beings—boys, especially—“make an impression” on books, just let him lend them his own favorite volumes, and he will be speedily convinced.

Dr. Manning was by no means displeased that evening when he heard from Val a faithful account of the day’s doings.

Val had nothing to conceal, and he would never have dreamed of doing so, if he had, for he was his father’s own son in straightforward simplicity.

The dinner-hour was six o’clock, and after that there were visitors, and the doctor’s back-parlor, opening into the library, looked remarkably cheerful.

It was a warm evening, and the whole suite of rooms was thrown into one by opening the folding-doors, but the front part was only half-lighted.

Bar felt more than a little shy at first, but a strong feeling of gratitude was rapidly growing upon him.

[Pg 127]What would he not do to keep such friends as these?

Very kind they were, too; and so were their visitors, all except the big, burly, pretentious-seeming personage, who was planting himself on the piano-stool in such a lordly way, just as Val whispered to his father:

“Mayn’t Bar play a trick on Professor Sturm?”

“Trick? No, my son, nothing rude. How could you ask?”

“Not rude, father, only funny. Bar’s a ventriloquist.”

“Oh!” said the doctor, “I see; Bar, you must be careful.”

Now it happened that “Professor Sturm” had already stirred up Bar’s sense of “personal resistance,” by his previous superciliousness to both him and Val, and he was quite ready to act upon the doctor’s halfway consent.

The professor had evidently proposed to himself that he would electrify the little company by what he would do with that piano, and he now made a dignified and self-confident dash at the keyboard, after the usual manner of experts.

[Pg 128]This would have been succeeded promptly by another artistic effort if it had not been followed instantly by a smothered and mournful howl from the depths of the piano.

The professor’s hands, on which more than one huge ring was glittering, came down with a convulsive start, and the discord produced was acknowledged by a repeated and more bitter cry of pain.

“Vas is dese tings?” exclaimed the man of music, springing to his feet. “Dere is somepody in de biano!”

“Of course there is,” replied a voice from the heart of the mysterious instrument, while the amazed doctor and his guests came crowding up with one accord.

“Doctor,” asked Professor Sturm, “dit you hear dat biano? I shall blay him some more. You see.”

The professor was a man of pluck, but no sooner did his fingers again begin to wander over the chords than a tumult began behind the rosewood in front of him.

Now it was one cat, then three or four. Then a distressed dog. And then a human voice appealed to the professor.

[Pg 129]“Please, don’t. You hurt us dreadfully.”

&............