ssing in the street, and the passers-by were
absorbed in their own business. If they heard a sound, they did not
stop to inquire into it.

"Hallo! Hallo! I am locked in!" yelled Marco, at the topmost power of
his lungs. "Hallo! Hallo!"

After half an hour's shouting, he began to think that he was wasting
his strength.

"They only think it is a boy shouting," he said. "Some one will notice
in time. At night, when the streets are quiet, I might make a
policeman hear. But my father does not know where I am. He will be
trying to find me--so will Lazarus--so will The Rat. One of them might
pass through this very street, as I did. What can I do!"

A new idea flashed light upon him.

"I will begin to sing a Samavian song, and I will sing it very loud.
People nearly always stop a moment to listen to music and find out
where it comes from. And if any of my own people came near, they would
stop at once--and now and then I will shout for help."

Once when they had stopped to rest on Hampstead Heath, he had sung a
valiant Samavian song for The Rat. The Rat had wanted to hear how he
would sing when they went on their secret journey. He wanted him to
sing for the Squad some day, to make the thing seem real. The Rat had
been greatly excited, and had begged for the song often. It was a
stirring martial thing with a sort of trumpet call of a chorus.
Thousands of Samavians had sung it together on their way to the
battle-field, hundreds of years ago.

He drew back a step or so, and, putting his hands on his hips, began to
sing, throwing his voice upward that it might pass through the broken
window. He had a splendid and vibrant young voice, though he knew
nothing of its fine quality. Just now he wanted only to make it loud.

In the street outside very few people were passing. An irritable old
gentleman who was taking an invalid walk quite jumped with annoyance
when the song suddenly trumpeted forth. Boys had no right to yell in
that manner. He hurried his step to get away from the sound. Two or
three other people glanced over their shoulders, but had not time to
loiter. A few others listened with pleasure as they drew near and
passed on.

"There's a boy with a fine voice," said one.

"What's he singing?" said his companion. "It sounds foreign."

"Don't know," was the reply as they went by. But at last a young man
who was a music-teacher, going to give a lesson, hesitated and looked
about him. The son