Sube had invented a new face. This was not an infrequent occurrence, but it was usually a notable one. Within the week he had presented his family with the "squirrel-face," the "teakettle-spout," the "double-tongue," and one or two minor productions, so they were not entirely unprepared to have him announce that he could make a face like the king of beasts.

During the next few days Mrs. Cane found a lion-face staring at her from all sorts of unexpected places, generally accompanied by a low snarl and a bloodthirsty licking of chops. And on one occasion Mr. Cane had been surprised into boxing the beast's ears and threatening to skin it alive and make a rug of its pelt if it ever sprang out at him again.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the lion-face disappeared and its haunts knew it no more, for Sube had turned to other matters. He was organizing a drum corps. The new enterprise was brought to the attention of his family by a demand for a bass drum.

"A bass drum!" his father exploded with a sound not wholly unlike that vast instrument. "What next! I de-clare, that boy beats—"

He gave up in despair.

Sube's mother had stronger nerves and was much less explosive. "What could you possibly do with a bass drum?" she asked.

"I got to have one for my drum corpse," replied Sube with the air of a man of affairs.

His father gave way to another explosion. "Well, there will be another kind of corpse around here if you ever attempt to perform in this neighborhood!" he threatened.

"Where's the drum your uncle Ned gave you?" asked his mother.

Sube glanced apprehensively at his father. This drum had been heard from before. "It's put away," he mumbled; hastily adding, "That's a snare drum, anyway. What we need is a bass drum!"

The mere thought of a drum was annoying to his father, who declared in a menacing tone: "I hereby warn you that if I ever find a drum on the premises, snare, bass, kettle or any other kind, I'll kick a hole through it! Now don't forget that!"

"Kettle? Did you say kettle?" Sube asked eagerly. "What's a kettle drum?"

"Never mind what it is," retorted his father. "The less you know about drums, the better off you'll be."

"It wouldn't bother you just to have me know about it, would it?" Sube persisted.

"That's right! Stick to it!" growled his father. "I suppose I may as well tell you. It's like a brass kettle with a drumhead over the top. Now run along and don't bother me any more."

"But how do you play it?"

"What a question! Why, with sticks, of course!"

But Sube was not to be put off. "How many? One? Or two?" he asked as he edged towards the door.

"Two, of course!" responded his father.

"Like a snare drum?" Sube called back as he tarried in the doorway.

Seeing that he was about to be relieved of his son's presence Mr. Cane amplified a little. "More like two small bass drumsticks," he explained. "Now run along and don't bother me again to-day, for I am very busy."

Sube followed his mother into the kitchen. "How'm I goin' to get a bass drum?" he teased. "Mompsie, how'm I goin' to get—"

"Whatever put this drum business into your head?" she asked. "You know any kind of noise affects your father!"

"We won't make any noise round here," he assured her. "Honest we won't. But we want to march in the Decoration Day parade."

"Why don't you get up a nice little company of soldiers," suggested his mother. "I'll fix a uniform for you, and perhaps your father would let you carry his sword. But I will not help you to get any more drums or other noise-making things. A nice little company of soldiers would be just the thing; and I think your father would drill you once or twice to show you how—"

"Dad drill me! I guess not! I don't want any 'nice little comp'ny of soldiers,' anyway. I want a drum corpse!"

"You talk to the other boys about a nice little company of soldiers. That would be just the thing!"

But Sube was not interested in soldiery. The depths of his being had been sounded by the throb of the Henderson Martial Band. Creative instincts had been aroused that only expression could satisfy. He abandoned the quest of the drum and left the house. At the barn he found Gizzard Tobin waiting for him.

"Well, what luck?" called Gizzard as Sube approached.

"Nuthin' doin'," muttered Sube. "Dad said he'd kick a hole through any drum he caught on the premises, and my mother wouldn't do a thing for a drum corpse. She wanted me to get up a pimply little company of soldiers."

"Rotten," voted Gizzard. "What we goin'—"

"Say! But I got onto one good thing!" Sube suddenly recalled. "It's another kind of a drum!"

And Gizzard learned with interest the details of the construction and operation of the kettle drum.

"Hey!" he cried suddenly. "I know where there's a brass kettle! It's a blinger, too!"

"Where?"

"In my gran'mother's parlor! There's a spinning-wheel and a bed-warmer and a lot of ol' fashioned junk!"

"But she won't let you take it."

"Who's goin' to ask 'er?" sneered Gizzard. "I'll jus' sneak in there and borrow it!"

"Aw, you don't dare!"

"I don't, don't I? Well, you jus' come on and watch me. I'll show you whether I do or not!"

A little later a shiny brass kettle was handed out of one of Grandma Tobin's parlor windows and was slipped into a sack, which was carelessly slung over Sube's shoulder when Gizzard emerged from the kitchen door with two cookies in his hand. That same day Cathead's banjo disappeared, to be found a year later minus the head, which the mice had doubtless devoured. But the new drum corps was still without a bass drum.

Next day, however, Gizzard brought glad tidings. "Hey!" he shouted from afar. "I'm onto a bass drum!"

"Better get off," cautioned Sube; "you might bust it."

"I know where there is one, jus' the same!"

"Where?" Sube was in earnest now.

"My dad says Charley Burton used to have one, and it must be up in his mother's attic now!"

Sube's face lengthened. "Gee! That's hard luck! Ol' lady Burton wouldn't give me a crumb if I was starvin', nor you neither. She thinks we killed that ol' cat of hers."

"Couldn't we get somebody else to ask her for it? Biscuit or somebody?"

"Who'd he tell her it was for?"

"Oh, a Sunday School entertainment or something."

"They don't use drums in Sunday School."

"Then he could tell her it was for a school doin's!"

The two boys looked at each other for a moment, then Sube turned and darted out of the barn. "Be back in a minute!" he shouted as he started for the house.

Presently he returned carrying under his coat an autograph album that was one of Cathead's most cherished possessions. He ran through the pages until he came to the signature of Professor Ingraham, the principal of the school. At the first glance the name startled them; it looked so much like its maker. But after a little it lost its terror and presented nothing but pleasant possibilities.

"I don't know jus' what you think you're goin' to do with that," Gizzard, remarked at length.

"You see, there's lots of room above it," Sube suggested tentatively.

"'Yes, but she'd know the writin' was diff'rent," Gizzard hastened to observe.

For a moment Sube was silent. Then he punched Gizzard jovially in the ribs. "Not if I wrote it on the typewriter!" he cried.

Then he stuck out his stomach in imitation of a bass drum and marched around saying:

"Boom!—Boom!—Boom! Boom! Boom!—Boom!—Boom!—Boom! Boom! Boom!"

"But who'll typewrite it?" asked Gizzard.

"I will—Boom!—Boom!—Boom! Boom! Boom!" and he brought up before Gizzard with a flourish of his imaginary drumstick. "You watch me!"

"How can I watch you when you jus' 'boom' all the time?" asked Gizzard peevishly.

"My mother's goin' to a party," Sube divulged presently, "and the minute she's out of the house we'll sneak into my dad's den, and then I'll show you if I can't typewrite on the typewriter! I'll show you! You jus' wait!"

But as far as Gizzard was concerned Sube might as well have suggested sneaking into a lion's den. "You don't need to show me," he declared. "I'll wait right here!"

The cherished page was carefully removed from the album, and in due time Sube disappeared into the house with it. After a long absence he came out again bearing in his hand an envelope smeared with enough finger prints to convict the whole underworld, but neatly addressed in typewriting to:

"There's capital letters on the dern thing," he explained, "but I couldn't find 'em."

"She'll never know the diff," ventured Gizzard. "It's a long time since she went to school, and I'll bet she's forgot all about 'em."

That afternoon Biscuit Westfall delivered the note; but not until he had received the strongest kind of assurance (including a five-cent piece) that it had been sent by Professor Ingraham, the principal of the school. And from an ambush of shrubbery on the opposite side of the street Sube and Gizzard watched him ascend Mrs. Burton's front porch and ring the bell. Mrs. Burton herself opened the door. She greeted Biscuit cordially, as she was very fond of him. His gentle, dutiful, sweetly pious nature appealed to her. She took the letter with effusive thanks, and learning that an answer was expected, adjusted her spectacles and read it.