No!
This must be put an end to.
When Dad left he had said. . . . She must act quickly and firmly.
George tapped at the window.
"Olga," he exclaimed, "you've got to help me!
A delegation's come round—they want me to sing at the concert.
Today's such an occasion—I couldn't very well refuse.
I want you to accompany me on your accordion." "Yes—but why don't you get a pianist?" Olga said in surprise. "Why do you want an accordion?"
"Olga, I don't want a pianist, I want to sing with you!
It'll work out fine.
May I jump in through the window?
Put that iron away and take out your accordion.
Here, I've got it out myself.
All you have to do is press the keys and I'll sing."
"Look here, George," said Olga, ruffled. "Must you climb in through the window when there is a perfectly good door?"
There was a noisy crowd in the park.
Cars filled with holiday-makers rolled up in a continuous stream.
Vans drove up laden with sandwiches, buns, soft drinks, sausages, sweets and cakes.
An array of ice cream vendors spread out over the grounds.
Phonographs screeched in every imaginable key over the lawns where picnickers were settling down to unpack their lunches.
The bands blared.
At the entrance to the open-air theatre the old doorman was arguing with a telegraph line repairman who was trying to enter with all his tools— monkey wrenches, straps, iron spikes and all.
"Listen, man, you can't go in with those tools.
Today's a holiday.
You go home first, give yourself a wash and brush up and put on some decent clothes."
"But it's a free performance, isn't it? I don't need a ticket!"
"Makes no difference.
They're singing in there.
Only thing you've forgotten to bring with you's your telegraph pole.
You move along too, citizen," he said to another man. "Can't you hear there's a concert on, singing and music?
And you've got a bottle sticking out of your pocket!"
"But look here, old boy," the other stuttered. "I've got to—I'm the tenor!"
"Get along with you—Tenor," retorted the old doorman. He pointed to the repairman. "This Bass over here isn't making trouble.
You'd better keep quiet too."
Jenny, who had been told by the boys that Olga had gone backstage with her accordion, fidgeted impatiently in her seat.
At last George and Olga came onto the stage.
Jenny was terrified: she was afraid the audience would laugh at Olga.
But nobody laughed.
George and Olga looked so nice, young and gay standing there on the stage that Jenny felt like rushing up and hugging them both.
Olga picked up her accordion.
A deep line furrowed George's forehead. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his head.
He was an old man now, and in a low, sonorous voice he began to sing:
Three nights I've kept my weary watch. I peer Into the dismal dark and always seem to hear Muffled, suspicious sounds—my rifle burns
Uneasy in my hand And, as full twenty years ago, so my heart yearns
Now to defend my land. As in the long nights of that other war I keep good watch as I have watched before.. And if I'm called upon to help my country's plight Against a hireling foe, 'Then—old man though 1 be—I'll stand and fight As twenty years ago. "Lovely!
Poor brave old fellow!
What a beautiful voice," Jenny murmured to herself. "That's the way, Olga!
What a pity Dad isn't here to see you play!"
After the concert George and Olga strolled hand in hand through the park.
"It's all very well," Olga was saying, "but I can't think where Jenny's got to."