A Brass Whistle in the Sand

I scrambled out past the heavy doorway into the pale morning light, eager for the alley breeze. Near a pile of sun-bleached masonry, a stubby brass tube stuck out from a dusty footprint. I halted, tilting my head with a sharp chatter. Tap, tap—I prodded the metal cylinder with the toe of my boot. Heavy, thick-walled, no wobble. Kneeling down, I gripped the ridged barrel with both gloved hands and tugged it free from the compacted sand. A discarded brass whistle! The pea inside was stuck with grit, so I gave the mouthpiece a brisk, sharp blow. Pfft—screeech! The sudden shrill blast made me jump, then chirp in frantic delight. Working parts!