“’Tain’t going to amount to anything,” declared Jane Ann.
“It just looks like heat lightning,” agreed Ruth.
“May not rain at all to-night,” pursued the other girl, cheerfully.
“Who’s that yelling?” queried Ruth, suddenly.
“Huh! that’s somebody singing.”
“Singing?”
“Yep.”
“Way out here?”
“Yep. It’s Fred English, I guess. And he’s no Caruso.”
“But what’s he singing for?” demanded the disturbed Ruth, for the sounds that floated to their ears were mournful to a degree.