The man in the shirt-sleeves looked at his companion and gave a low whistle of astonishment.
“Beats all!” said the other; and then, as the tree-tops began to reel in the oncoming tempest, everybody rushed for shelter. There was ample room on the broad barn-floor. The horses quietly munched their oats, the men disposed of themselves here and there, some astride of milking-stools, some stretched at full length on the soft, sweet-smelling hay, some propped up against the open door, till the shifting wind obliged even that to be closed against the rain and hail.
“I say, Harte, tune up; give us a rouser. Haven’t heard you sing for an age; wish you had your fiddle.”
All the frequenters of Caffrey’s groggery knew Dan’s musical powers, which were really of no mean order, albeit for years they had served to gratify the lowest passions of vile, half-drunken men. Many a time he had helped the speaker make night hideous.
The man nudged Dan now, showing the neck of a small flask in his pocket, as he whispered, “Give us a regular high one, and here’s for you.”
Farmer Vance was busy with his horses. Dan waited a moment, a flush of red showing through his bronzed cheek. Then in a full, clear voice, he broke out with—
“Ho! my comrades, see the signal
Waving in the sky,
Reinforcements now appearing,
Victory is nigh!