Softly the last note died, and then the player emerged from the grove. He was little and bent. He wore a ragged suit of corduroys and a battered felt hat with a red feather stuck jauntily in its band. His face was small, dark, and unshaven. In one grimy hand he carried a small demijohn. Arriving opposite Caleb, he lifted his battered hat and bowed low as a courtier would do.
"Glory be! It's find ye alone I do," he spoke in rich Irish brogue. "It's trill ye a chune I did from the copse, yonder, so's to soften the hard heart of ye, Caleb. It's dhry I am as a last-year's chip, an' me little jug do be pinin' fer a refillin'."
Caleb's face grew stern. "I told you, Harry O'Dule, that I'd give you no more liquor," he replied.
"Faith, maybe ye did. But last night it's the skies thimselves said 'rain,' an' begorry! there's been not a sign av a shower t'day. What matters ut fer the fallin' av an idle wurrud now and thin? It's meself knows you're too tinder hearted t' refuse a small favor to a body that feels only love an' respect fer yourself an' the swate ones who wait ye in the flower-covered cottage, beyont."
"Stop your blarney, Harry. I tell you I'll give you no more whisky, and by ding! that goes!"
"Thin I'll be trudgin' back along the way," said O'Dule, hopelessly. "But afore I go, I'll be liltin' ye a small chune that'll mebee make ye understand somethin' av a sadness yer generosity could lessen. Listen thin!"
He set the jug down, and from his bosom drew forth a tin whistle. For a minute or two he played softly, his eyes on Caleb's. Then, gradually, his eyes closed and a rapt expression settled upon his grimy face as he led his listener down strange by-paths of fancy.
Suddenly, Caleb jumped from the bench. "Stop, Harry O'Dule!" he entreated. "That whistle of yours would soften the heart of old Nick himself. Do you want to set me crazy, man? Come, give me your jug, I'll fill it this time. But remember, never ag'in. I mean that, by ding!"
He snatched up the demijohn and went into the store. Old Harry sat down on the bench and waited until he returned.
"It's a good fri'nd ye've been t' me, Caleb," he said gratefully, as he lifted the jug and held it between his knees. "It's do widout me dhrink I cannot. Ut an' me whistle are me only gleams av sunlight in the gloom. I'll be after takin' a little flash of the light now, if ut's no objection ye have, for ut's long dhry I've been." He lifted the jug and took a long draught of its fiery contents.