"Good hunting!" said a girl's clear voice. "Garry was feeling musically inclined, and so we brought the Joe with us."
The India-rubber Man returned from the direction of the tent, carrying rugs and coats which he proceeded to spread on the ground.
"We're pushing on to-morrow," continued Clavering's deep voice. "There are some lakes in the hills we want to reach while this fine weather lasts. What are your movements, Standish? Keep somewhere near us, so that we can have our sing-songs of an evening sometimes."
"We'll follow," replied the India-rubber Man. "Nebuchadnezzar ought to have a day's rest to-morrow, and then we'll pick up the trail. Your old caravan oughtn't to be difficult to trace. Did you do any good on the river this evening…?"
They settled down among the rugs, and for a while the conversation ran on the day's doings. Then Etta Clavering drew her banjo from its case. "What shall we have?" she asked, fingering the strings: and without further pause she struck a few opening chords and began in her musical contralto:
"Under the wide and starry sky…"
The slow, haunting melody floated out into the night, and Betty, seated beside her husband, felt his hand close firmly over hers as it rested among the folds of the rug. The warm glow of the fire lit the faces of the quartette and the white throat of the singer.
"Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill…"
The last notes died away, and before anyone could speak the banjo broke out into a gay jingle, succeeded in turn by an old familiar ballad in which they all joined. Then Clavering cleared his throat and in his deep baritone sang:
"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone
Over the hills to Skye,"