The incoherent muttering continued.
“See here, Jerry!” repeated Barrett, more sharply. “Jerry! rouse up, will you? We don't want any fooling; understand that, Jerry!” He dropped his hand on the man's shoulder and shook him slightly. The Teller uttered a short, gasping cry.
“Let me,” said Gay, and swiftly interposed. Bending over the cot, he said in a pleasant, soft voice: “It's all right, old man; it's all right. Slattery wants to know what you did with that man down at Plattville, when you got through with him. He can't remember, and he thinks there was money left on him. Slattery's head was hurt—he can't remember. He'll go shares with you, when he gets it. Slattery's going to stand by you, if he can get the money.”
The Teller only tried to move his free hand to the shoulder Barrett had shaken.
“Slattery wants to know,” repeated the surgeon, gently moving the hand back upon the sheet. “He'll divvy up, when he gets it. He'll stand by you, old man.”
“Would you please not mind,” whispered the Teller faintly, “would you please not mind if you took care not to brush against my shoulder again?”
The surgeon drew back with an exclamation; but the Teller's whisper gathered strength, and they heard him murmuring oddly to himself. Meredith moved forward.
“What's that?” he asked, with a startled gesture.
“Seems to be trying to sing, or something,” said Barrett, bending over to listen. The Teller swung his arm heavily over the side of the cot, the fingers never ceasing their painful twitching, and Gay leaned down and gently moved the cloths so that the white, scarred lips were free. They moved steadily; they seemed to be framing the semblance of an old ballad that Meredith knew; the whisper grew more distinct, and it became a rich but broken voice, and they heard it singing, like the sound of some far, halting minstrelsy:
“Wave willows—murmur waters—golden sunbeams smile, Earthly music—cannot waken—lovely—Annie Lisle.”