“You sing for get those?” he asked.
“Me sing,” she replied dully, beginning almost instantly in soft, nasal tones:
“My days are as um grass”—
Jackrabbit’s face cleared.
“Huh!” he growled in rejoicement.
Immediately Wowkle edged up close to him and together they continued in chorus:
“Or as um faded flo’r,
Um wintry winds sweep o’er um plain,
We pe’ish in um ho’r.”
“But Gar,” said the man when the song was ended, at the same time taking his pipe away from her, “to-morrow we go missionary—sing like hell—get whisky.”
But as Wowkle made no answer, once more a silence fell upon them.
“We pe’ish in um ho’r,” suddenly repeated Jackrabbit, half-singing, half-speaking the words, and rising quickly started for the door. At the table, however, he halted and inquired: “All right—go missionary to-morrow—get marry—huh?”