There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears,”
and mechanically maintains the narrative for some moments, and then on a sudden peters out!
You cast about for something with which to start it up again, but you light upon nothing. All the faces in front watch you curiously, amusedly, grinningly. Helpless, you look in the direction of Billy Lunt, upon whose desk, as you passed, you had laid the book, that he might prompt you, if necessary.
Billy has lost the place, and is desperately running his forefinger adown the page.
“‘Tell my mother that her other sons—’” presently he assists, in husky tones; and, as if set in motion by the vibrations, your voice, with an apologetic “Oh, yes,” goes ahead once more.
“‘Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
For I was ay a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;
For my father was a soldier—’”
And so forth.
Several times it stops again, but Billy sits alert to fill in each hiatus; and vastly relieved in mind you triumphantly regain your seat, only to ascertain, to your disgust, that you are the last of the afternoon’s victims.