"There—there—there—there—there," crooned Lost Man. "There— there—there—there—there!" When he wasn't saying "There— there—there," he seemed to be trying to sing. Very laboriously, 223 very painstakingly, word by word and note by note he was straining very evidently to dig up something from his memory.
"Bring to—little children (he struggled)
Visions—sweet—of Thee,
Guard the sailors tossing (he quavered)
On the—the deep blue sea."
Along the whole dark shadowy length of the launch, the Outlaw's face alone shone wanly bright and reasonably clear-featured in the flare from the engine. Bloodless as the salt-pork that he fed on, dank-haired as the swamps and glades that encompassed him, brooding on Heaven knows what Past or what Future—a single convulsive tremor passed his pipe-clenched lips.
"Say, Boss," he said, "on them home runs of Baker's, was they straight-away hits? Or did they go over some fence?"
III
IT WAS the Northern March—very cold, very snowy, very blustery, when Daphne woke from her last bad dream.