“‘Well, lads, we’d better be moving.’
“We didn’t feel like moving yet, so the silence was not allowed to extend itself.
“‘Hi!’ cried Kelty, ‘I call upon you for a comic song, Mr Winter.’
“‘Or a funny story,’ cried somebody else.
“There was loud laughing at the bare idea of Winter treating us to either.
“Winter looked round among us, in an amused kind of way, as if he quite enjoyed the joke, and when the laugh subsided, we all glanced towards him for his reply. I think I see him now; one hand rested on the zither bringing out stray chords, the other rested on the table, the great oil lamp that stood at one side threw his features into semi-shadow, and there was a thoughtful far-away look in his eyes.
“‘Yes,’ he said, at last, ‘I’ll tell you a story.’
“‘A funny one? Eh?’ said the mate.
“‘Well—no, not very funny. But anything to pass the time, I suppose. I’ll tell you a story of my own grey hairs.’
“‘Capital,’ we cried, and hammered with our feet on the wooden floor, by way of giving him encouragement. Then we lit our pipes and prepared to listen.”