You can hear the birds a-singing,
And pluck the roses blooming;
Oh, I long to see my dear old home again!”
It was the Australian’s favorite ballad. I shouted at the top of my lungs, and, springing to the ground, with one leap crashed into the jungle. A thicket caught me in its tough grasp. I tore savagely at the entangling branches. The voice of the Australian rang out once more:
“Oh, why did I leave my little back room, out in Bloomsburee?
Where I could live on a quid a week in such luxuree—”
He was farther away now. I snatched myself loose and plunged on after him, leaving a sleeve of my jacket in the thicket.
“Hello, James! Hello!” I bellowed.
He was singing so loudly that the sound of his own voice filled his ears. I opened my mouth to shout again, and fell through a bush into a clearly marked path. Above it sagged the telephone wire, and just in sight through the overhanging branches plodded the Australian.
“Goodness, but you’re slow,” he laughed, when I had overtaken him.