“Don’t you like ’er?” asked Ches, in his turn astonished at such a lack of taste. “W’y, dat’s er gig in der city—everybuddy an’ der ginnies wid der organs is givin’ dat out all day long.”
“Well, let ’em,” commanded Jim. “Don’t introduce it to this part of the country. As you render it, through the nose, and with the wail at the end, it is a thing to make a strong man lie down and give up the ghost in sheer disgust. Ches, does it really make you feel good to sing it?”
“Yessir—kinder,” replied Ches hesitatingly.
“Lord!” thought Jim. “What a life, to make a song like that a recreation!” Then aloud: “It’s bad luck to sing before breakfast, Ches. I’ll teach you a livelier song than that when we hit the trail again.”
So it came to pass that during the first miles of their day’s journey the way was enlivened by the notes of The Arkansas Traveler, Garry Owen, Where’s My Linda-Cinda Gone?, Baltimore Girls, and other songs of a lively character.
Ches approved of these in moderation. Then Jim tried an experiment. With a serious face, but half an eye on the boy, he howled, moaned and grunted The Cow-boy’s Lament, which still presents the insoluble problem of whether the words or the music are drearier. “OooooOOO!!! Pla-a-ay your fifes l-o-o-w-l-y, a-a-nd beee-eat your drums sl-o-o-o-wly, and play the dead m-a-arch as you carry me o-o-o-on!” mourned Jim. Ches was all attention. “For I’m o-o-o-nly a p-o-o-o-r cow-boy, and I know I’ve done w-r-o-o-o-o-o-ng!” wailed the singer, in conclusion. “How’d you like that, Ches?”
“Say, dat’s a ringer!” cried the boy enthusiastically.
Jim sat him down by the roadside and laughed his fill. “I think you’re hopeless,” he gasped.
The boy was hurt in a way he could not understand. Something pained him—a new sensation, of not being up to the requirements of another’s view. His forced acute intelligence made a bull’s-eye shot.
“P‘r’aps w’en I’ve got er chist and t’umpers on me like you, I’ll like der udder kin’ er song,” he said.