This night, for the first time, they sat around the fire, luxuriating in the thought that for the next twenty-four hours they were free of the terrible demands of the river. Forrester possessed a good tenor voice and sang, Jonas joining with his mellow baritone. Harden, lying close to the flames, read a chapter from "David Harum," the one book of the expedition. Agnew, on request, told a long and involved story of a Chinese laundryman and a San Francisco broker which evoked much laughter. Then Milton, as master of ceremonies, turned to Enoch:
"Now then, Judge, do your duty!"
"I haven't a parlor trick to my name," protested Enoch.
"I like what you call our efforts!" cried Harden. "Hit him for me, Ag!
He's closest to you."
"Not after the way he wallops the Ida," grunted Agnew. "Let Milt do it."
"Boss," said Jonas suddenly, "tell 'em that poem about mercy I heard you give at—at that banquet at our house."
Enoch smiled, took his pipe from his lips, and began:
"'The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath—'"
Enoch paused a moment. The words held a new and soul-shattering significance for him. Then as the others waited breathlessly, he went on. His beautiful, mellow voice, his remarkable enunciation, the magnetism of his personality stirred his little audience, just as thousands of greater audiences had been stirred by these same qualities.
When he had finished, there was a profound silence until Milton said: