"There is a phonograph stowed away somewhere among my things," said Dick with a laugh that had no mirth in it.
"Trot it out and give us a tune," urged Innis, and, after a moment's thought, Dick complied. Anything was better than sitting about, thinking gloomy thoughts. And really he felt keenly his failure so unexpectedly disclosed by that stray piece of newspaper.
All his hard work—his skill in keeping the legal documents away from the cunning emissaries of Uncle Ezra—had gone for naught, in case it were true what he had read. And he had no reason to doubt it. The paper was a reliable publication, and the names of lawyers were mentioned who had a national reputation.
Of course, in a measure, it was a case of "high finance," perhaps not strictly moral, but perfectly legal. Certain interests wanted control of the railroad, and even Uncle Ezra might be simply a catspaw in the game.
Yet it seemed certain that unless something were done—some sort of legal protest or injunction entered—the Wardell fortune would be wiped out. And this Dick did not want to see happen.
Paul was at the phonograph, adjusting the mechanism. He had slipped in a record containing "My Old Kentucky Home," and soon its strains were vibrating out on the desert air.
The phonograph was not particularly good, for it was too small to have any sweetness, and yet, even with that handicap, the boys enjoyed the "canned music," as Dick called it.
As the chorus welled out, they joined in with the voice of the singer coming from the horn.
"'My old Kentucky home—good night!'"
There was a pause, and as the chorus was repeated more softly, the boys lowered their voices. They had sung in the glee club at Kentfield Military Academy, and their tones were true and pure. In the darkness of the starlight night, on that lonely desert, the music seemed to gather strength and sweetness.