Bardek laughed at the picture his mind conjured.
“Oh, yes, they go back. Là! là! là! là! What a comic! The people of their own land rush out of t’ house to see t’ funny t’ing. Là! là! là! là! The dead clot’es of ragman! The gol’ watch-chain for t’ tie big dog! Zen they talk! It is no language. Perhaps they stay to be comic all their lives? Ah, no. For they get sick for America, where the little boys and girls go to school. They do not rest till zey go back and be once more ‘Dago.’”
The twilight came slowly about them while they lingered over the camp-fire. Some of Bardek’s brooding spirit had infected them; but it did not drive them home. Night began to make its claims for a habitation, and the stars of a fine August evening shone clear, yet they stayed to hear Leopold talk of his boyhood days at Harrow. Finally they joined hands with him and formed the circle about the ebbing fire—as Harrow “old boys” have done for generations—while they sang the Harrow parting song:
Forty year on, when afar and asunder
Parted are those who are singing today,
When you look back, and forgetfully wonder
What you were like in your work and your play;
Then it may be, there will often come o’er you
Glimpses of notes, like the catch of a song—
Visions of boyhood shall float them before you,