To yon blue mountain free,
Where the blossoms smell the sweetest,
Come rove along with me.
It’s every Sunday morning,
When I am by your side,
We’ll jump into the wagon,
And all take a ride.’”
Bob watched the young fellow as Jeanne’s voice floated out upon the night air. The boy, he was scarcely more than that, raised himself to a sitting posture instantly, a blank look of amazement upon his face.
“Miss Bob,” came from the guard, “it’s against orders for either you or the ‘Little Yank’ to be about the prisoners. I’m mighty sorry, but you’ll have to go.”
“Johnson,” said Bob coaxingly, “haven’t I always been good to you?”