"Some day—" he began hoarsely, and then stopped. For a vision came to him of blithe mornings when he should sit on the top of the corral fence rolling a cigarette, while some other puncher went into the herd and roped and saddled his horse.
"D'you mean this—Drew?" he asked, with an odd emphasis.
"D'you think I'm talking for fun?"
"What'll I sing?" he asked in a voice which was reduced to a faint whisper by rage.
"I dunno," mused Lawlor, "but maybe it ought to lie between 'Alice, Ben
Bolt,' and 'Annie Laurie.' What d'you choose, partner?"
He turned to Bard.
"'Alice, Ben Bolt,' by all means. I don't think he could manage the
Scotch."
"Start!" commanded Lawlor.
The sailor closed his eyes, tilted back his head, twisted his face to a hideous grimace, and then opening his shapeless mouth emitted a tremendous wail which took shape in the following words:
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice, with hair like the sunshine—"