"Is Mr. Speed up yet?"
"Up and gone. He'll be back soon."
Then Mrs. Keap sank into the hammock, and with something like resignation, said:
"Proceed with the song."
Along the road toward the ranch buildings plodded two dusty pedestrians, one a blond youth bundled thickly in sweaters, the other a fat man who rolled heavily, and paused now and then to mop his purple face. Both were dripping as if from an immersion, while the air about the latter vibrated with heat waves. They both stumbled as they walked, and it was only by the strongest effort of will that they propelled themselves. As they neared the corner of the big, low-lying ranch-house, already reflecting the hot glare of the morning sun, a man's clear tenor voice came to them.
"The volley was fired at sunrise,
Just at the break of day"—
"Did you get that?" one of the two exclaimed hoarsely. "They're practising a death-march, and it's ours."
"And as the echoes lingered,
His soul had passed away."
"That's you, Wally!" wheezed the trainer.
"Into the arms of his Maker,
There to learn his fate"—