"All alone in the world, Billy?"
A shade of sadness passed over his face, and was gone again, as he smilingly answered, stroking the cat that purred and rubbed herself against his shoulder.
"Just puss and me and the guitar," he said. "The happiest of families.
Ah! Music's a great thing of a lonely evening."
And a sense of the brave loneliness of Billy's days swept over me as we shook his strong hand, and he gave us a cheery godspeed on our way. I am convinced that Billy could earn quite a salary on the vaudeville stage; but—no! he is better where he is, sitting there at his bench, with his black cat and his guitar and his singing, manly soul.
The twilight was rapidly thickening as we left Billy, once more bent over his work, and, the fear of "supper-time" in our hearts, we pushed on at extra speed toward our night's lodging at Mount Morris. The oak-trees gloomed denser on our right as we plowed along a villainously sandy road. Labourers homing from the day's work greeted us now and again in the dimness, and presently one of these, plodding up behind us, broke forth into conversation:
"Ben-a carry pack-a lik-a dat-a—forty-two months—army—ol-a country," said the voice out of the darkness.
It was an Italian labourer on his way to supper, interested in our knapsacks.
"You're an Italian?"
"Me come from Pal-aer-mo."
The little chap was evidently in a talkative mood, and I nudged Colin to do the honours of the conversation.