“You wouldn’t take any excuse from me yesterday,” Ben retorted. “Turn about’s fair play. You’ve never tasted Dave’s fried flounder.”
“That’s so, we haven’t,” said Marmaduke Midchester. “I vote to stay.”
They had supper on the beach, and afterwards Ben urged Midchester to sing the song he had written.
“Oh, Master Ben,” Fitzhugh protested, “why break in on the evening calm?”
“Go ahead,” said Tom. “We’d all like some music.”
“Music?” echoed Fitzhugh. “Who said anything about music? Well, if you’re determined to have him commit the crime, on your own heads be it!”
Midchester, who was a big man, stood up and sang in a deep bass, a song about a knight who loved a lady but who rode off to the wars. It had a spirited chorus, with many gestures, such as drawing a sword, waving a hand, and shaking a knight’s banner. By the time that Midchester sang the second chorus all the others were up, singing loudly and imitating his motions. It ended in a final loud cheer that could be heard at least a mile away.
“That’s better than I expected,” said Fitzhugh. “See, it scared the geese.”
He pointed to the western sky, across which a distant triangle of wild geese were flying.
“Now,” said Tuckerman, “I will give you a song of the sea as sung in the prairie schooners of the west.”