I strove to soften the effect of this blow by a lively show of recognition.
"Oh, yes, I know perfectly now. It's 'Hold the Fort,' 'Ring the Bells of Heaven,' and all those songs, isn't it?"
"'Hold the Fort' 's in No. 1," said George Olver, a new speaker, with beautiful, brave, brown eyes, and a soldierly bearing.
He spoke, correcting me, but with the tender consideration which a father might display toward an unenlightened child.
"There's three numbers," said Harvey Dole, "and you ought to learn to sing 'em, teacher. We sing 'em all the time, down here."
"You are fond of singing?" I questioned.
Ned Vickery, of lithe figure and straight black hair, a denizen of the Indian encampment, started up, flushing through his dark skin.
"I lul-love it!" he said.
Ned Vickery sang with the most exquisite smoothness, but stumbled a little in prosaical conversation.
A silent Norwegian, Lars Thorjon, who had sat gazing at me and smiling, flushed also at the words, and murmured something rapturous with a foreign accent.