"That's 'Winona, Sweet Indian Maid.'"
This reply seemed to arouse an irrational anger in the Briton.
"'Winona, Sweet Indian Maid'—sweet Indian Maid!" he snorted. "Did an Indian write such a nightmare? Is it a war song? Do they murder each other by it, or with it?"
Madden grinned with fagged appreciation, thinking the remark meant for humor, but Caradoc grimly chewed his blond mustache.
It was noon, three days later when Caradoc's endurance broke down.
"Greer!" he snapped with all his pent-up irritation in his voice, "will you never stop mouthing that beastly tune?"
The stolid fellow looked around in the blankest surprise. "Tune?"
"No, groaning, wheezing! You spew it out all day long! What do you think you are? A tree frog, a locust, a katydid? Doesn't your mouth get tired? Does that hideous tinkle go through your hollow head all day long?"
The Englishman's long face was a dusky red. He had not intended to be insulting when he first spoke, but all the sarcastic and abusive epithets that he had thought during the long super-heated days of nerve-racked listening, now rushed out like steam from a boiler.
Farnol stared straight at the nervous fellow. "Are you insane?" he asked in wondering contempt,