“Fisher major knew better,” said the gentleman in question. “It might raise awkward family questions if I had him.”
“Wouldn’t it be fairer to toss up?” suggested the captain. “Or I don’t mind swopping Wally Wheatfield for him; if you really—”
Ranger laughed.
“No, thank you, I draw the line at Wally. I wouldn’t deprive you of him for the world. I suppose I must have this youngster. Let’s hear him sing first.”
“Yes, lamb’s singing. Now, you two, one at a time. Who’s first? Alphabetical order.”
Ashby, with an inward groan, mounted the rostrum. If anything could have been more cruel than the noise which greeted his appearance, it was the dead silence which followed it. Fellows sat round, staring him out of countenance with critical faces, and rejoicing in his embarrassment.
“What’s the title!” demanded some one.
“I don’t know any songs,” said Ashby presently, “and I can’t sing.”
“Ho, ho! we’ve heard that before. Come, forge ahead.”
“I only know the words of one that my con—somebody I know—sings, called the Vigil. I don’t know the tune.”