“That doesn’t matter—out with it.”
So Ashby, pulling himself desperately together, plunged recklessly into the following appropriate ditty; which, failing its proper tune, he manfully set at the top of his voice, and with all the energy he was capable of, to the air of the Vicar of Bray—
The stealthy night creeps o’er the lea,
My darling, haste away with me.
Beloved, come I see where I stand,
With arms outstretched upon the strand.
The night creeps on; my love is late,
O love, my love, I wait, I wait;
The soft wind sighs mid crag and pine;
Haste, O my sweet; be mine, be mine!
This spirited song, the last two lines of which were aught up as a chorus, fairly brought down the house; and Ashby, much to his surprise, found himself famous. He had no idea he could sing so well, or that the fellows would like the words as much as they seemed to do. Yet they cheered him and encored him, and yelled the chorus till the roof almost fell in.
“Bravo,” shouted every one, the captain himself included, as he descended from the table; “that’s a ripping song.”
“That sends up the price of our fag, I fancy,” said Denton to his chum. “Your young brother won’t beat that.”
“Next man in,” shouted Wheatfield, hustling forward Fisher minor. “Now, kid, lamm it on and show them what you can do.”
“Title! title!” cried the meeting.
Now, if truth must be told, Fisher minor had come to Fellsgarth determined that whatever else he failed in, he would make a hit at “lamb’s singing.” He had made a careful calculation as to what sort of song would go down with the company and at the same time redeem his reputation from all suspicion of greenness; and he flattered himself he had hit upon the exact article.
“Oh,” said he, with an attempt at offhand swagger, in response to the demand. “It’s a comic song, called Oh no.”