“Uh-huh,” says I. “Is Scenery with yuh?”
“He is,” squeaks Scenery. “What was that explosion, Henry?”
“They say that Harelip and Pole Cat blew up the jail. I don’t know how much truth there is in it.”
“Henry,” quavers the old man, “you was a friend in need. I’ll—”
Just then a faint voice begins singing, somewhere in the hay. It’s a voice that nobody ever heard and forgot. Cross between a greaseless wheel and pneumonia.
“‘Rockuhvages clef’ for me-e-e, le’ me hide myself——’”
We listens for a few seconds. Old man Whittaker gathers his legs under himself like a rabbit, and shoots out a that hay-loft like a swaller. We hears him hit the ground and gallop out of range. Scenery don’t say a word. He yawns, crawls over to the window, and lets himself down, easy-like, and sneaks away.
“Henry,” says Chuck, “did I hear your voice?”
“You did.”
“Stop talking to yourself, you shepherd, and let a man sleep. I had a awful dream, Henry. Dreamed that the world blowed up. It hit me and—ho, hum-m-m!”