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It looked much like a camp fire, and as Billy drew nearer he saw that such it was,

and he heard a voice, too. Billy approached more carefully. He must be careful

always to see before being seen. The little fire burned upon the bank of a stream

which the track bridged upon a concrete arch.

Billy dropped once more from the right of way, and climbed a fence into a thin

wood. Through this he approached the camp fire with small chance of being

observed. As he neared it the voice resolved itself into articulate words, and

presently Billy leaned against a tree close behind the speaker and listened.

There was but a single figure beside the small fire--that of a man squatting upon

his haunches roasting something above the flames. At one edge of the fire was an

empty tin can from which steam arose, and an aroma that was now and again

wafted to Billy's nostrils.

Coffee! My, how good it smelled. Billy's mouth watered. But the voice--that

interested Billy almost as much as the preparations for the coming meal.

We'll dance a merry saraband from here to drowsy Samarcand.

Along the sea,

across the land, the birds are flying South, And you, my sweet Penelope, out

there somewhere you wait for me,

on your mouth.

With buds of roses in your hair and kisses

The words took hold of Billy somewhere and made him forget his hunger. Like a

sweet incense which induces pleasant daydreams they were wafted in upon him

through the rich, mellow voice of the solitary camper, and the lilt of the meter

entered his blood.

But the voice. It was the voice of such as Billy Byrne always had loathed and

ridiculed until he had sat at the feet of Barbara Harding and learned many

things, including love. It was the voice of culture and refinement. Billy strained

his eyes through the darkness to have a closer look at the man. The light of the

camp fire fell upon frayed and bagging clothes, and upon the back of a head

covered by a shapeless, and disreputable soft hat.

Obviously the man was a hobo. The coffee boiling in a discarded tin can would

have been proof positive of this without other evidence; but there seemed plenty

more. Yes, the man was a hobo. Billy continued to stand listening.

The mountains are all hid in mist, the valley is like amethyst, The poplar leaves

they turn and twist, oh, silver, silver green! Out there somewhere along the sea

a ship is waiting patiently, While up the beach the bubbles slip with white afloat

between.

160

The Mucker