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,
With buds, of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
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.
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