"It ought to be done now, but there ain't no one I'd give such dirty
work to. What you're going to do is stand right here and show us you
know how to sing a decent song in a decent way. That there song of yours
didn't leave nothin' sacred untouched, from parsons and jails to women
and the gallows. Stand over there and sing."
The eyes of the sailor filmed over with cold hate.
"Was I hired to punch cattle," he said, "or make a blasted, roarin' fool
out of myself?"
"You was hired," answered Lawlor softly, as he filled his glass to the
brim with the old rye whisky, "to be a cook, and you're the rottenest
hash-slinger that ever served cold dough for biscuits; a blasted,
roarin' fool you've already made out of yourself by singin' that song. I
want another one to get the sound of that out of my ears. Tune up!"
Thoughts of murder, ill-concealed, whitened the face of the sailor.
"Some day--" he began hoarsely, and then stopped. For a vision came to
him of blithe mornings when he should sit on the top of the corral fence
rolling a cigarette, while some other puncher went into the herd and
roped and saddled his horse.
Pages:
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215