"D'you mean this--Drew?" he asked, with an odd emphasis.
"D'you think I'm talking for fun?"
"What'll I sing?" he asked in a voice which was reduced to a faint
whisper by rage.
"I dunno," mused Lawlor, "but maybe it ought to lie between 'Alice, Ben
Bolt,' and 'Annie Laurie.' What d'you choose, partner?"
He turned to Bard.
"'Alice, Ben Bolt,' by all means. I don't think he could manage the
Scotch."
"Start!" commanded Lawlor.
The sailor closed his eyes, tilted back his head, twisted his face to a
hideous grimace, and then opening his shapeless mouth emitted a
tremendous wail which took shape in the following words:
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,
Sweet Alice, with hair like the sunshine--"
"Shut up!" roared Lawlor.
It required a moment for Shorty to unkink the congested muscles of his
face.
"What the hell's the matter now?" he inquired.
"Whoever heard of 'hair like the sunshine'? There ain't no such thing
possible. 'Hair so brown,' that's what the song says. Shorty, we got
more feelin' for our ears than to let you go on singin' an' showin' your
ignerance.
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