He's at it now--what is that thing?"
Madden had to listen very carefully before he caught the faint blowing
between Farnol's lips. Presently he identified it.
"That's 'Winona, Sweet Indian Maid.'"
This reply seemed to arouse an irrational anger in the Briton.
"'Winona, Sweet Indian Maid'--_sweet_ Indian Maid!" he snorted.
"Did an Indian write such a nightmare? Is it a war song? Do they murder
each other by it, or with it?"
Madden grinned with fagged appreciation, thinking the remark meant for
humor, but Caradoc grimly chewed his blond mustache.
It was noon, three days later when Caradoc's endurance broke down.
"Greer!" he snapped with all his pent-up irritation in his voice, "will
you never stop mouthing that beastly tune?"
The stolid fellow looked around in the blankest surprise. "Tune?"
"No, groaning, wheezing! You spew it out all day long! What do you think
you are? A tree frog, a locust, a katydid? Doesn't your mouth get tired?
Does that hideous tinkle go through your hollow head all day long?"
The Englishman's long face was a dusky red. He had not intended to be
insulting when he first spoke, but all the sarcastic and abusive
epithets that he had _thought_ during the long super-heated days of
nerve-racked listening, now rushed out like steam from a boiler.
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