up the walls through the sapping sun's rays to escape it, but his ears caught the faintly aspirated air at remarkable distances.
One day he said to Madden: “I don't see how you stand that Greer fellow's eternal whistling,” and Leonard answered:
“Does Greer whistle?”
“Whistle! He whistles everlastingly, abominably—one of those confounded American rags. 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.
