strings of his kind when a better duller soul draws blank.
Lossin came in from the bar, and blattered the fire into blaze with his heel.
“Yer too bloomin’ uncanny fur the dark, Lou,” he said. “Sing us somethin’ rousin’, can’t yer?”
Lou flung out “Nazareth” in a rollicking waltz with the double bass, and, Murray, on his way up to bed, came in to expostulate. For he had not quite forgot the reverence of his childhood. But instead, he stared at Lou in the light, saying:
“Heavens above, man! What old shaft have you been falling into?”
Lou’s forehead carried six colours, and his jaw was cut. Moreover, his clean-shaped nose looked lumpy. Ten voices gave virile explanation, and Murray picked up understanding piecemeal.
“What does Steve look like?” he asked.
“Faix, the divil’ll mend Lou fust,” cried Tod. “Did I not tell ye we wud git somethin’ out of North-o’-Sunday? Throth an’ bedad, Scannell will be like to putt you both out of that supposin’ there’s anny more of it.”
“And where do I come in?” demanded Murray, sizzling a wet boot-sole on the bars.
The laughing mock of the music caught Lou’s voice as he answered:
“Next time. There’ll be one of us to run
