Billy almost as much as the preparations for the
coming meal.

We'll dance a merry saraband from here to drowsy Samarcand.
Along the sea, across the land, the birds are flying South,
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me,
With buds, of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.

The words took hold of Billy somewhere and made him forget his hunger.
Like a sweet incense which induces pleasant daydreams they were wafted
in upon him through the rich, mellow voice of the solitary camper, and
the lilt of the meter entered his blood.

But the voice. It was the voice of such as Billy Byrne always had
loathed and ridiculed until he had sat at the feet of Barbara Harding
and learned many things, including love. It was the voice of culture
and refinement. Billy strained his eyes through the darkness to have a
closer look at the man. The light of the camp fire fell upon frayed and
bagging clothes, and upon the back of a head covered by a shapeless, and
disreputable soft hat.

Obviously the man was a hobo. The coffee boiling in a discarded tin can
would have been proof positive of this without other evidence; but there
seemed plenty more. Yes, the man was a hobo. Billy continued to stand
listening.

The mountains are all hid in mist, the valley is like amethyst,
The poplar leaves they turn and twist, oh, silver, silver green!
Out there somewhere along the sea a ship is waiting patiently,
While up the beach the bubbles slip with white afloat between.

"Gee!" thought Billy Byrne; "but that's great stuff. I wonder where he
gets it. It makes me want to hike until I find that place he's singin'
about."

Billy's thoughts were interrupted by a sound in the wood to one side of
him. As he turned his eyes in the direction of the slight noise which
had attracted him he saw two men step quietly out and cross toward the
man at the camp fire.

These, too, were evidently hobos. Doubtless pals of the poetical one.
The latter did not hear them until they were directly behind him. Then
he turned slowly and rose as they halted beside his fire.

"Evenin', bo," said one of the newcomers.

"Good evening, gentlemen," replied the camper, "welcome to my humble
home. Have you dined?"

"Naw," replied the first speaker, "we ain't; but we're goin' to. Now can
the chatter an' duck. There ain't enough fer one here, let alone
three. Beat it!" and the man, who was big and burly, assumed a menacing
atti