m houses and
the haze settled in waving curtains over the ponds and the lowlands.
He was lonely, homesick at thought of other voices and other scenes and
the joyousness of his new comrades seemed to depress rather than to
lift his spirits.

Berths were being prepared for the night. Already in several the weary
and the lame were reclining, reading. Others, worn by the strain of
the day's game, were getting ready to draw their curtains. The trainer
and his assistant were passing quietly from berth to berth, working
upon aching arms and bruised muscles, striving to keep their valuable
live stock in condition to continue the struggle.

The quartette sang on and on, regardless of the lack of an audience,
for no one in the car appeared to be listening. They sang tawdry
"popular" songs for the most part, breaking into a ribald ragtime
ditty, followed by a sickly sentimental ballad.

Kennedy's voice, without warning, rose strong and clear almost before
the final chord of the song over which the quartette had been in
travail had died away. Kennedy had a habit, when he wearied of the
songs they sang, of singing alone some song the others did not know;
some quaint old ballad, or oftener a song of higher class. For a
moment the others strove vainly to follow. Then silence fell over them
as Kennedy's voice rose, clearer and stronger, as he sang the old words
of Eileen Aroon.

"Dear were her charms to me."

His voice was pregnant with feeling.

"Dearer her laughter--free."

Kennedy was singing as if to himself, but as he sang a voice, strong
and fresh, like a clear bell striking into the music of chimes, joined
his and sang with him the words:

"Dearer her constancy."

The card players suddenly lost interest in their game, dropped their
hands and turned to see who was singing. Players who had been reading
and those who had been vainly striving to sleep poked their heads
between curtains of the berths, the better to listen.

On and on through the haunting, half-pathetic minors of the old song
the clear, sweet tenor and the strong, well-modulated voice of Kennedy
carried the listeners. McCarthy, leaning toward the window and gazing
out upon the moonlight as if under its spell, sang on in ignorance of
the interest his voice had aroused in the car.

The song ended. For a moment the silence in the car was so complete
that the clicking of the wheels upon the fish plates sounded sharply.
Then Swanson, with a yell, b