t the rail, looking at the little
town as it unfolded itself, house after house, with the narrow
streets between, when he first noticed the white figure at his side.
He turned in surprise; it was the Dago, in the cherished suit of duck
which he had guarded for so long under his mattress. Heretofore, Dan
had known him only in his rags of working-clothes, a mildly pathetic
and ridiculous figure; now he was seemly, unfamiliar, a little
surprising.

"What's all this?" demanded Dan.

The Dago was looking with all his eyes at the town, already growing
dim.

"Dis?" he repeated. "Dese clo'se, I keep dem for my town, Dan. To
come back wis yais! For not be like a mendigo a beggar. Now, no need
to keep dem no more; and dis place oh, Dan, it is so like, so like! I
dream it all yais de church, de praca all of it!"

"Steady!" growled Dan. "Don't get dreamin' it again."

"No," said the Dago; "I never dream no more. Never no more!"

He did not take his eyes from it; he stood at the rail gazing,
intent, absorbed. He did not hear the mate's brief order that
summoned him and the others across the deck.

"When I go out on de fishin' boat," he said aloud, thinking Dan was
still at his side, "a girl was singin' an'--"

"Here, you!" cried the mate. "What's the matter with you? Why don't
you?"

He stopped in amazement, for the Dago turned and spat a brief word at
him, making a gesture with his hand as though to command silence.

In the moment that followed they all heard it a voice that sang, a
strong and sweet contralto that strewed its tones forth like a scent,
to add itself to the other scents of earth and leaves that traveled
across the waters and reached them on their deck. They heard it lift
itself as on wings to a high exaltation of melody and fail thence,
hushing and drooping deliciously, down diminishing slopes of song.

"What the-" began the mate, and moved to cross the deck.

His surprises were not yet at an end, for Dan Dan, the ideal seaman,
the precise in his duty, the dependable, the prosaically perfect Dan
caught him by the arm with a grip in which there was no deference for
the authority of a chief officer.

"Leave him be, sir," urged Dan. "I, I know what's the matter with
him. Leave him be!"

The voice ashore soared again, sure and buoyant; the mate dragged his
arm free from Dan's hold and turned to swear; on the main deck the
horse-laugh of Bill answered the singer. The Dago heard nothing.
Bending forward