er-dinner mundane. D'you suppose the
landlord 'ud make trouble if we let him sing it?"

"Let's hope so!" said Will. "I'm itching for a row like they say
drovers in Monty's country itch for mile-stones! Let Fred warble.
I'll fight whoever comes!"

Monty eyed him and me swiftly, but made no comment.

"Bill's homesick!" said Fred. "The U. S. eagle wants its Bowery!
We'll soothe the fowl with thoughts of other things--where's the
concertina?"

"No, no, Fred, that'll be too much din!"

Monty made a grab for the instrument, but Fred raised it above his head
and brought it down between his knees with chords that crashed like
wedding bells. Then he changed to softer, languorous music, and when
he had picked out an air to suit his mood, sat down and turned art
loose to do her worst.

He has a good voice. If he would only not pull such faces, or make so
sure that folk within a dozen blocks can hear him, he might pass for a
professional.

"Music suggestive of moonlight!" he said, and began:

"The sentry palms stand motionless. Masts move against the sky.
With measured creak of curving spars dhows gently to the
jeweled stars
Rock out a lullaby.

"Silver and black sleeps Zanzibar. The moonlit ripples croon
Soft songs of loves that perfect are, long tales of
red-lipped spoils of war,
And you--you smile, you moon!
For I think that beam on the placid sea
That splashes, and spreads, and dips, and gleams,
That dances and glides till it comes to me
Out of infinite sky, is the path of dreams,
And down that lane the memories run
Of all that's wild beneath the sun!"

"You fellows like that one? Anybody coming? Nobody for Will to fight
yet? Too bad! Well--we'll try a-gain! There's no chorus. It's all
poetic stuff, too gentle to be yowled by three such cannibals as you!
Listen!

"Old as the moonlit silences, to-night's loves are the same
As when for ivory from far, and cloves and gems of Zanzibar
King Solomon's men came.

"Sinful and still the same roofs lie that knew da Gama's heel,
Those beams that light these sleepy waves looked on when
men threw murdered slaves
To make the sharks a meal.
And I think that beam on the silvered swell
That spreads, and splashes, and gleams, and dips,
That has shone on