Helen, you don't know how to sing, but--
don't learn! Come Pros."--the big drops ran down her cheeks; "I've got to
look up a story in the morning."
"Wait a minute," said Reid, his long, delicately shaped fingers trembling.
"Let me recover on something."
Picking up Kitty's banjo, he smote the strings uncertainly and half sang,
half declaimed:--
"'With my Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!
Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!
Are you sick of towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
For it's Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!'
"By Jove! Kipling's right; nothing like a banjo, is there? Now then, Young
Person, I'm with you. Good night; good night!"
While his voice was still echoing down the stairway, Miss Bryant came
running up again.
"Say, got a photograph of yourself, Helen?" she asked.
She had apparently quite recovered from her emotion, and her tone
expressed an odd mixture of business and affection.
"I believe if I showed Big Tom a picture of you," she explained, "he'd run
a story--there's your science, you know, and your music--on the Society
page, maybe."
"But I haven't any picture; at least, any that you'd want--only a few
taken months ago, for my father.
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