4/34 Heritage, stumbling along by his side, effectually crushed his effort to discover humour in the situation. Some exhalation from that infernal place had driven the Poet mad. And then that voice singing! A seagull, he had said. More like a nightingale, he reflected--a bird which in the flesh he had never met. The sight of it somewhat restored Dickson's equanimity, and to his surprise he found that he had an appetite for supper. |