Stand over there and sing." The eyes of the sailor filmed over with cold hate.
"Was I hired to punch cattle," he said, "or make a blasted, roarin' fool out of myself ?" "You was hired," answered Lawlor softly, as he filled his glass to the brim with the old rye whisky, "to be a cook, and you're the rottenest hash-slinger that ever served cold dough for biscuits; a blasted, roarin' fool you've already made out of yourself by singin' that song.

I want another one to get the sound of that out of my ears.

Tune up!" Thoughts of murder, ill-concealed, whitened the face of the sailor.
"Some day--" he began hoarsely, and then stopped.

For a vision came to him of blithe mornings when he should sit on the top of the corral fence rolling a cigarette, while some other puncher went into the herd and roped and saddled his horse.
"D'you mean this--Drew ?" he asked, with an odd emphasis.
"D'you think I'm talking for fun ?" "What'll I sing ?" he asked in a voice which was reduced to a faint whisper by rage.
"I dunno," mused Lawlor, "but maybe it ought to lie between 'Alice, Ben Bolt,' and 'Annie Laurie.' What d'you choose, partner ?" He turned to Bard.
"'Alice, Ben Bolt,' by all means.

I don't think he could manage the Scotch." "Start!" commanded Lawlor.
The sailor closed his eyes, tilted back his head, twisted his face to a hideous grimace, and then opening his shapeless mouth emitted a tremendous wail which took shape in the following words: "Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, Sweet Alice, with hair like the sunshine--" "Shut up!" roared Lawlor.
It required a moment for Shorty to unkink the congested muscles of his face.
"What the hell's the matter now ?" he inquired.
"Whoever heard of 'hair like the sunshine'?
There ain't no such thing possible.