Fellows sat round, staring him out of countenance with critical faces, and rejoicing in his embarrassment.
"What's the title!" demanded some one.
"I don't know any songs," said Ashby presently, "and I can't sing." "Ho, ho! we've heard that before.

Come, forge ahead." "I only know the words of one that my con--somebody I know--sings, called the _Vigil_.

I don't know the tune." "That doesn't matter--out with it." So Ashby, pulling himself desperately together, plunged recklessly into the following appropriate ditty; which, failing its proper tune, he manfully set at the top of his voice, and with all the energy he was capable of, to the air of the _Vicar of Bray_-- The stealthy night creeps o'er the lea, My darling, haste away with me.
Beloved, come I see where I stand, With arms outstretched upon the strand.
The night creeps on; my love is late, O love, my love, I wait, I wait; The soft wind sighs mid crag and pine; Haste, O my sweet; be mine, be mine! This spirited song, the last two lines of which were aught up as a chorus, fairly brought down the house; and Ashby, much to his surprise, found himself famous.

He had no idea he could sing so well, or that the fellows would like the words as much as they seemed to do.

Yet they cheered him and encored him, and yelled the chorus till the roof almost fell in.
"Bravo," shouted every one, the captain himself included, as he descended from the table; "that's a ripping song." "That sends up the price of our fag, I fancy," said Denton to his chum.
"Your young brother won't beat that." "Next man in," shouted Wheatfield, hustling forward Fisher minor.