Part 14 (1/2)

He-uh didn't want nothin' but a chunk of the moon; He-uh--

Here the others broke in, and forced him to desist. Fleet's craze for ”c.o.o.n” songs was a sore spot with them. Not to be outdone now, however, Fleet went off into:

By the old mill stream I'm waiting, Rosie, dear-r-r-r-r!

Fleet held the last note as long as possible, and the boys waited patiently until he had finished.

”Fleet's a fine singer of ill.u.s.trated songs,” said Chot. ”He's missed his vocation. Instead of going to school, he should be at work in a moving picture theatre.”

”Aw, cut that out!” growled Fleet. ”I never sing a pretty ballad but what you tell me that.”

”It's because we're trying to rid you of your depraved taste for silly songs,” said Tom.

”Depraved taste!” snorted Fleet. ”I'd like to know why you're always telling me that?”

”Because,” said Tom, ”those songs are composed merely to suit the popular taste. Many of them bring their publishers fabulous sums, but they are mighty poor contributions to our American music, though I'll admit that they have their place.”

”Tom is right,” said Chot ”Lots of songs are written in half an hour. A music publisher gets an idea. He rings up his lyric writer and tells him about it. The lyric writer gets busy, and probably dashes off two or three verses in ten minutes, much the same way as you compose yours, Fleet. Then the composer takes the words, and very often within the same s.p.a.ce of time he has fitted a melody to them. Then, of course, the orchestration has to be made, the song is given to the printers, a lurid cover is designed, and the first thing you know it's in the music stores, selling at the rate of many thousand copies a day.”

”Oh, well,” said Fleet, ”your sermons are very pretty, but I don't see why I should not sing what I please, when I please.”

Fleet always made some such reply as this, but invariably he did not sing any more ballads or ”c.o.o.n” songs for some time.

”By the way,” said Pod, ”speaking of birds--”

”Who said anything about birds?” demanded Fleet.

”Well, speaking of them, anyway, did it ever occur to you that they were especially noted for their courage?”

”They're not,” said Fleet ”Most of them are cowards.”

”Well,” said Pod, ”they die game.”

”They die ga--oh, gee! that's a bad one. I'm going to bed on that,”

cried Fleet.

”Glad I found something to send you to bed on besides a full stomach,”

laughed Pod.

Fleet did not reply, but began making preparations to lie down under the tent. The other boys gradually arose, stretched themselves and also prepared to retire.

While they were fixing their blankets, there was a sudden low cry from Chot.

”s.h.!.+ Listen!”

For a few seconds there was a profound silence.

Then the sound of voices, came to their ears from up the lake, mingled with the m.u.f.fled splash of oars. Someone was approaching camp in a rowboat; that was evident, though nothing could be seen. It was very dark now, the camp fire having almost entirely died away. True, the stars were out, and the boys could see their reflection in the waters of the lake, but beyond imagining that they could see a dark splotch on the surface of the water, they could make but nothing.