it would be easier if I sang you a song–one of your old favourites. What was that song you used always to be singing? Like this, wasn't it?' He accompanied the following stave with a dexterous clog-step on the floor of the cab:
'There was an old nigger, and he had a wooden leg.
He had no tobacco, no tobacco could he beg.
Another old nigger was as cunning as a fox,
And he always had tobacco in his old tobacco-box.
Now for the chorus!
- Yes, he always had tobacco in his old tobacco-box.
But you're not singing. I thought you would be making the welkin ring.'
'I never sang that song in my life,' protested Mr. Cupples. 'I never heard it before.'
'Are you sure?' enquired Trent doubtfully. 'Well, I suppose I must take your word for it. It is a beautiful song, anyhow: not the whole warbling grove in concert heard can beat it. Somehow it seems to express my feelings at the present moment as nothing else could; it rises unbidden to the lips. Out of the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh, as the Bishop of Bath and Wells said when listening to a speech of Mr Balfour's.'
