ant, was crooning his favorite song in a nasal monotone.
"I'm hitting the trail that leads, boys,
Away from the crowded tune,
Away from the place called Life, boys,
And the sordid City's croon.
I'm off at last to the land, boys,
Where a worn-out soul can end—
For even God's unknown, boys,
In the place where the fevers blend."
As the last word floated away in a wail, Jerold Wharton lifted his face, grim with determination. For now his mind was made up. It seemed as though he could hear the voice of the mystery trails calling him back into the jungle.
"Some men are born to be loved by women," he said wistfully, "others, to be wedded to their work."
He lighted a cigar, and as he puffed wearily he gazed thoughtfully into the smoke.
"Dreams, dreams," he murmured wanly. "Nothing but dreams."
