Читать книгу A Battle for Right; Or, A Clash of Wits онлайн

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Men who knew the type would say he was a “lumberjack.”

He kept his eyes on the girl, but not obtrusively. It was evident that he was interested in her, but was careful not to annoy her by letting her see that he was looking in her direction.

During the time the musicians were arranging their music on the stands, she stood there, a slim little slip of a thing, trembling visibly, but determined to go bravely through what she had to do.

“What do you s’pose she’s goin’ to spiel?” grunted one of the roughs to his companion.

“Search me! ‘Nearer my God, to Thee!’ maybe.”

Both laughed coarsely. For a flash of a second, the young fellow who looked like a lumberman, and who had been regarding the girl on the stage, turned his keen eyes on the two jeering men. Then he turned his back on them, as if they were not worth steady consideration.

The opening bars of the plaintive old Scottish song, “Robin Adair,” were played by the orchestra. The melody was familiar to them—as it is to most professional musicians—and they played it well.