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

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Many of those in the inclosure recognized him. He was a foreman up in the lumber woods, and he could strike a blow that would knock an ox senseless when he had a good swing. His name was Mackenzie Douglas.

“Stop that, will ye?” he roared.

As he spoke, he picked up one of the small tables by its twisted wire leg and flourished it over his head.

“Anither bit o’ noise, an’ I’ll be amang ye, splittin’ heads wi’ this wee bit o’ table! Ye all know me, an’ ye ken I’ll do what I say! This young leddy is singin’ a bonny Scottish song, an’ I want to hear it. Sing oot, my lassie! Sing oot! I’ll e’en keep order for ye.”

Mackenzie Douglas had a sour look, and no one was inclined at that moment to fly in his face. The young man before mentioned smiled quietly.

The singer began her song again. Her voice was nothing remarkable. It was not powerful, but it had been trained, so that she sang true. Besides, the melody was one that could not be listened to long without being more or less affected by it.

This time she made an impression which assured her the sympathy of the better element in her audience. The old ballad, with its haunting air, went home to many a calloused heart, and it might have been seen that a tear sprang out upon a bronzed cheek here and there.