"Stranger," said he, leaning over close to me, and speaking in a low, guarded way, "things is workin' dasted curious 'bout now--sure's gun's iron they jist is!" "Where--how--in what way, doctor?" I stammered, taken aback by his behavior. "Sumpum's up, as sure as Ned!" he replied, wagging his head. "Doctor," I said, petulantly, "if you would be a trifle more explicit I could probably guess, with some show of certainty, at what you mean!" "Can't ye hear? Are ye deaf? Did ye ever, in all yer born days, hear a voice like that ere 'un? Listen!" Sure enough, a voice of thrilling power, a rich, heavy, quavering alto, accompanied by some one thrumming on a guitar, trickled and gurgled, and poured through the open window of Sheehan's saloon. The song was a wild, drinking carol, full of rough, reckless wit, but I listened, entranced, till it was done. "There now, say, what d'ye think o' that? Ain't things a workin' round awful curious, as I said?" Delivering himself thus, the doctor got up and walked off. When I again had an opportunity to speak to the landlord, I asked him if Doctor Hurd was not thought to be slightly demented. "What! crazy, do you mean? No, sir; bright as a pin!" "Well," said I, "he's a very queer fellow any how. By the way, who was that singing just now over in the saloon there?" "Don't know, didn't hear 'em. Some of the boys, I s'pose. They have some lively swells over there sometimes. Awful hole." I resumed my dime novel, and nothing further transpired to aggravate or satisfy my curiosity concerning the strange story I had heard, till night came down and the bats began to wheel through the moonless blackness above the dingy town. At the coming on of dusk I flung away the book and took to my pipe. Some one touched me on the shoulder, rousing me from a deep reverie, if not a doze. "Ha, stranger, this you, eh? Berry Young's a dyin'; go over there wi' me, will ye?" It was the voice of Doctor Hurd. "What need for me have you?" I replied, rather stiffly, not much relishing this too obtrusive familiarity. "Well--I--I jist kinder wanted ye to go over. The poor boy's 'bout passin' away, an' things is a workin' so tarnation curious! Come 'long wi' me, friend, will ye?" Something in the fellow's voice touched me, and without another word I arose and followed him to the cottage. The night was intensely black. I think it was clear, but a heavy fog from the swamps had settled over everything, and through this dismal veil the voices of owls from far and near struck with hollow, sepulchral effect. "A heart is the trump!" sang out that alto voice from within the saloon as we passed. Doctor Hurd clutched my arm and muttered: "That's that voice ag'in! Strange--strange! Poor Berry Young!"