A strange glow overspread Fitzgerald's face and he rose from his seat by the stove and sat down again on a bench in a corner and spread out his hands timorously towards an imaginary fire. He bent his head forward until it drooped almost to his knees and his whole attitude took on a semblance of want and woe beset with an overpowering fear. Benners gasped involuntarily as he waited for the song. A long, drawn out, hardly audible note that wavered like a thread of smoke quivered out into the evil atmosphere of the apartment, it was followed by a second and a third. A strange effect was produced on all the listeners by the trembling voice of the singer. Bubb gaped stupidly, his eyes fixed on the roof, as he rubbed his chin with the fingers of his right hand. The sergeant drew himself up and listened, fascinated. Fitzgerald's song was the song of a soul condemned to inevitable sorrow; there was not a relieving touch, not a glow of hope, it was the song of a damned soul. "Oh, the praties they are small Over here. Oh, the praties they are small Over here. The praties they are small And we ate them skins and all, Aye, and long afore the Fall, Over here. No help in hour of need Over here. And God won't pay much heed Over here. Then whisht! Or He'll take heed And He'll rot the pratie seed And send other mouths to feed Over here. I wish I was a duck Over here. To be eating clay and muck Over here. I'd sooner ... sooner ... I'd sooner...." "My God, I've forgotten it, Benners, forgotten the rest of the song," Fitzgerald exclaimed, throwing his unlighted cigarette on the floor and gripping his hair with both hands as if going to pull it out of his head. Then, as if thinking better of it, he brought both his hands to his sides and sat down on his original seat, his whole face betokening extreme self-pity. "My memory!" he exclaimed. "My memory! Why was I brought into being?" A minute's silence followed, then an eager glow lit up Fitzgerald's face. A happy inspiration seemed to have seized hold of him. "Benners!" he exclaimed in an eager voice. "Have you a cigarette to spare, Benners?" "Gorblimey!" laughed Bubb. "Listen to 'im. 'E's always on the 'ear-'ole for fags, an' 'e throws arf of 'em away. 'E's not arf a nib, ole Fitz." "Good Heavens, how can I endure such remarks from a damned Sassenach! (I beg your pardon, Bubb)" Fitzgerald exclaimed, gripping with both fingers the cigarette which Benners had given him and breaking it in two. "You don't understand me, Bubb, you can't. I don't bear you any malice, but, heavens! you are trying at times.... By the way," he added, "can you give us one of your songs?" Bubb looked at Fitzgerald for a moment then lit a cigarette and got to his feet. "Wot about Ole Skiboo?" he asked, addressing the remark to all in the room. The soldiers knew that he was going to oblige and applauded with their hands.