Short Stories
you t'ink, Batard?"
It was only an old and battered harmonica, tenderly treas-
ured and patiently repaired; but it was the best that money
could buy, and out of its silver reeds he drew weird vagrant airs
that men had never heard before. Then Batard, dumb of throat,
with teeth tight clenched, would back away, inch by inch, to the
farthest cabin corner. And Leclere, playing, playing, a stout club
tucked under his arm, followed the animal up, inch by inch, step
by step, till there was no further retreat.
At first Batard would crowd himself into the smallest possi-
ble space, grovelling close to the floor; but as the music came
nearer and nearer, he was forced to uprear, his back jammed into
the logs, his fore legs fanning the air as though to beat off the
rippling waves of sound. He still kept his teeth together, but se-
vere muscular contractions attacked his body, strange twitchings
and jerkings, till he was all a-quiver and writhing in silent tor-
ment. As he lost control, his jaws spasmodically wrenched apart,
and deep throaty vibrations issued forth, too low in the register
of sound for human ear to catch. And then, nostrils distended,
eyes dilated, hair bristling in helpless rage, arose the long wolf
howl. It came with a slurring rush upwards, swelling to a great
heart- breaking burst of sound, and dying away in sadly ca-
denced woe—then the next rush upward, octave upon octave;
the bursting heart; and the infinite sorrow and misery, fainting,
fading, falling, and dying slowly away.
It was fit for hell. And Leclere, with fiendish ken, seemed to
divine each particular nerve and heartstring, and with long wails
and tremblings and sobbing minors to make it yield up its last
shred of grief. It was frightful, and for twenty-four hours after,
Batard was nervous and unstrung, starting at common sounds,
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