He finished the song, but there was no sign. For all the impression
he had made upon Sowell Street, he might have been singing in his
chambers. "And now the other," commanded Ford.

The house-fronts echoed back the cheering notes of "Dixie." Again
Ford was silent, and again The silence answered him. The
accompanist glared disgustedly at the darkened windows.

"They don't know them songs," he explained professionally. "Give
'em, 'Mollie Married the Marquis.'"

"I'll sing the first one again," said Ford. Once more he broke into
the pathetic cadences of the "Old Kentucky Home." But there was no
response. He was beginning to feel angry, absurd. He believed he
bad wasted precious moments, and, even as he sang, his mind was
already working upon a new plan. The song ceased, unfinished.

"It's no use!" he exclaimed. Remembering himself, he added: "We'll
try the next street."

But even as he spoke he leaped forward. Coming apparently from
nowhere, something white sank through the semi-darkness and fell at
his feet. It struck the pavement directly in front of the middle
one of the three houses. Ford fell upon it and clutched it in both
hands. It was a woman's glove. Ford raced back to the piano.

"Once more," he cried, "play 'Dixie'!"

He shouted out the chorus exultantly, triumphantly. Had he spoken
it in words, the message could not have carried more clearly.