The voice went on imperturbably:

"_Avec son grand fusil d'argent,
En roulant ma boule,
Visa le noir, tua le blanc,
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant_."

"_Sacrè!_" shrieked the habitant.

"Hello, Johnny Frenchman!" called Ned Trent, in his acid tones. "That
you? Be more polite, or I'll stand here and sing you the whole of it."

The window slammed shut.

Ned Trent took up his walk again toward some designated sleeping-place
of his own, his song dying into the distance.

_"Visa le noir, tua le blanc,
En roulant ma boule,
O fils du roi, tu es mêchant!
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant."_

"And he can _sing_!" cried the girl bitterly to herself. "At such a
time! Oh, my dear God, help me, help me! I am the unhappiest girl
alive!"