He greedily absorbed what there was and,
petulantly exploring the empty container, flung it into the bushes. A
nodding drowsiness overtook him, his head rolled forward, he sank
slowly into a bowed amorphous heap. Harry Baggs roused him with
difficulty.
"You don't want to sit like this," he said; "come up by the field,
where it's fresher."
He lifted Janin to his feet, half carried him to the place under the
fence. Harry Baggs was consumed by a desire to talk about the future--
the future of his voice; he wanted to hear of the triumphs of other
voices, of the great stages that they finally dominated. He wanted to
know the most direct path there; he was willing that it should not be
easy. "I'm as strong as an ox," he thought.
But he was unable to move French Janin from his stupor; in reply to his
questions the blind man only muttered, begged to be let alone. Life was
at such a low ebb in him that his breathing was imperceptible. Harry
Baggs was afraid that he would die without a sound--leave him. He gave
up his questioning and sang. He was swept to his feet by a great wave
of feeling; with his head back, he sent the resonant volume of his
tones toward the stars. Baggs stopped suddenly; stillness once more
flooded the plowed hill and he raised imploring arms to the sky in a
gust of longing.
"I want to sing!" he cried. "That's all--to sing."
Janin was brighter in the morning.
"You must have some exercises," he told the boy.
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