The scene was certainly an impressive one; for such quiet had not been known at the saloon since the few moments which intervened between the time, weeks before, when Broadhorn Jerry gave the lie to Captain Greed, and the captain, whose pistol happened to be unloaded, was ready to proceed to business.

The average miner, when sober, possesses a degree of composure and gravity which would be admirable even in a judge of ripe experience, and miners, assembled as a deliberative body, can display a dignity which would drive a venerable Senator or a British M.P. to the uttermost extreme of envy.

On the occasion mentioned above, the miners ranged themselves near the unoccupied walls, and leaned at various graceful and awkward angles.  Boston Ben, who was by natural right the ruler of the camp, took the chair—­that is, he leaned against the centre of the bar.  On the other side of the bar leaned Stumpy Flukes, displaying that degree of conscious importance which was only becoming to a man who, by virtue of his position, was sole and perpetual secretary and recorder to all stated meetings at Blugsey’s.

Boston Ben glanced around the room, and then collectively announced the presence of a quorum, the formal organization of the meeting, and its readiness for deliberation, by quietly remarking: 

“Blaze away!”

Immediately one of the leaners regained the perpendicular, departed a pace from the wall, rolled his tobacco neatly into one cheek, and remarked: 

“We’ve stood it long enough—­the bottom’s clean out of the pan, Mr. Chairman.  Scrabblegrab’s declined bitters from half the fellers in camp, an’ though his gray old topknot’s kept ’em from takin’ satisfaction in the usual manner, they don’t feel no better ’bout it than they did.”

The speaker subsided into his section of wall, composed himself into his own especial angles, and looked like a man who had fully discharged a conscientious duty.

From the opposite wall there appeared another speaker, who indignantly remarked: 

“Goin’ back on bitters ain’t a toothful to what he’s done.  There’s young Curly, that went last week.  That boy played his hand in a style that would take the conceit clean out uv an angel.  But all to onct Curly took to lookin’ flaxed, an’ the judge here overheard Scrabblegrab askin’ Curly what he thort his mother’d say ef she knew he was makin’ his money that way?  The boy took on wuss an’ wuss, an’ now he’s vamosed.  Don’t b’lieve me ef yer don’t want ter, fellers—­here’s the judge hisself.”

The judge briskly advanced his spectacles, which had gained him his title, and said: 

“True ez gospel; and when I asked him ef he wasn’t ashamed of himself fur takin’ away the boy’s comfort, he said No, an’ that I’d be a more decent man ef I’d give up keards myself.”

“He’s alive yit!” said the first speaker, in a tone half of inquiry and half of reproof.