“You’ve got the first chance, Trin; I gave ’er your message.”

Trinidad Joe fairly beamed upon him.

“Whisky for everybody, Nick!” he ordered bumptuously; and as before the little barkeeper’s face wore an expression of pleasure not a whit less than that of the man whom, presently, he followed to the faro table with a bottle and four glasses.

As soon as Trinidad had seated himself the Minstrel struck a chord and announced impressively: 

“‘Old Dog Tray,’ gents, ’or Echoes from Home’!” He cleared his throat, and the next instant in quavering tones he warbled: 

   “How of-ten do I pic-ture
    The old folks down at home,
    And of-ten wonder if they think of me,
    Would an-gel mother know me,
    If back there I did roam,
    Would old dog Tray re-member me.”

At the first few words of his song the man at the desk who, up to this time, had been wholly oblivious to what was taking place, arose from his seat, put the ink-bottle back on the bar, opened a cigar-box there and took from it a stamp, which he put on his letter.  This he carried to a mail-box attached to the door; then, returning, he threw himself dejectedly down in a chair and put his head in his hands, where it remained throughout the song.

At the conclusion of his solo, the Minstrel’s emotions were seemingly deeply stirred by his own melodious voice and he gasped audibly; whereupon, Nick came to his relief with a stiff drink which, apparently, went to the right spot, for presently the singer’s voice rang out vigorously:  “Now, boys!”

No second invitation was needed, and the chorus was taken up by all, the singers beating time with their feet and chips.

   ALL. 
     “Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin’ there
          beside the lit-tle cottage on the lea—­”

   JAKE. 
     “On the lea—­”

   ALL. 
     “How of-ten would she bless me
          in all them days so fair—­
      Would old dog Tray re-member me—­”

   SONORA. 
     “Re-member me.”

All the while the miners had been singing, the sad and morose-looking individual had been steadily growing more and more disconsolate; and when Sonora rumbled out the last deep note in his big, bass voice, he heaved a great sob and broke down completely.

In surprised consternation everyone turned in the direction from whence had come the sound.  But it was Sonora who, affected both by the pathos of the song and the sight of the pathetic figure before them, quietly went over and laid a hand upon the other’s arm.

“Why, Larkins—­Jim—­what’s the trouble—­what’s the matter?” he asked, a thousand thoughts fluttering within his breast.  “I wouldn’t feel so bad.”

With a desperate effort Larkins, his face twitching perceptibly, the lines about his eyes deepening, struggled to control himself.  At last, after taking in the astonished faces about him, he plunged into his tale of woe.