“Say, boys, I’m homesick—­I’m broke—­and what’s more, I don’t care who knows it.”  He paused, his fingers opening and closing spasmodically, and for a moment it seemed as if he could not continue—­a moment of silence in which the Minstrel began to pick gently on his banjo the air of Old Dog Tray.

“I want to go home!” suddenly burst from the unfortunate man’s lips.  “I’m tired o’ drillin’ rocks; I want to be in the fields again; I want to see the grain growin’; I want the dirt in the furrows at home; I want old Pensylvanny; I want my folks; I’m done, boys, I’m done, I’m done . . .!” And with these words he buried his face in his hands.

   “Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin’—­”

sang the Minstrel, dolefully.

Men looked at one another and were distressingly affected; The Polka had never witnessed a more painful episode.  Throwing a coin at the Minstrel, Sonora stopped him with an impatient gesture; the latter nodded understandingly at the same time that Nick, apparently indifferent to Larkin’s collapse, began to dance a jig behind the bar.  A look of scowling reproach instantly appeared on Sonora’s face.  It was uncalled-for since, far from being heartless and indifferent to the man’s misfortunes, the little barkeeper had taken this means to distract the miners’ attention from the pitiful sight.

“Boys, Jim Larkins ‘lows he’s goin’ back East,” announced Sonora.  “Chip in every mother’s son o’ you.”

Immediately every man at the faro table demanded cash from The Sidney Duck; a moment later they, as well as the men who were not playing cards, threw their money into the hat which Sonora passed around.  It was indeed a well-filled hat that Sonora held out to the weeping man.

“Here you are, Jim,” he said simply.

The sudden transition from poverty to comparative affluence was too much for Larkins!  Looking through tear-dimmed eyes at Sonora he struggled for words with which to express his gratitude, but they refused to come; and at last with a sob he turned away.  At the door, however, he stopped and choked out:  “Thank you, boys, thank you.”

The next moment he was gone.

At once a wave of relief swept over the room.  Indeed, the incident was forgotten before the unfortunate man had gone ten paces from The Polka, for then it was that Trinidad suddenly rose in his seat, lunged across the table for The Sidney Duck’s card-box, and cried out angrily: 

“You’re cheatin’!  That ain’t a square deal!  You’re a cheat!”

In a moment the place was in an uproar.  Every man at the table sprung to his feet; chairs were kicked over; chips flew in every direction; guns came from every belt; and so occupied were the men in watching The Sidney Duck that no one perceived the Lookout sneak out through the door save Nick, who was returning from the dance-hall with a tray of empty glasses.  But whether or not he was aware that the Australian’s confederate was bent upon running away he made no attempt to stop him, for in common with every man present, including Sonora and Trinidad, who had seized the gambler and brought him out in front of his card-table, Nick’s eyes were fastened upon another man whom none had seen enter, but whose remarkable personality, now as often, made itself felt even though he spoke not a word.