“Ez to the soothin’ influence,” remarked the barkeeper, leaning his elbows meditatively on his counter, “afore I struck these diggin’s I had a grocery and bar, ’way back in Mizzoori, where there was five old-fashioned farms jined.  Blame my skin ef the men folks weren’t a darned sight oftener over in my grocery, sittin’ on barrils and histin’ in their reg’lar corn-juice, than ever any of you be here—­with all these modern improvements.”

“Ye don’t catch on, any of you,” returned Wynbrook impatiently.  “Ef it was a mere matter o’ buildin’ houses and becomin’ family men, I reckon that this yer camp is about prosperous enough to do it, and able to get gals enough to marry us, but that would be only borryin’ trouble and lettin’ loose a lot of jabberin’ women to gossip agin’ each other and spile all our friendships.  No, gentlemen!  What we want here—­each of us—­is a good old mother!  Nothin’ new-fangled or fancy, but the reg’lar old-fashioned mother we was used to when we was boys!”

The speaker struck a well-worn chord—­rather the worse for wear, and one that had jangled falsely ere now, but which still produced its effect.  The men were silent.  Thus encouraged, Wynbrook proceeded:—­

“Think o’ comin’ home from the gulch a night like this and findin’ yer old mother a-waitin’ ye!  No fumblin’ around for the matches ye’d left in the gulch; no high old cussin’ because the wood was wet or you forgot to bring it in; no bustlin’ around for your dry things and findin’ you forgot to dry ’em that mornin’—­but everything waitin’ for ye and ready.  And then, mebbe, she brings ye in some doughnuts she’s just cooked for ye—­cooked ez only she kin cook ’em!  Take Prossy Riggs—­alongside of me here—­for instance!  He’s made the biggest strike yet, and is puttin’ up a high-toned house on the hill.  Well! he’ll hev it finished off and furnished slap-up style, you bet! with a Chinese cook, and a Biddy, and a Mexican vaquero to look after his horse—­but he won’t have no mother to housekeep!  That is,” he corrected himself perfunctorily, turning to his companion, “you’ve never spoke o’ your mother, so I reckon you’re about fixed up like us.”

The young man thus addressed flushed slightly, and then nodded his head with a sheepish smile.  He had, however, listened to the conversation with an interest almost childish, and a reverent admiration of his comrades—­qualities which, combined with an intellect not particularly brilliant, made him alternately the butt and the favorite of the camp.  Indeed, he was supposed to possess that proportion of stupidity and inexperience which, in mining superstition, gives “luck” to its possessor.  And this had been singularly proven in the fact that he had made the biggest “strike” of the season.