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.

"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.