Our party had no further complaint to make of ill-treatment. During the remainder of the evening they were treated with distinguished consideration, and every effort was made to make their sojourn pleasant.

As the miners gathered round a blazing log-fire built out of doors, which the cool air of evening made welcome, it was proposed that those who had any vocal gifts should exert them for the benefit of the company.

Three or four of those present had good voices, and sang such songs as they knew.

Finally, one of the miners turned to Bradley. "Can't you sing us something, friend?" he asked.

"You don't know what you're asking," said Bradley. "My voice sounds like a rusty saw. If you enjoy the howlin' of wolves, mayhap you might like my singin'."

"I reckon you're excused," said the questioner.

"My friend Dick Dewey will favor you, perhaps. I never heard him sing, but I reckon he might if he tried."

"Won't you sing?" was asked of Dewey.

Richard Dewey would have preferred to remain silent, but his life had been spared, and the men around him, though rough in manner, seemed to mean kindly. He conquered his reluctance, therefore, and sang a couple of ballads in a clear, musical voice with good effect.

"Now it's the boy's turn," said one.

Ben, was in fact, a good singer. He had attended a country singing-school for two terms, and he was gifted with a strong and melodious voice. Bradley had expected that he would decline bashfully, but Ben had a fair share of self-possession, and felt there was no good reason to decline.

"I don't know many songs," he said, "but I am ready to do my share."

The first song which occurred to him was "Annie Laurie," and he sang it through with taste and effect. As his sweet, boyish notes fell on the ears of the crowd they listened as if spellbound, and at the end gave him a round of applause.

I don't wish to represent that Ben was a remarkable singer. His knowledge of music was only moderate, but his voice was unusually strong and sweet, and his audience were not disposed to be critical.

He sang one song after another, until at last he declared that he was tired and would sing but one more. "What shall it be?" he asked.

"'Sweet Home,'" suggested one; and the rest took it up in chorus.

That is a song that appeals to the heart at all times and in all places, but it may well be understood that among the California mountains, before an audience every man of whom was far from home, it would have a peculiar and striking effect. The singer, too, as he sang, had his thoughts carried back to the home three thousand miles away where lived all who were near and dear to him, and the thought lent new tenderness and pathos to his song.

Tears came to the eyes of more than one rough miner as he listened to the sweet strains, and there were few in whom home-memories were not excited.

There was a moment's hush, and then a great roar of applause. Ben had made a popular success of which a prima donna might have been proud.

One enthusiastic listener wanted to take up a contribution for the singer, but Ben steadily declined it. "I am glad if I have given any one pleasure," he said, "but I can't take money for that."

"Ben," said Jake Bradley, when the crowd had dispersed, "you've made two ten-strikes to-day. You've carried off all the honors, both as an orator and a singer."

"You saved all our lives by that speech of yours, Ben," said Dewey. "We will not soon forget that."

"It was your plea for me that give me the chance, Mr. Dewey," said Ben. "I owe my life, first of all to you."

"That does not affect my obligation to you. If I am ever in a situation to befriend you, you may count with all confidence upon Richard Dewey."

"Thank you, Mr. Dewey. I would sooner apply to you than any man I know—except Bradley," he added, noticing that his faithful comrade seemed disturbed by what he said.

Jake Bradley brightened up and regarded Ben with a look of affection. He had come to feel deeply attached to the boy who had shared his dangers and privations, and in all proved himself a loyal friend.

The next morning the three friends set out for San Francisco, carrying with them the hearty good wishes of the whole mining-settlement.

"You have promised to come back?" said more than one.

"Yes," said Bradley; "we'll come back if we ain't prevented, and I reckon we won't be unless we get hanged for hoss-stealin' somewhere on the road."This sally called forth a hearty laugh from the miners, who appreciated the joke.

"It's all very well for you to laugh," said Bradley, shaking his head, "but I don't want to come any nearer hangin' than I was last night."

"All's well that ends well," said one of the miners lightly.

Neither Ben nor Richard Dewey could speak or think so lightly of the narrow escape they had had from a shameful death, and though they smiled, as was expected by the crowd, it was a grave smile, with no mirth in it.

"You'll come back too, boy?" was said to Ben.

"Yes, I expect to."

"You won't be sorry for it.—Boys, let us stake out two claims for the boy and his friend, and when they come back we'll help them work them for a while."

"Agreed! agreed!" said all.

So with hearty manifestations of good-will the three friends rode on their way.

"It's strange," observed Dewey, thoughtfully, "how this wild and lonely life effects the character. Some of these men who were so near hanging us on the unsupported accusation of two men of whom they knew nothing were good, law-abiding citizens at home. There they would not have dreamed of such summary proceedings."

"That's where it comes in," said Bradley. "It ain't here as it is there. There's no time here to wait for courts and trials."

"So you too are in favor of Judge Lynch?"

"Judge Lynch didn't make any mistake when he swung off them two rascals, Hadley and Bill Mosely."

"We might have been in their places, Jake," said Ben.

"That would have been a pretty bad mistake," said Bradley, shrugging his shoulders.