The speaker paused, glanced around the bright, comfortable barroom, the shining array of glasses beyond, and the circle of complacent faces fronting the stove, on which his own boots were cheerfully steaming, lifted a glass of whiskey from the floor under his chair, and in spite of his deprecating remark, took a long draught of the spirits with every symptom of satisfaction.
“If ye mean,” returned Cyrus Brewster, “that it ain't the old farmhouse of our boyhood, 'way back in the woods, I'll agree with you; but ye'll just remember that there wasn't any gold placers lying round on the medder on that farm. Not much! Ef thar had been, we wouldn't have left it.”
“I don't mean that,” said Joe Wynbrook, settling himself comfortably back in his chair; “it's the family hearth I'm talkin' of. The soothin' influence, ye know--the tidiness of the women folks.”
“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.”
