atisfied as those
within. The impromptu and "free feed" of freshly-killed beef had been a
great success, and now at seven o'clock, what Vale called "the harmony"
began--to wit, music from a battered cornet, an asthmatic accordion, and
a weird violin. There were, however, plenty of good singing voices in
the company, and presently a big, fat-faced American negro, with a rich
fruity voice, struck up a well-known mining song, "The Windlasses," and
the diggers thundered out the chorus:

"For I love the sound of the windlasses, And the cry, 'Look-out,
below.'"

At its conclusion there was much applause, and then the negro, who was
an ex-sailor, was pressed, very literally, for another song. One digger
gripped him around the waist, and another seized his woolly poll and
shook him.

"Sing, you beggar, sing! Give us the 'Arctic Fleet.'"

"Don' you be so familiar, sah! You common digger pusson! How dah you
take liberties with a gentleman!" and the negro laughed good-naturedly
as he was forced on his feet again. "And don' se singist get some
refreshment fust?"

It was at once supplied, and then "Black Pete's" rich tones sounded out
in their full strength as he began the whaleman's ditty:

"Oh, its advertised in Noo York town,
Likewise in Alban-ee,
For five hunder and fifty Yankee boys,
To join de whaling fleet

Singing, blow ye windy mornin's,
And blow ye winds, heigho,
Clear away de marnin' dews,
To de Arctic we mus' go,
To de Arctic we mus' go."

The song was a lengthy one, and when it was finished, there was a pause;
then some digger called out through the cloud of tobacco smoke that
filled the room:

"Won't you give us a song, Mr Gerrard?" Gerrard, who was talking to Vale,
and some other men, turned and shook his head smilingly, when suddenly
there was a slight commotion near the open door, and Randolph Aulain
pushed through the crowd into the centre of the room. He was booted and
spurred, and carried a short, heavy whip of plaited greenhide.

"I should like to have a few words with you, Mr Gerrard, before you
sing."

In an instant there was a dead silence--the diggers saw that Aulain
meant mischief, for his usually sallow features were now white with
ill-concealed fury. Gerrard kept his seat, but leant back a little so as
to look Aulain full in the face.

"I am not going to sing," he said quietly. "If you have anything to say
to me, say