Silas. A lost mine?
Tom (C.) This was his story as I have heard it from old miners. He was known among them a dozen years ago, as a quiet, reserved man, working by himself, wandering off prospecting alone. At times they missed him. He had been off for a week, when, one night, he came in staggering, faint from the loss of blood, with a deep wound in his head, and the wild air of a maniac. From his broken speech, they gathered this: He had found indications of gold, had opened a tunnel, and worked far in, all by himself, mind, following some theory of his own, when suddenly, with his pick, he loosened a stone above his head, which fell and crushed him; not, however, until he had caught one glimpse of a rich vein of gold. Poor fellow, he could never find his way back, and none of his mates could help him. They would have believed his story to be but the wild speech of his wandering mind, had they not found in his tangled hair, mingled with dirt and blood, flakes of gold.
Vermont. Poor old chap.
Silas. With a gold-mine in his hair. Rich old beggar.
Tom. Nevada is no beggar; though no cabin is shut against him, no miner's friendly hand withheld. He will neither eat nor sleep until he has earned both food and shelter. For a willing mate in an ugly tunnel, with a steady grip and a strong arm, give me Nevada.
Nevada (outside). Who calls Nevada? (Dashes down run, and stands C.; music pianissimo.) Nevada, the gold king. My dominions are beneath the hills, stretching away in veins broad and deep, so rich that I could overturn empires; but I am shut out, the golden doors are closed against me, and the key, the key, is lost. (Puts his hand to head, drops his head, and comes down slowly; music stops.)
Tom. Ah! it's one of his off days. Nevada, old man, don't you know me?
Nevada (slowly raises his head, looks wildly at Tom, then his face brightens). Tom, Tom Carew. (They shake hands warmly.) You want me. Many a day we have worked together. (Looks round.) And here's Vermont.
Vermont (grasping his hand). Right here, pard.