"'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.