Then the diggers returned to Gustav Werstein’s American Bar and discussed the new arrival. “I known Noomarket an’ Hascot an’ Hepson, an’ all the places where swells goes in England,” said Jockey Bill, enthusiastically; “but never one come there as pretty as she, stop my license if ther’ did.” “Grand eyes, hain’t she?” said Tommy Dartmoor. “Regular fust-water ‘uns. Here’s to ‘em!” “And-a-hoof! See it peep below her gownd. S’ welp me ef it wer’ es big as my ‘bacca-box!” “An’ ‘er close, gentlemen! Made to measure, every thread on ‘em, I allow.” “She’s a lady, boys,” exclaimed he who had offered to see after a funeral, “a reg’lar slap-up, high-toned, blow-yer-eyes-don’t-touch-me lady; an’ as she sees fit to do the civil to this fellar”--striking himself on the chest--“he’s just going to drop his professional name, an’ arsk yer to call him Mister Samuel K. Gregson, Esquire. Play on that.” Next morning the inhabitants of Big Stone Hole were startled by reading this announcement outside the cabin which Dan had resigned to Miss Musgrave: SINGING AND MUSIC TAUGHT. LITERARY WORK DONE. It was printed on a card, which was affixed to the door by means of a drawing-pin, and from within came the sound of a contralto voice singing to a guitar accompaniment. One by one the male residents of Big Stone Hole drew near to that iron-roofed hut and stopped to listen; but after commenting on the innovation in gleeful whispers--for guitar had never twanged in that part of Africa before--they moved on to their work. No consideration could cause them to neglect that. They might fritter away the dull, rough gems when they had found them, but the lust of handling diamonds once was the strongest passion they knew. And so the day’s toil was not curtailed; but at the conclusion Miss Musgrave had an application for instruction in music from every man in the camp, with one exception. This one defaulter was Euchre Buck. He owned to having no ear for music--thereby exhibiting more honesty than many of the others--and confessed to knowing only two tunes, one of which was “Hail Columbia,” and the other--wasn’t; and so he said he wanted some “literary work done.” He proposed to Miss Musgrave that she should write a history of his life at half a guinea a page, thereby--cute Yankee that he was--thinking to appropriate the whole of her time. But embarrassed by all these calls upon her, and obviously unable to satisfy each of them, Miss Musgrave turned for help to the Scholar, whom she appeared to regard as her special adviser; and he, promising a solution of the difficulty in half an hour, drew off the whole crowd to the American Bar, where the question was thrashed out in all its points.