That Jake Wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of his dusty stove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes, one could see with half an eye as he made his way to a small platform--a musician’s stand--at one end of the bar; nor could there be any question about his being a prudent one, for the musician did not seat himself until he had carefully examined the sheet-iron shield inside the railing, which was attached in such a way that it could be sprung up by working a spring in the floor and render him fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas. “My first selection, friends, will be ‘The Little--’” announced the Minstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument. “Aw, give us ‘Old Dog Tray,’” cut in Sonora, impatiently from his seat at the card table. Jake bowed his ready acquiescence to the request and kept right on tuning up. “I say, Nick, have you saw the Girl?” asked Trinidad in a low voice, taking advantage of the interval to stroll over to the bar. Mysteriously, Nick’s eyes wandered about the room to see if anyone was listening; at length, with marvellous insincerity, he said: “You’ve got the first chance, Trin; I gave ’er your message.” Trinidad Joe fairly beamed upon him. “Whisky for everybody, Nick!” he ordered bumptuously; and as before the little barkeeper’s face wore an expression of pleasure not a whit less than that of the man whom, presently, he followed to the faro table with a bottle and four glasses. As soon as Trinidad had seated himself the Minstrel struck a chord and announced impressively: “‘Old Dog Tray,’ gents, ‘or Echoes from Home!’” He cleared his throat, and the next instant in quavering tones he warbled: “_How of-ten do I pic-ture The old folks down at home, And of-ten wonder if they think of me, Would an-gel mother know me, If back there I did roam, Would old dog Tray re-member me._” At the first few words of his song the man at the desk who, up to this time, had been wholly oblivious to what was taking place, arose from his seat, put the ink-bottle back on the bar, opened a cigar-box there and took from it a stamp, which he put on his letter. This he carried to a mail-box attached to the door; then, returning, he threw himself dejectedly down in a chair and put his head in his hands, where it remained throughout the song. At the conclusion of his solo, the Minstrel’s emotions were seemingly deeply stirred by his own melodious voice and he gasped audibly; whereupon, Nick came to his relief with a stiff drink which, apparently, went to the right spot, for presently the singer’s voice rang out vigorously: “Now, boys!” No second invitation was needed, and the chorus was taken up by all, the singers beating time with their feet and chips. All. HANG “_Oh, mother, an-gel mother, are you waitin’ there beside the lit-tle cottage on the lea--_” Jake. HANG “_On the lea--_” All.