This call upon her powers seemed to take Miss Musgrave aback.
"I have never sung in public," she pleaded, rather nervously. "Indeed,
my voice is not good enough for it; really it isn't. Only I thought
I could teach a little perhaps, and that is why I came here. You see,
mother, is an invalid, and we were so very poor that--"
"Miss," broke in Jockey Bill, "call it ten bob a 'ead, an' just 'um to
us."
"Oh no, Mr. William, it was not the money that I thought about; indeed,
five shillings would be far too much. But if you think that I should be
able to amuse you at all, I would do my very best--believe me, I would."
"Miss," growled Dan, with a clumsy endeavour to chase away her
diffidence, "all we asks is fer you to sit near us fer a spell. Ef you
sings or plays, we'd be proud; ef you just looks an' talks, we'd be
pleased."
So in the end Miss Musgrave yielded to the wishes of the community, and
the nightly conclave in the American Bar became so much a thing of the
past that Gustav Werstein was heard to threaten another emigration. The
songs were to the diggers new, and yet not new.
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