“It’sallverywell，“saidJoeWynbrook，“forustobesittin’
here，slingin’lieseasyandcomfortable，withthewindwhistlin’
inthepinesoutside，andtherainjustliftin’theditchestofilloursluiceboxeswithgoldezwe’resmokin’andwaitin’，butItellyouwhat，boys——itain’thome！No，sir，itain’tHOME！“
Thespeakerpaused，glancedaroundthebright，comfortablebarroom，theshiningarrayofglassesbeyond，andthecircleofcomplacentfacesfrontingthestove，onwhichhisownbootswerecheerfullysteaming，liftedaglassofwhiskeyfromthefloorunderhischair，andinspiteofhisdeprecatingremark，tookalongdraughtofthespiritswitheverysymptomofsatisfaction。
“Ifyemean，“returnedCyrusBrewster，“thatitain’ttheoldfarmhouseofourboyhood，’waybackinthewoods，I’llagreewithyou；butye’lljustrememberthattherewasn’tanygoldplacerslyingroundonthemedderonthatfarm。Notmuch！Eftharhadbeen，wewouldn’thaveleftit。“