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youthful but authoritative miner approached the widow, hat off, and bestowed on her an envelope which from the bulge of it contained a goodly amount of cash. “Are you going to stand there slandering me,” Quin was chiding McGlashan now, “or sing? Tim there in the wooden overcoat would appreciate a tune about now, I bet. Ah, here’s a nice one,” he asserted, crimping open the crimson book to it. “Get Pooch Lampkin over here, he has a voice on him. And Micky O’Fallon, while you’re at it.”
    I ducked away while the musical troops were organizing themselves, not sure my initial night as cryer should be spent in song. Peering over Quinlan’s shoulder at the small songbook, the impromptu ensemble squared up and let loose:
    Oh Lord of all, of fowl and fish,
Of feast of life, of ev’ry dish;
Observe me on my bended legs,
I’m asking You for ham and eggs.
    “They’re at it again!” a woman shrieked. “And Father O’Rourke not here to give them what for! Quick, the true music of the faith!” Hastily the opposition vocal force formed up, a number of women in their darkest funereal best and a few older men pinched at the elbow by their wives and conscripted into the choir. Rigid as if they had been called to their feet in church, the bunch of them chorused out:
    O’er the sod of God,
O’er the bogs of peat,
Everlasting choirs
Raise a concert sweet!
    Undeterred, Quinlan and McGlashan and colleagues soared into their next verse.
    And if thou havest custard pies
I’d like, dear Lord, the largest size.
    Across the room the choir of the righteous responded in a roar:
    Heathendom shall go down,
Though it be everywhere!
God the Father’s kingdom
Fills heaven and earth and air!
    Sweetly as boys, the Quinlan quartet warbled a last verse:
    Oh, hear my cry, almighty Host,
I quite forgot the quail on toast.
Let your kindly heart be stirred
And stuff some oysters in that bird .
    “Shame!” cried a particularly broad woman in black, charging across the room. “My poor uncle, Heaven forgive him, gone on beyond there in the plush box and you singing one of those Red songs. Pat Quinlan, you banshee. May God make your tongue fall out.” Over by the door, I saw the young union man cast a rueful look at it all, put his hat on, and slip away from the proceedings.
    Quinlan chortled. “Betty, you’d sell tickets to that, wouldn’t you. Come have a glass with us, girl.”
    “I’ll girl you, Quin.” Nonetheless a glass appeared in her hand. “A taste, if you insist.”
    “Meet Morgan, the cryer,” Quinlan thought to officiate. “He’s new to Butte.”
    “Another pilgrim to the Richest Hill on Earth, have we here?” Betty turned her ample face to me. “Join the long line, Morgan my man.” Luckily the bottle made its rounds just then, and while I hid into a gulp from my glass, I noticed that around the room the tone of the wake had lightened into loud conversation and laughter. Centered as I was in the commotion, I apprehensively looked over toward the casket, the item of business I supposedly was here to attend to. The widow seemed to be crying to herself in contentment.
    I jumped slightly as Betty fingered the fabric of my lapel. “My, quite the glad rags Creeping Pete’s put you in.” With a critical cock of her head, she studied the rest of me. “You look awful learned to be among miners.”
    “One can never get enough of the school of life,” I said with slightly slurred dignity. Tonight was certainly proving that. I had found out that Butte did not sprout shrinking violets.
    As if I needed any more proof, Betty batted me on one shoulder and Quinlan on the other. “A man who knows his blarney,” Quin commended. “I like that.” He aimed his glass at me. “Morgan, a man as cultured as you can’t help but have a tune stick to him along the way. Favor us with something, why don’t you.” The entire crowd around the table loudly seconded that.
    “I regret to say, from what I’ve heard here tonight