I had heard of such tricks before; my old employer had had men secretly injure a building, so as to claim it was not built according to contract when the money came due, but none of them did it so early in the course of the business.

Within a few seconds my opinion of Mr. Markson's smartness altered greatly, and so did my opinion of human nature in general. I would have sadly, but promptly sold out my contract with Mr. Markson for the price of a ticket for the West, and I should have taken the first train.

As he bored that hole I could see just how all the other builders in town would look when I had to take the law on Markson, and how all my friends would come and tell me I ought to have insisted on a payment in advance.

But, after several sorrowful moments had elapsed, I commenced to think, and I soon made up my mind what I would do. I would not descend from the tree while he was there—I have too much respect for my person to put it at the mercy of an ill-disposed individual. But as soon as he left the place, I would hasten to the ground, follow him, and demand an explanation. He might be armed, but I was, too—there were hard characters at Bartley, and they knew my pocket-book was sometimes full.

Hole after hole that man bored; he made one join another until he had a string of them ten inches long, or thereabouts; then he began another string, right beside the first, and then another.

I saw that his bit went but six or seven inches deep, so that it did not pierce the sill, and I could almost believe him in league with some rival builder to ruin my reputation by turning over, next morning, a log apparently sound, and showing it to be full of holes.

I didn't feel any better-natured, either, when I noticed that he had carefully put a newspaper under where he was boring to catch all the chips, and destroy any idea of the mischief having been done wilfully and on the spot; but I determined I would follow him, and secure that paper of chips as evidence.

Suddenly he stopped boring, and took a chisel from somewhere about his clothes, and he soon chiseled that honeycombed spot into a single hole, about five inches by ten, and six or seven inches deep.

It slowly dawned over me that perhaps his purpose wasn't malicious, after all; and by the time I had reasoned the matter he helped me to a conclusion by taking from his pocket a little flat package, which he put into the hole.

It looked as if it might be papers, or something the size of folded papers; but it was wrapped in something yellow and shiny—oil skin, probably, to keep it from the damp. Then he drove a few little nails inside the holes to keep the package from falling out when the sill was turned over; and then he did something which I never saw mixed with carpenter-work in my life—he stooped and kissed the package as it lay in the hole, and then he knelt on the ground beside the sill, and I could see by his face upturned in the moonlight, showing his closed eyes and moving lips, that he was praying.



Up to that moment I had been curious to know what was in that package; but after what I saw then, I never thought of it without wanting to utter a small prayer myself, though I never could decide what would be the appropriate thing to say, seeing I knew none of the circumstances. I am very particular not to give recommendations except where I am very sure the person I recommend is all right.

Well, Markson disappeared a moment or two after, first carefully replacing the sill, and carrying away the chips, and I got out of my tree, forgetting all about the view I had discovered; and the unexpected scene I had looked at ran in my mind so constantly that, during the night, I dreamed that Markson stood in the hemlock-tree, with a gigantic brace and bit, and bored holes in the hills beside the river, while I kneeled in the second story window-frame, and kissed my contract with Markson, and prayed that I might make a hundred thousand dollars out of it. It is perfectly astonishing what things a sensible man will sometimes dream.

Next morning I arrived at the building a few minutes before seven, and found Markson there before me. He expressed himself satisfied with everything, and paid me then and there a thousand dollars, which was due on acceptance of the work as far as then completed.

He hung around all day while we put up the post and studding—probably to see that the sill was not turned over and his secret disclosed; and it was with this idea that I set the studding first on his particular sill. By night we had the frame so near up, that there was no possibility of the sill being moved; and then Markson went away.

He came up often, after that, to see how his house was getting along. Each time he came he would saunter around to that particular sill, and when I noticed that he did this, I made some excuse to call the men away from that side of the house.

Sometimes he brought his family with him, and I scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry; for, while his daughter, a handsome, strong, bright, honest, golden-haired girl of fifteen or sixteen, always affected me as if she was a streak of sunshine, and made me hope I should some day have a daughter like her, his wife always affected me unpleasantly.

I am not a good physiognomist, but I notice most people resemble animals of some sort, and when I decide on what animal it is, in any particular case, I judge the person accordingly.

Now, Mrs. Markson—who was evidently her husband's second wife, for she was too young to be Helen's mother—was rather handsome and extremely elegant, but neither manners nor dress could hide a certain tigerish expression which was always in her face. It was generally inactive, but it was never absent, and the rapidity with which it awoke once or twice when she disapproved something which was done or said, made me understand why Mr. Markson, who always seemed pleasant and genial with any one else, was quite silent and guarded when his wife was with him.

Pretty soon the people of Bartley knew all about the Marksons. How people learn all about other people is more than I can explain. I never have a chance to know all about my neighbors, for I am kept busy in looking to myself; but if all the energy that is devoted to other people's business in Bartley were expended on house-building, trade would soon be so dull that I should be longing for a mansion in the skies.

Everybody in Bartley knew that Helen Markson's mother, who was very beautiful and lovable, had died years before, and that her stepmother had been Mrs. Markson only two or three years; that the second Mrs. Markson had married for money, and that her husband was afraid of her, and would run away from her if it wasn't for Helen; that Mrs. Markson sometimes got angry, and then she raved like mad, and that it was wearing Mr. Markson's life away; for he was a tender-hearted man, in spite of his smartness. Some even declared that Markson had willed her all his property, and insured his life heavily for her besides, and that if he died before Helen was married, Helen would be a beggar.

But none of these things had anything to do with my contract. I worked away and had good weather, so I lost no time, and at the end of five months I had finished the house, been paid for it, had paid my bills, and made a clear two thousand dollars on the job. I could have made a thousand more, without any one being the wiser for it, but I don't build houses in that way—the public will greatly oblige me by cutting this out. This money gave me a handsome business start, and having had no serious losses, nor any houses thrown back upon my hands—(for I always make it a point to do a little better than I promise, so folks can't find fault)—I am now quite well off, and building houses on my own account, to sell; while some of my competitors, who started before I did, have been through bankruptcy, while some have been too poor to do even that.

A few years after building Markson's house, I went with a Southern friend into a black-walnut speculation. We bought land in the Southwest, cut the timber, got it to market, and made a handsome profit, I am glad to say. This business took me away from home, and kept me for months, but, as I was still without family ties, I did not suffer much during my absence. Still the old village seemed to take on a kind of motherly air as the stage, with me in it, rattled into town, and I was just dropping into a pleasant little reverie, when a carriage, which I recognized as Markson's, dashed down the road, met us, and stopped, while the coachman shouted:

"Raines's foreman says the old man's coming home to-day."

He meant me.

"Reckon his head was purty level," replied the stage-driver, tossing his head backward toward me.

"Mr. Raines," said the coachman, recognizing me, "Mr. Markson is awful sick—like to die any minute—an' he wants to see you right away—wishes you wouldn't wait for anything."

What to make of it I didn't know, and said so, upon which the stage-driver rather pettishly suggested that 'twouldn't take long to find out if I got behind Markson's team; and, as I agreed with him, I changed conveyances, and was soon at Markson's house.

Helen met me at the door, and led me immediately to Markson's chamber. The distance from the door of his room to the side of his bed couldn't have been more than twenty feet, yet, in passing over it, it seemed to me that I imagined at least fifty reasons why the sick man had sent for me, but not one of the fifty was either sensible or satisfactory.

I was even foolish enough to imagine Markson's conscience was troubled, and that he was going to pay me some money which he justly owed me, whereas he had paid me every cent, according to contract.

We reached his bedside before I had determined what it could be. Helen took his hand, and said:

"Father, here is Mr. Raines."

Markson, who was lying motionless, with his face to the wall, turned quickly over and grasped my hand and beckoned me closer. I put my head down, and he whispered:

"I'm glad you've come; I want to ask you a favor—a dying man's last request. You're an honest man (N.B.—People intending to build will please make a note of this.—J.R.), I am sure, and I want you to help me do justice. You have seen my wife; she can be a tiger when she wants to. She married me for money; she thinks the will I made some time ago, leaving everything to her, is my last. But it is not. I've deceived her, for the sake of peace. I made one since, leaving the bulk of my property to Helen; it came to me through her dear mother. I know nobody to trust it with. Mrs. Markson can wrap almost any one around her finger when she tries, and—"

His breath began to fail, and the entrance of his wife did not seem to strengthen him any; but he finally regained it, and continued:

"She will try it with you; but you are cool as well as honest, I believe. I meant to tell Helen where the will was the day after I put it there; but she was so young—it seemed dreadful to let her know how cowardly her father was—how he feared her. Get it—get a good lawyer—see she has her rights. I put it—no one could suspect where—I put it—in—the—"

His breath failed him entirely, and he fixed his eyes on mine with an agonized expression which makes me shiver whenever I think of it. Suddenly his strange operation with that sill, of which I had not thought for a long time, came into my mind, and I whispered, quickly:

"In the sill of the house?"

His expression instantly changed to a very happy one, and yet he looked wonderstruck, which was natural enough.

"I saw you put it there," said I. "But," I continued, fearing the dying man might suspect me of spying, and so fear he had mistaken my character—"but I did not mean to—I was on the ground when you came there that evening; and when I saw what you were doing, I could not move for fear of disturbing you. I know where to find it, and I can swear you put it there."

Markson closed his eyes, and never opened them again; and his last act, before going out of the world, was to give my hand a squeeze, which, under the circumstances, I could not help believing was an honest one.

As his hand relaxed, I felt that I had better give place to those who had a right to it, so I quietly retired. Helen fell on her knees by his bedside, but Mrs. Markson followed me out of the room.

"Mr. Raines," said she, with a very pleasant smile for a woman widowed but a moment before, "what did my dear husband want?"

Now, I am an honest man and a Church-member—and I was one then, and believed in truth and straightforwardness just as much as I do now—but, somehow, when such a person speaks to me, I feel as if I were all of a sudden a velvet-pawed cat myself. So I answered, with the straightest of faces:

"Only to see to one of the sills of the house, ma'am, and he made me solemnly swear to do it right away. He was an extraordinary man, ma'am, to think of the good of his family up to the last moment."

"Ah, yes, dear man!" said she, with a sigh which her face plainly showed came from nowhere deeper than her lips. "I hope it won't take long, though," she continued, "for I can't endure noise in the house."

"Not more than an hour," I replied.

"Oh, I'm glad to hear it!" said she. "Perhaps, then, you might do it while we are at the funeral, day after to-morrow? We will be gone at least two hours."

"Easily, ma'am," said I, with my heart in my mouth at the idea of managing the matter so soon, and having the papers for Helen as soon as, in any sort of decency, Mrs. Markson would be likely to have the old will read.

For the rest of the day I was so absent-minded to everything except this business of Markson's that my acquaintances remarked that, considering how long I had been gone, I didn't seem very glad to see any one.

Finally I went to old Judge Bardlow, who was as true as steel, and told him the whole story, and he advised me to get the papers, and give them to him to examine. So, on the day of the funeral, I entered the house with a mallet and a mortizing chisel, and within fifteen minutes I had in my pocket the package Markson had put in the sill years before, and was hurrying to the judge's office.

He informed me that Mrs. Markson's lawyer, from the city, had called on him that very morning, and invited him to be present at the reading of the will in the afternoon, so he would be able to put things in proper shape at once.

I was more nervous all that day than I ever was in waiting to hear from an estimate. It was none of my business, to be sure; but I longed to see Mrs. Markson punished for the mischief which I and every one else believed she had done her husband; and I longed to see Helen, whom every one liked, triumph over her stepmother, who, still young and gay, was awfully jealous of Helen's beauty and general attractiveness.

Finally the long day wore away, and an hour or two after the carriages returned from the funeral, the city lawyer called the judge, and, at the judge's suggestion, they both called for me.

We found Mrs. Markson and Helen, with some of Mrs. Markson's relatives—Helen had not one in the world—in the parlor, Mrs. Markson looking extremely pretty in her neat-fitting suit of black, and Helen looking extremely disconsolate.

The judge, in a courtly, old-fashioned way, but with a good deal of heart for all that, expressed his sympathy for Helen, and I tried to say a kind word to her myself. To be sure, it was all praise of her father, whom I really respected very highly (aside from my having had my first contract from him), but she was large-hearted enough to like it all the better for that. I was still speaking to her when Mrs. Markson's lawyer announced that he would read the last will and testament of the deceased; so, when she sat down on a sofa, I took a seat beside her.

The document was very brief. He left Helen the interest of twenty thousand dollars a year, the same to cease if she married; all the rest of the property he left to his wife. As the lawyer concluded, Helen's face put on an expression of wonder and grief, succeeded by one of utter loneliness; while from Mrs. Markson's eyes there flashed an exultant look that had so much of malignity in it that it made me understand the nature of Satan a great deal more clearly than any sermon ever made me do. Poor Helen tried to meet it with fearlessness and dignity, but she seemed to feel as if even her father had abandoned her, and she dropped her head and burst into tears.

I know it wasn't the thing to do before company, but I took her hand and called her a poor girl, and begged her to keep a good heart, and trust that her father loved her truly, and that her wrongs would be righted at the proper time.

Being kind to my fellow-creatures is the biggest part of my religion, for it's the part of religion I understand best; but even if I had been a heathen, I couldn't have helped wishing well to a noble, handsome woman like Helen Markson. I tried to speak in a very low tone, but Mrs. Markson seemed to understand what I said, for she favored me with a look more malevolent than any I had ever received from my most impecunious debtor; the natural effect was to wake up all the old Adam there was in me, and to make me long for what was coming.

"May I ask the date of that will?" asked Judge Bardlow.

"Certainly, sir," replied Mrs. Markson's lawyer, handing the document to the judge. The judge looked at the date, handed the will back to the lawyer, and drew from his pocket an envelope.

"Here is a will made by Mr. Markson," said the judge, "and dated three months later."

Mrs. Markson started; her eyes flashed with a sort of fire which I hope I may never see again, and she caught her lower lip up between her teeth. The judge read the document as calmly as if it had been a mere supervisor's notice, whereas it was different to the first will in every respect, for it gave to Helen all of his property, of every description, on condition that she paid to Mrs. Markson yearly the interest of twenty thousand dollars until death or marriage, "this being the amount," as the will said, "that she assured me would be amply sufficient for my daughter under like circumstances."

As the judge ceased reading, and folded the document, Mrs. Markson sprang at him as if she were a wild beast.

"Give it to me!" she screamed—hissed, rather; "'tis a vile, hateful forgery!"

"Madame," said the judge, hastily putting the will in his pocket, and taking off his glasses, "that is a matter which the law wisely provides shall not be decided by interested parties. When I present it for probate—"

"I'll break it!" interrupted Mrs. Markson, glaring, as my family cat does when a mouse is too quick for her.

Mrs. Markson's lawyer asked permission to look at the newer will, which the judge granted. He looked carefully at the signature of Markson and the witnesses, and returned the document with a sigh.

"Don't attempt it, madame—no use," said he. "I know all the signatures; seen them a hundred times. I'm sorry, very—affects my pocket some, for it cuts some of my prospective fees, but—that will can't be broken."

Mrs. Markson turned, looked at Helen a second, and then dashed at her, as if "to scatter, tear and slay," as the old funeral hymn says. Helen stumbled and cowered a little toward me, seeing which I—how on earth I came to do it I don't know—put my arm around her, and looked indignantly at Mrs. Markson.

"You treacherous hussy!" said Mrs. Markson, stamping her foot—"you scheming little minx! I could kill you! I could tear you to pieces! I could drink your very heart's blood—I could—"

What else she could do she was prevented from telling, for she fell into a fit, and was carried out rigid and foaming at the mouth.

I am generally sorry to see even wicked people suffer, but I wasn't a bit sorry to see Mrs. Markson; for, while she was talking, poor Helen trembled so violently that it seemed to me she would be scared to death if her cruel stepmother talked much longer.

Two hours later Mrs. Markson, with all her relatives and personal effects, left the house, and six months afterward Mrs. Markson entrapped some other rich man into marrying her. She never tried to break Marston's will.

As Helen was utterly ignorant of the existence of this new will until she heard it read, the judge explained to her where it came from; and as she was naturally anxious for all the particulars of its discovery, the judge sent me to her to tell her the whole story. So I dressed myself and drove down—for, though still under thirty, I was well off, and drove my own span—and told her of my interview with her father, on his deathbed, as well as of the scene on the night he hid the will.

As I told the latter part of the story a reverent, loving, self-forgetful look came into her face, and made her seem to me like an angel. As for myself, the recalling of the incident, now that I knew its sequel, prevented my keeping my eyes dry. I felt a little ashamed of myself and hurried away, but her look while I spoke of her father, and her trembling form in my arms while Mrs. Markson raved at her, were constantly in my mind, and muddled a great many important estimates. They finally troubled me so that I drove down again and had a long and serious talk with Helen.

What we said, though perfectly proper and sensible, might not be interesting in print, so I omit it. I will say, however, that my longing—when I first saw Helen as a little girl—for a daughter just like her, has been fulfilled so exactly, that I have named her Helen Markson Raines, after her mother; and if she is not as much comfort to me as I supposed she would be, it is no fault of hers, but rather because the love of her mother makes me, twenty years after the incidents of this story occurred, so constantly happy, that I need the affection of no one else.



GRUMP'S PET.

On a certain day in November, 1850, there meandered into the new mining camp of Painter Bar, State of California, an individual who was instantly pronounced, all voices concurring, the ugliest man in the camp. The adjective ugly was applied to the man's physiognomy alone; but time soon gave the word, as applied to him, a far wider significance. In fact, the word was not at all equal to the requirements made of it, and this was probably what influenced the prefixing of numerous adjectives, sacred and profane, to this little word of four letters.

The individual in question stated that he came from "no whar in pu'tiklar," and the savage, furtive glance that shot from his hyena-like eyes seemed to plainly indicate why the land of his origin was so indefinitely located. A badly broken nose failed to soften the expression of his eyes, a long, prominent, dull-red scar divided one of his cheeks, his mustache was not heavy enough to hide a hideous hare-lip; while a ragged beard, and a head of stiff, bristly red hair, formed a setting which intensified rather than embellished the peculiarities we have noted.

The first settlers, who seemed quite venerable and dignified, now that the camp was nearly a fortnight old, were in the habit of extending hospitality to all newcomers until these latter could build huts for themselves; but no one hastened to invite this beauty to partake of cracker, pork and lodging-place, and he finally betook himself to the southerly side of a large rock, against which he placed a few boughs to break the wind.

The morning after his arrival, certain men missed provisions, and the ugly man was suspected; but so depressing, as one miner mildly put it, was his aspect when even looked at inquiringly, that the bravest of the boys found excuse for not asking questions of the suspected man.

"Ain't got no chum," suggested Bozen, an ex-sailor, one day, after the crowd had done considerable staring at this unpleasant object; "ain't got no chum, and's lonesome—needs cheerin' up." So Bozen philanthropically staked a new claim near the stranger, apart from the main party. The next morning found him back on his old claim, and volunteering to every one the information that "stranger's a grump—a reg'lar grump." From that time forth "Grump" was the only name by which the man was known.

Time rolled on, and in the course of a month Painter Bar was mentioned as an old camp. It had its mining rules, its saloon, blacksmith-shop, and faro-bank, like the proudest camp on the Run, and one could find there colonels, judges, doctors, and squires by the dozen, besides one deacon and a dominie or two.

Still, the old inhabitants kept an open eye for newcomers, and displayed an open-hearted friendliness from whose example certain Eastern cities might profit.

But on one particular afternoon, the estimable reception committee were put to their wit's end. They were enjoying their otium cum dignitale on a rude bench in front of the saloon, when some one called attention to an unfamiliar form which leaned against a stunted tree a few rods off.

It was of a short, loose-jointed young man, who seemed so thin and lean, that Black Tom ventured the opinion that "that feller had better hold tight to the groun', ter keep from fallen' upards." His eyes were colorless, his nose was enormous, his mouth hung wide open and then shut with a twitch, as if its owner were eating flies, his chin seemed to have been entirely forgotten, and his thin hair was in color somewhere between sand and mud.

As he leaned against the tree he afforded a fine opportunity for the study of acute and obtuse angles. His neck, shoulders, elbows, wrists, back, knees and feet all described angles, and even the toes of his shocking boots deflected from the horizontal in a most decided manner.

"Somebody ort to go say somethin' to him," said the colonel, who was recognized as leader by the miners.

"Fact, colonel," replied one of the men; "but what's a feller to say to sich a meanderin' bone-yard ez that? Might ask him, fur perliteness sake, to take fust pick uv lots in a new buryin' ground; but then Perkins died last week, yur know."

"Say somethin', somebody," commanded the colonel, and as he spoke his eyes alighted on Slim Sam, who obediently stepped out to greet the newcomer.

"Mister," said Sam, producing a plug of tobacco, "hev a chaw?"

"I don't use tobacco," languidly replied the man, and his answer was so unexpected that Sam precipitately retired.

Then Black Tom advanced, and pleasantly asked:

"What's yer fav'rit game, stranger?"

"Blind man's buff," replied the stranger.

"What's that?" inquired Tom, blushing with shame at being compelled to display ignorance about games; "anything like going it blind at poker?"

"Poker?—I don't know what that is," replied the youth.

"He's from the country," said the colonel, compassionately, "an' hesn't hed the right schoolin'. P'r'aps," continued the colonel, "he'd enjoy the cockfight at the saloon to-night—these country boys are pretty well up on roosters. Ask him, Tom."

Tom put the question, and the party, in deep disgust, heard the man reply:

"No, thank you; I think it's cruel to make the poor birds hurt each other."

"Look here," said the good-natured Bozen, "the poor lubber's all gone in amidships—see how flat his breadbasket is. I say, messmate," continued Bozen, with a roar, and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder, "come and splice the main-brace."

"No, thank you," answered the unreasonable stranger; "I don't drink."

The boys looked incredulously at each other, while the colonel arose and paced the front of the saloon two or three times, looking greatly puzzled. He finally stopped and said:

"The mizzable rat isn't fit to be out uv doors, an' needs takin' keer ov. Come here, feller," called the colonel; "be kinder sociable—don't stand there a gawpin' at us ez ef we wuz a menagerie."

The youth approached slowly, stared through the crowd, and finally asked:

"Is there any one here from Pawkin Centre?"

No one responded.

"Some men went out to Californy from Pawkin Centre, and I didn't know but some of 'em was here. I come from ther' myself—my name's Mix," the youth continued..

"Meanin' no disrespect to your dad," said the colonel, "Mr. Mix, Senior, ortn't to hev let you come out here—you ain't strong enough—you'll git fever 'n ager 'fore you've washed dirt half a day."

"I ain't got no dad," replied the stranger; "leastways he ran away ten years ago, an' mother had a powerful hard time since, a-bringin' up the young uns, an' we thought I might help along a big sight if I was out here."

The colonel was not what in the States would be called a prayer-meeting man, but he looked steadily at the young man, and inwardly breathed a very earnest "God have mercy on you all." Then he came back to the more immediate present, and, looking about, asked:

"Who's got sleepin'-room for this young man?"

"I hev," quickly answered Grump, who had approached, unnoticed, while the newcomer was being interviewed.

Every one started, and Grump's countenance did not gather amiability as he sneakingly noticed the general distrust.

"Yer needn't glare like that," said he, savagely; "I sed it, an' I mean it. Come along, youngster—it's about the time I generally fry my pork."

And the two beauties walked away together, while the crowd stared in speechless astonishment.

"He won't make much out uv that boy, that's one comfort," said Black Tom, who had partially recovered from his wonder. "You ken bet yer eye-teeth that his pockets wouldn't pan out five dollars."

"Then what does he want uv him?" queried Slim Sam.

"Somethin' mean an' underhand, for certain," said the colonel, "and the boy must be purtected. And I hereby app'int this whole crowd to keep an eye on Grump, an' see he don't make a slave of the boy, an' don't rob him of dust. An' I reckon I'll take one of yer with me, an' keep watch of the old rascal to-night. I don't trust him wuth a durn."

That night the boys at the saloon wrinkled their brows like unto an impecunious Committee of Ways and Means, as they vainly endeavored to surmise why Grump could want that young man as a lodger. Men who pursued wittling as an aid to reason made pecks of chips and shavings, and were no nearer a solution than when they began.

There were a number of games played, but so great was the absentmindedness of the players, that several hardened scamps indulged in some most unscrupulous "stocking" of the cards without detection. But even one of these, after having dealt himself both bowers and the king, besides two aces, suddenly imagined he had discovered Grump's motive, and so earnest was he in exposing that nefarious wretch, that one of his opponents changed hands with him. Even the barkeeper mixed the bottles badly, and on one occasion, just as the boys were raising their glasses, he metaphorically dashed the cup from their lips by a violent, "I tell you what" and an unsatisfactory theory. Finally the colonel arose.

"Boys," said he, in the tone of a man whose mind is settled, "'tain't 'cos the youngster looked like lively comp'ny, fur he didn't. 'Taint 'cos Grump wanted to do him a good turn, fur 'tain't his style. Cons'kently, thar's sumthin' wrong. Tom, I reckon I take you along."

And Tom and the colonel departed.

During the month which had elapsed since his advent, Grump had managed to build him a hut of the usual mining pattern, and the colonel and Tom stealthily examined its walls, front and rear, until they found crevices which would admit the muzzle of a revolver, should it be necessary. Then they applied their eyes to the same cracks, and saw the youth asleep on a pile of dead grass, with Grump's knapsack for a pillow, and one of Grump's blankets over him. Grump himself was sitting on a fragment of stone, staring into the fire, with his face in his hands.

He sat so long that the worthy colonel began to feel indignant; to sit in a cramped position on the outside of a house, for the sake of abused human nature, was an action more praiseworthy than comfortable, and the colonel began to feel personally aggrieved at Grump's delay. Besides, the colonel was growing thirsty.

Suddenly Grump arose, looked down at the sleeping youth, and then knelt beside him. The colonel briskly brought his pistol to bear on him, and with great satisfaction noted that Tom's muzzle occupied a crack in the front walls, and that he himself was out of range.

A slight tremor seemed to run through the sleeper; "and no wonder," said the colonel, when he recounted the adventure to the boys; "anybody'd shiver to hev that catamount glarin' at him."

Grump arose, and softly went to a corner which was hidden by the chimney.

"Gone for his knife, I'll bet," whispered the colonel to himself. "I hope Tom don't spile my mad by firin' fust."

Grump returned to view; but instead of a knife, he bore another blanket, which he gently spread over his sleeping guest, then he lay down beside Mix with a log of wood for a pillow.

The colonel withdrew his pistol, and softly muttered to himself a dozen or two enormous oaths; then he arose, straightened out his cramped legs, and started to find Tom. That worthy had started on a similar errand, and on meeting, the two stared at each other in the moonlight as blankly as a couple of well-preserved mummies.

"S'pose the boys'll believe us?" whispered the colonel.

"We ken bring 'em down to see the show themselves, ef they don't," replied Tom.

The colonel's report was productive of the choicest assortment of ejaculations that had been heard in camp since Natchez, the leader of the Vinegar Gulch Boys, joined the Church and commenced preaching.

The good-natured Bozen was for drinking Grump's health at once, but the colonel demurred. So did Slim Sam.

"He's goin' to make him work on sheers, or some hocus-pocusin' arrangement, an' he can't afford to hev him git sick. That's what his kindness amounts to," said Sam.

"Ur go fur his gratitude—and dust, when he gets any," suggested another, and no one repelled the insinuation.

It was evident, however, that there was but little chance of either inquest or funeral from Grump's, and the crowd finally dispersed with the confirmed assurance that there would be one steady cause of excitement for some time to come.

Next morning young Mix staked a claim adjoining Grump. The colonel led him aside, bound him to secrecy and told him that there was a far richer dirt further down the stream. The young man pointed toward the hut, and replied:

"He sed 'twas payin' dirt, an' I ort to take his advice, seein' he giv me a pick an' shovel an' pan—sed he'd hev to git new ones anyhow."

"Thunder!" ejaculated the colonel, more puzzled than ever knowing well how a miner will cling as long as possible to tools with which he is acquainted.

"Jest wait till that boy gets a bag of dust," said a miner, when the colonel had narrated the second wonder. "The express agent'll be here next week to git what fellers wants to send to their folks—the boy'll want to send some to his'n—his bag'll be missin' 'bout then—jist wait, and ef my words don't come true, call me greaser."

The colonel pondered over the prophecy, and finally determined on another vigil outside Grump's hut.

Meanwhile, Grump's Pet, as Mix had been nicknamed, afforded the camp a great deal of amusement. He was not at all reserved, and was easily drawn out on the subject of his protector, of whom he spoke in terms of unmeasured praise.

"By the piper that played before Moses," said one of the boys one day, "ef half that boy sez is true, some day Grump'll hev wings sprout through his shirt, an' 'll be sittin' on the sharp edge uv a cloud an' playin' onto a harp, jist like the other angels."

As for Grump himself, he improved so much that suspicion was half disarmed when one looked at him; nevertheless the colonel deemed it prudent to watch the Pet's landlord on the night preceding the express day.

The colonel timed himself by counting the games of old sledge that were played. At the end of the sixth game after dark he made his way to Grump's hut and quietly located himself at the same crack as before.

The Pet and his friend were both lying down, but by the light of the fire the colonel could see the eyes of the former were closed, while those of the latter were wide open. The moments flew by, and still the two men remained in the same positions, the Pet apparently fast asleep, and Grump wide awake.

The interior of a miner's hut, though displaying great originality of design, and ingenious artistic effects, becomes after a time rather a tiresome object of contemplation. The colonel found it so, and he relieved his strained eyes by an occasional amateur astronomical observation. On turning his head, with a yawn, from one of these, he saw inside the hut a state of affairs which caused him to feel hurriedly for his pistol.

Grump had risen upon one elbow, and was stealthily feeling with his other hand under the Pet's head.

"Ha!" thought the colonel; "right at last."

Slowly Grump's hand emerged from beneath the Pet's head, and with it came a leather bag containing gold dust.

The colonel drew a perfect bead on Grump's temple.

"I'll jest wait till you're stowin' that away, my golden-haired beauty," said the colonel, within himself, "an' then we'll see what cold lead's got to say about it."

Grump untied the bag, set it upon his own pillow, drew forth his own pouch, and untied it; the colonel's aim remained true to its unconscious mark.

"Ef that's the game," continued the colonel, to himself, "I reckon the proper time to play my trump is just when you're a-pourin' from his bag into your'n. It'll be ez good's a theatre, to bring the boys up to see how 'twas done. Lord! I wish he'd hurry up!"

Grump placed a hand upon each bag, and the colonel felt for his trigger. Grump's left hand opened wide the mouth of Pet's bag, and his right hand raised his own; in a moment he had poured out all his own gold into Pet's bag, tied it, and replaced it under Pet's head.

The colonel retired quietly for a hundred yards, or more, then he started for the saloon like a man inspired by a three-days' thirst. As he entered the saloon the crowd arose.

"Any feller ken say I lie," meekly spoke the colonel, "an' I won't shoot, I wouldn't believe it ef I hedn't seen it with my own eyes. Grump's poured all his gold into the Pet's pouch!"

The whole party, in chorus, condemned their optical organs to supernatural warmth; some, more energetic than the rest, signified that the operation should extend to their lungs and lives. But the doubter of the party again spoke:

"Mind yer," said he, "to-morrow he'll be complainin' that the Pet stole it, an' then he'll claim all in the Pet's pouch."

The colonel looked doubtful; several voices expressed dissent; Bozen, reviving his proposition to drink to Grump, found opinion about equally balanced, but conservative. It was agreed, however, that all the boys should "hang around" the express agent next day, and should, if Grump made the Pet any trouble, dispose of him promptly, and give the Pet a clear title to all of Grump's rights and properties.

The agent came, and one by one the boys deposited their dust, saw it weighed, and took their receipts. Presently there was a stir near the door, and Grump and Pet entered. Pet's gold was weighed, his mother's name given, and a receipt tendered.

"Thinks he's goin' to hev conviction in writin'," whispered the doubter to the colonel.

But the agent finished his business, took the stage, and departed. Grump started to the door to see the last of it. The doubter was there before him, and saw a big tear in the corner of each of Grump's eyes.

* * * * *

A few days after Grump went to Placerville for a new pick for the Pet—the old one was too heavy for a light man, Grump said. Pet himself felt rather lonesome working on his neighbor's claim, so he sauntered down the creek, and got a kind word from almost every man. His ridiculous anatomy had escaped the grave so long, he was so industrious and so inoffensive, that the boys began to have a sort of affection for the boy who had come so far to "help the folks."

Finally, some weak miner, unable to hold the open secret any longer, told the Pet about Grump's operation in dust. Great was the astonishment of the young man, and puzzling miners gained sympathy from the weak eyes and open mouth of the Pet as he meandered homeward, evidently as much at a loss as themselves.

Unlucky was the spirit which prompted Grump in the selection of his claim! It was just beyond a small bend which the Run made, and was, therefore, out of sight of the claims of the other men belonging to the camp. And it came to pass that while Pet was standing on his own claim, leaning on his spade, and puzzling his feeble brain, there came down the Run the great Broady, chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, who were working several miles above.

Mr. Broady had found a nugget a few days before, and, in his exultation, had ceased work and become a regular member of the bar. A week's industrious drinking developed in him that peculiar amiability and humanity which is characteristic of cheap whisky, and as Pet was small, ugly and alone, Broady commenced working off on him his own superfluous energy.

Poor Pet's resistance only increased the fury of Broady, and the family at Pawkin Centre seemed in imminent danger of being supported by the town, when suddenly a pair of enormous stubby hands seized Broady by the throat, and a harsh voice, which Pet joyfully recognized as Grump's, exclaimed:

"Let him go, or I'll tear yer into mince-meat, curse yer!"

The chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers was not in the habit of obeying orders, but Grump's hands imparted to his command considerable moral force.

No sooner, however, had Broady extricated himself from Grump's grasp than he drew his revolver and fired. Grump fell, and the chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, his injured dignity made whole, walked peacefully away.

The sound of the shot brought up all the boys from below.

"They've fit!" gasped the doubter, catching his breath as he ran, "an' the boy—boy's hed to—lay him out."

It seemed as if the doubter might be right, for the boys found Grump lying on the ground bleeding badly, and the Pet on his hands and knees.

"How did it come 'bout?" asked the colonel of Pet.

"Broady done it," replied Grump, in a hoarse whisper; "he pounded the boy, and I tackled him—then he fired."

The doubter went around and raised the dying man's head. Pet seemed collecting all his energies for some great effort; finally he asked:

"What made you pour your dust into my pouch?"

"'Cause," whispered the dying man, putting one arm about Pet's neck, and drawing him closer, "'cause I'm yer dad; give this to yer mar," and on Pet's homely face the ugliest man at Painter Bar put the first token of human affection ever displayed in that neighborhood.

The arm relaxed its grasp and fell loosely, and the red eyes closed. The experienced colonel gazed into the upturned face, and gently said:

"Pet, yer an orphan."

Reverently the boys carried the dead man into his own hut. Several men dug a grave beside that of Perkins, while the colonel and doubter acted as undertakers, the latter donating his only white shirt for a shroud.

This duty done, they went to the saloon, and the doubter called up the crowd. The glasses filled, the doubter raised his own, and exclaimed:

"Boys, here's corpse—corpse is the best-looking man in camp."

And so he was. For the first time in his wretched life his soul had reached his face, and the Judge mercifully took him while he was yet in His own image.

The body was placed in a rude coffin, and borne to the grave on a litter of spades, followed by every man in camp, the colonel supporting the only family mourner. Each man threw a shovelful of dirt upon the coffin before the filling began. As the last of the surface of the coffin disappeared from view, Pet raised a loud cry and wept bitterly, at which operation he was joined by the whole party.



WARDELOW'S BOY.

New Boston has once been the most promising of the growing cities of the West, according to some New York gentleman who constituted a land improvement company, distributed handsome maps gratis, and courted susceptible Eastern editors. Its water-power was unrivaled; ground for all desirable public buildings, and for a handsome park with ready-grown trees and a natural lake, had been securely provided for by the terms of the company's charter; building material abounded; the water was good; the soil of unequaled fertility; while the company, with admirable forethought, had a well-stocked store on the ground, and had made arrangements to send to the town a skillful physician and a popular preacher.

A reasonable number of colonists found their way to the ground in the pleasant Spring time, and, in spite of sundry local peculiarities not mentioned in the company's circular, they might have remained, had not a mighty freshet, in June, driven them away, and even saved some of them the trouble of moving their houses.

When, however, most of the residences floated down the river, some of them bearing their owners on their roofs, such of the inhabitants as had money left the promised land for ever; while the others made themselves such homes as they could in the nearest settlements which were above water, and fraternized with the natives through the medium of that common bond of sympathy in the Western lowlands, the ague.

Only a single one of the original inhabitants remained, and he, although he might have chosen the best of the abandoned houses for his residence, or even the elegant but deserted "company's store," continued to inhabit the cabin he had built upon his arrival. The solid business men of the neighboring town of Mount Pisgah, situated upon a bluff, voted him a fool whenever his name was mentioned; but the wives of these same men, when they chanced to see old Wardelow passing by, with the wistful face he always wore, looked after him tenderly, and never lost an opportunity to speak to him kindly. When they met at tea-parties, or quilting-bees, or sewing-societies, or in other gatherings exclusively feminine, there were not a few of them who had the courage to say that the world would be better if more men were like old Wardelow.

For love seemed the sole motive of old Wardelow's life. The cemetery which the thoughtful projectors of New Boston had presented to the inhabitants had for its only occupant the wife of old Wardelow; and she had been conveyed thereto by a husband who was both young and handsome. The freshet which had, soon afterward, swept the town, had carried with it Wardelow's only child, a boy of seven years, who had been playing in a boat which he, in some way, unloosed.

From that day the father had found no trace of his child, yet he never ceased hoping for his return. Every steamboat captain on the river knew the old man, and the roughest of them had cheerfuly replied in the affirmative when asked if they wouldn't bring up a small boy who might some day come on board, report himself as Stevie Wardelow, and ask to be taken to New Boston.

Almost every steamboat man, from captain and pilot down to fireman and roustabout, carried and posted Wardelow's circulars wherever they went—up Red River, the Yazoo, the White, the Arkansas, the Missouri, and all the smaller tributaries of the Mississippi.

New Boston had long been dropped from the list of post-towns, but every cross-road for miles around had a fingerboard showing the direction and telling the distance to New Boston. Upon a tall cottonwood-tree on the river-bank, and nearly in front of Wardelow's residence, was an immense signboard bearing the name of "New Boston Landing," and on the other side of the river, at a ferry-staging belonging to a crossing whose other terminus was a mile further down the river, was a sign which informed travelers that persons wishing to go to New Boston would find a skiff marked "Wardelow" tied near the staging.

The old man never went to Mount Pisgah for stores, or up the river to fish, or even into his own cornfield and garden, without affixing to his door a placard telling where he had gone and when he would return.

When he went to the cemetery, which he frequently did, a statement to that effect, and a plan showing the route to and through the cemetery, was always appended to his door, and, as he could never clearly imagine his boy as having passed the childhood in which he had last seen him, all the signboards, placards, and circulars were in large capital letters.

Even when the river overflowed its banks, which it did nearly every Spring, the old man did not leave his house. He would not have another story built upon it, as he was advised to do, lest Stevie might fail to recognize it on his return; but, after careful study, he had the house raised until the foundation was above high-water mark, and then had the ground made higher, but sloped so gradually that the boy could not notice the change.

When one after another of the city's "plots," upon which deserted houses stood, were sold for default in payment of taxes, old Wardelow bought them himself—they always went for a song, and the old man preferred to own them, lest some one else might destroy the ruins, and thus make the place unfamiliar to the returning wanderer.

Of friends he had almost none. Although he was intelligent, industrious, ingenious, and owned a library which passed for quite a large one in those days and in the new West, he cared to talk on only one subject, and as that was of no particular interest to other people, and became, in the course of time, extremely stale to those who did not like it, the people of Mount Pisgah and the adjoining country did not spend more time upon old Wardelow than was required by the necessities of business.



There were a few exceptions to this rule. Old Mrs. Perry, who passed for a saint, and whose life did not belie her reputation, used to drive her old pony up to New Boston about once a month, carrying some home-made delicacy with her, and chatting sympathetically for an hour or two.

Among the Mount Pisgah merchants there was one—who had never had a child of his own—who always pressed the old man's hand warmly, and admitted the possibility of whatever new hope Wardelow might express.

The pastors of the several churches at Mount Pisgah, however much they disagreed on doctrinal points, were in perfect accord as to the beauty of a character which was so completely under the control of a noble principle that had no promise of money in it; most of them, therefore, paid the old man professional visits, from which they generally returned with more benefit than they had conferred.

Time had rolled on as usual, in spite of Wardelow's great sorrow. The Mexican war was just breaking out when New Boston was settled, and Wardelow's hair was black, and Mount Pisgah was a little cluster of log huts; but when Lincoln was elected, Wardelow had been gray and called old for nearly ten years, and Mount Pisgah had quite a number of two-story residences and brick stores, and was a county town, with court-house and jail all complete.

None of the railway lines projected toward and through Mount Pisgah had been completed, however, nor had the town telegraphic communication with anywhere; so, compared with localities enjoying the higher benefits of civilization, Mount Pisgah and its surroundings constituted quite a paradise for horse-thieves.

There were still sparsely settled places, too, which needed the ministrations of the Methodist circuit-rider.

The young man who had been sent by the Southern Illinois Conference to preach the Word on the Mount Pisgah circuit was great-hearted and impetuous, and tremendously in earnest in all that he did or said; but, like all such men, he paid the penalty of being in advance of his day and generation by suffering some terrible fits of depression over the small results of his labor.

And so, following the example of most of his predecessors on the Mount Pisgah circuit, he paid many a visit to old Wardelow, to learn strength from this perfect example of patient faith.

As the circuit-rider left the old man one evening, and sought his faithful horse in the deserted barn in which he had tied him, he was somewhat astonished to find the horse unloosed, and another man quietly leading him away.

Courage and decision being among the qualities which are natural to the successful circuit-rider, he sprang at the thief and knocked him down. The operator in horse-flesh speedily regained his feet, however, and as he closed with the preacher the latter saw, under the starlight, the gleam of a knife.

Commending himself to the Lord, he made such vigorous efforts for the safety of his body that, within two or three moments, he had the thief face downward on the ground, his own knee on the thief's back, one hand upon the thief's neck, and in his other hand the thief's knife. Then the circuit-rider delivered a short address.

"My sinful friend," said he, "when two men get into such a scrape as this, and one of them is in your line of business, one or the other will have to die, and I don't propose to be the one. I haven't finished the work which the Master has given me to do. If you've any dying messages to send to anybody, I give you my word as a preacher that they shall be delivered, but you must speak quick. What's your name?"

"I'll give you five hundred dollars to let me off—you may holler for help and tie my hand, and—"

"No use—speak quick," hissed the preacher—"what's your name?"

"Stephen Wardelow," gasped the thief.

"What!" roared the preacher, loosening his grasp, but instantly tightening it again.

"Stephen Wardelow," replied the thief. "But I haven't got any messages to send to anybody. I haven't a relative in the world, and nobody would care if I was dead. I might as well go now as any time. Hit square when yo do let me have it—that's all!"

"Where's your parents?" asked the preacher.

"Dead, I reckon," the thief answered. "Leastways, I know mother is, and dad lived in a fever an' aguerish place, an' I s'pose he's gone, too, before this."

"Where did he live?"

"I don't know—some new settlement somewheres in Illinois. I got lost in the river when I was a little boy, an' was picked up by a tradin'-boat an' sold for a nearly-white nigger—I s'pose I was pretty dark."

There was a silence; the captive lay perfectly quiet, as if expecting the fatal blow. Suddenly a voice was heard:

"Not wishin' to interfere in a fair fight—it's me, parson, Sheriff Peters—not wishin' to interfere in a fair fight, I've been a-lookin' on here, where I'd tracked the thief myself, and would have grabbed him if you hadn't been about half a minute ahead of me. And if you want to know my honest opinion—my professional opinion—it's just this: There was stuff for a splendid sheriff spiled when you went a-preachin'. How you'd get along when it come to collectin' taxes, I don't know, never havin' been at any meetin' where you took up a collection; but when it come to an arrest, you'd be just chain-lightning ground down to a pint. The pris'ner's yours, and so's all the rewards that's offered for him, though they're not offered for a man of the name he gives. But, honest, now, don't you think there's a chance of mitigatin' circumstances in his case? Let's talk it over—I'll help you tie him so he can't slip you."

The sheriff lighted a pocket-lantern and placed it in a window-frame behind him, then he tied the prisoner's feet and legs in several places, tied his hands behind his back, sat him upon the ground with his face toward the door, cocked a pistol, and then beckoned the preacher toward a corner. The sheriff opened his pocketbook and took out a paper, whispering as he did so:

"I've carried this as a sort of a curiosity, but it may come in handy now. Let's see—confound it!—the poor old fellow is describing the child just as it was fifteen years ago. Oh, here's a point or two!—'brown eyes, black hair'—oh, bully! here's the best thing yet!—'first joint of the left fore-finger gone.'"

The sheriff snatched the light, and both men hastened to examine the prisoner's hand. After a single glance their eyes met and each set of optics inquired of the other.

At length the sheriff remarked: "He's your pris'ner."

The circuit-rider flushed and then turned pale. He took the lantern from the sheriff, turned the light full on the prisoner's face, and said:

"Prisoner, suppose you were to find that your father was alive?"

The horse-thief replied with a piercing glance, which was full of wonder, but said not a word. A moment or two passed, and the preacher said:

"Suppose you were to find that your father was alive, and had searched everywhere for you, and that he thought of nothing but you, and was all the time hoping for your return—that he had grown old before his time, all because of his longing and sorrow for you?" The thief dropped his eyes, then his face twitched; at last he burst out crying. "Your father is alive; he isn't far from this cabin; he's very sick; I've just left him. Nothing but the sight of you will do him any good; but I think so much of him that I'd rather kill you this instant than let him know what business you've been in."

"Them's my sentiments, too," remarked the sheriff.

"Let me see him!" exclaimed the prisoner, clasping and raising his manacled hands, while his face filled with an earnestness which was literally terrible—"let me see him, if it's only for a few minutes! You needn't be afraid that I'll tell him what I am, and you won't be mean enough to do it, if I don't try to run away. Have mercy on me! You don't know what it is to never have had anybody to love you, and then suddenly to find that there is some one that wants you!"

The preacher turned to the officer and said:

"I'm a law-abiding citizen, sheriff."

And the sheriff replied:

"He's your pris'ner."

"Then suppose I let him go, on his promise to stick to his father for the rest of his life!"

"He's your pris'ner," repeated the sheriff.

"Suppose, then, I were to insist upon your taking him into custody."

"Why, then," said the sheriff, speaking like a man in the depths of meditation, "I would let him go myself, and—and I'd have to shoot you to save my reputation as a faithful officer."

The preacher made a peculiar face. The prisoner exclaimed:

"Hurry, you brutes!"

The preacher said, at last:

"Let him loose."

The sheriff removed the handcuffs, dived into his own pocket, brought out a pocket-comb and glass, and handed them to the thief; then he placed the lantern in front of him, and said:

"Fix yourself up a little. Your hat's a miz'able one—I'll swap with you. You've got to make up some cock-and-bull story now, for the old man'll want to know everything. You might say you'd been a sheriff down South somewhere since you got away from the feller that owned you."

The preacher paused over a knot in one of the cords on the prisoner's legs, and said:

"Say you were a circuit-rider—that's more near the literal truth."

The sheriff seemed to demur somewhat, and he said, at length:

"Without meanin' any disrespect, parson, don't you think 'twould tickle the old man and the citizens more to think he'd been a sheriff? They wouldn't dare to ask him so many questions then, either. And it might be onhandy for him if he was asked to preach, while a smart horse-thief has naturally got some of the p'ints of a real sheriff about him."

"You insist upon it that he's my prisoner," said the preacher, tugging away at his knot, "and I insist upon the circuit-rider story. And," continued the young man, with one mighty pull at the knot, "he's got to be a circuit-rider, and I'm going to make one of him. Do you hear that, young man? I'm the man that's setting you free and giving you to your father!"

"You can make anything you please out of me," said the prisoner. "Only hurry!"

"As you say, parson," remarked the sheriff, with admirable meekness; "he's your prisoner, but I could make a splendid deputy out of him if you'd let him take my advice. And I'd agree to work for his nomination for my place when my term runs out. Think of what he might get to be!—there has sheriffs gone to the Legislature, and I've heard of one that went to Congress."

"Circuit-riders get higher than that, sometimes," said the preacher, leading his prisoner toward old Wardelow's cabin; "they get as high as heaven!"

"Oh!" remarked the sheriff, and gave up the contest.

Both men accompanied the prisoner toward his father's house. The preacher began to deliver some cautionary remarks, but the young man burst from him, threw open the door, and shouted:

"Father!"

The old man started from his bed, shaded his eyes, and exclaimed:

"Stevie!"

The father and son embraced, seeing which the sheriff proved that even sheriffs are human by snatching the circuit-rider in his arms and giving him a mighty hug.

* * * * *

The father recovered and lived happily. The son and the preacher fulfilled their respective promises, and the sheriff, always, on meeting either of them, so abounded in genial winks and effusive handshakings, that he nearly lost his next election by being suspected of having become religious himself.



TOM CHAFFLIN'S LUCK.

"Luck? Why, I never seed anything like it! Yer might give him the sweepin's of a saloon to wash, an' he'd pan out a nugget ev'ry time—do it ez shure as shootin'!"

This rather emphatic speech proceeded one day from the lips of Cairo Jake, an industrious washer of the golden sands of California; but it was evident to all intelligent observers that even language so strong as to seem almost figurative did not fully express Cairo Jake's conviction, for he shook his head so positively that his hat fell off into the stream, which found a level only an inch or two below Jacob's boottops, and he stamped his right foot so vigorously as to endanger his equilibrium.

"Well," sighed a discontented miner from New Jersey, "Providence knows His own bizness best, I s'pose; but I could have found him a feller that could have made a darn sight better use of his good luck—ef he'd had any—than Tom Chafflin. He don't know nothin' 'bout the worth of money—never seed him drunk in my life, an' he don't seem to get no fun out of keerds."

"Providence'll hev a season's job a-satisfyin' you, old Redbank," replied Cairo Jake; "but it's all-fired queer, for all that. Ef a feller could only learn how he done it, 'twouldn't seem so funny; but he don't seem to have no way in p'tickler about him that a feller ken find out."

"Fact," said Redbank, with a solemn groan. "I've studied his face—why, ef I'd studied half ez hard at school I'd be a president, or missionary, or somethin' now—but I don't make it out. Once I 'llowed 'twas cos he didn't keer, an' was kind o' reckless—sort o' went it blind. So I tried it on a-playin' monte."

"Well, how did it work?" asked the gentleman from Cairo.

"Work?" echoed the Jerseyman, with the air of an unsuccessful candidate musing over the "saddest words of thought or pen;" "I started with thirteen ounces, an' in twenty minutes I was borryin' the price of a drink from the dealer. That's how it worked."

Certain other miners looked sorrowful; it was evident that they, too, had been reckless, and had trusted to luck, and that in a place where gold-digging and gambling were the only two means of proving the correctness of their theory, it was not difficult to imagine by which one they were disappointed.

"Long an' short of it's jest this," resumed Cairo Jake, straightening himself for a moment, and picking some coarse gravel from his pan, "Tom Chafflin's always in luck. His claim pays better'n anybody else's; he always gets the lucky number at a raffle, his shovel don't never break, an' his chimbly ain't always catchin' a-fire. He's gone down to 'Frisco now, an' I'll bet a dozen ounces that jest cos he's aboard, the old boat'll go down an' back without runnin' aground a solitary durned time."

No one took up Cairo Jake's bet, so that it was evident he uttered the general sentiment of the mining camp of Quicksilver Bar.

Every man, in the temporary silence which followed Jake's summary, again bent industriously over his pan, until the scene suggested an amateur water-cure establishment returning thanks for basins of gruel, when suddenly the whole line was startled into suspension of labor by the appearance of London George, who was waving his hat with one hand and a red silk handkerchief with the other, while with his left foot he was performing certain pas not necessary to successful pedestrianism.

"Quicksilver Bar hain't up to snuff—oh, no! Ain't a-catchin' up with Frisco—not at all! Little Chestnut don't know how to run a saloon, an' make other shops weep—not in the least—not at all—oh, no!"

"Eh?" inquired half a dozen.

"Don't b'leeve me if you don't want to, but just bet against it 'fore you go to see—that's all!" continued London George, fanning himself with his hat.

"George," said Judge Baggs, with considerable asperity, "ef you are an Englishman, try to speak your native tongue, an' explain what you mean by actin' ez ef you'd jes' broke out of a lunatic 'sylum. Speak quick, or I'll fine you drinks for the crowd."

"Just as lieve you would," said the unabashed Briton, "seein'—seein' Chestnut's got a female—a woman—a lady cashier—there! Guess them San Francisco saloons ain't the only ones that knows what's what—not any!"

"I don't b'leeve a word of it," said the judge, washing his hands rather hastily; "but I'll jest see for myself."

Cairo Jake looked thoughtfully on the retreating form of the judge, and remarked:

"He'll feel ashamed of hisself when he gits thar an' finds he'll hev to drink alone. Reckon I'll go up, jest to keep him from feelin' bad."

Several others seemed impressed by the same idea, and moved quite briskly in the direction of Chestnut's saloon.

The judge, protected by his age and a pair of green spectacles, boldly entered, while his followers dispersed themselves sheepishly just outside the open door, past which they marched and re-marched as industriously as a lot of special sentries.

There was no doubt about it. Chestnut had installed a lady at the end of the bar, and as, between breakfast and dinner, there was but little business done at the saloon, the lady was amusing herself by weighing corks and pebbles in the tiny scales which were to weigh the metallic equivalent for refreshments.

The judge contemplated the arrangements with considerable satisfaction, and immediately called up all thirsty souls present.

Those outside the door entered with the caution of veterans in an enemy's country, and with a bashfulness that was painful to contemplate. They stood before the bar, they glanced cautiously to the right, and gently inclined their heads backward, until only a line of eyes and noses were visible from the cashier's desk.

Then the judge raised his green glasses a moment, and smiled benignantly on the new cashier as he raised his liquor aloft; then he turned to his party, and they drank the toast as solemnly as if they were the soldiers of Miles Standish fortifying the inner man against fear of the Pequods. Then they separated into small groups, and conversed gravely on subjects in which they had not the slightest interest, while each one pretended not to look toward the cashier, and each one saw what the others were earnestly striving to do.

But when the judge settled the score, and chatted for several minutes with the receiver of treasure, and the lady—young, and rather pretty, and quite pleasant and modest and business-like—laughed merrily at something the judge said, an idea gradually dawned upon the bystanders, and within a few moments the boys feverishly awaited their chances to treat the crowd, for the sole purpose of having an excuse to speak to the new cashier, and to stand within three feet of her for about the space of a minute.

Great was the excitement on the Creek when the party returned, and testified to the entire accuracy of London George's report.

Every one went to the saloon that night—there had been some games arranged to take place at certain huts, but they were postponed by mutual consent.

Even the Dominie—an ex-preacher, who had never yet set foot upon the profane floor of the saloon—appeared there that evening in search of some one so exceeding hard to find that the Dominie was compelled to make several tours of all the tables and benches in the room.

Chestnut himself, when questioned, said she had come by the way of the Isthmus with her father and mother, who had both died of the Chagres fever before reaching San Francisco—that some friends of her family and his had been trying to get her something to do in 'Frisco, and that he had engaged her at an ounce a day; and, furthermore, that he would be greatly obliged if the boys at Quicksilver wouldn't marry her before she had worked out her passage-money from 'Frisco, which he had advanced. But the boys at Quicksilver were not so thoughtful of Chestnut's interests as they might have been. They began to buy blacking and neckties and white shirts, and to patronize the barber.

No one had any opportunity for love-making, for the lady's working hours were all spent in public, and in a business which caused frequent interruptions of even the most agreeable conversation.

It soon became understood that certain men had proposed and been declined, and betting on who would finally capture the lady was the most popular excitement in camp.

Cool-headed betting men watched closely the countenance of Sunrise (as some effusive miner had named the new cashier) as each man approached to pay in his coin or dust, and though they were intensely disgusted by its revelations, they unhesitatingly offered two to one that Dominie would be the fortunate man.

To be sure, she saw less of the Dominie than of any one else, for, though he did not drink, or pay for the liquor consumed by any one else, he occasionally came in to get a large coin changed, and then it was noticed that Sunrise regarded him with a sort of earnestness which she never exhibited toward any one else.

"Too bad!" sighed Cairo Jake. "Somebody ort to tell her that he's only a preacher, an' she'll only throw herself away ef she takes him. Ef any stranger wuz to insult her, Dominie wouldn't be man 'nuff to draw on him."

"Beats thunder, though!" sighed Redbank, "how them preachers kin take folks in. Thar's Chestnut himself, he's took with Dominie—'stead of orderin' him out, he talks with him an' her just ez ef he'd as lieve get rid of her as not."



"Boat's a-comin'!" shouted Cairo Jake, looking toward the place, half a mile below, where the creek emptied into the river. "See her smoke? Like 'nuff Tom Chafflin's on board. He wuz a-goin' to try to come back by the first boat, an' of course he's done it—jest his luck. Ef he'd only come sooner, somebody besides the preacher would hev got her—you kin just bet your bottom ounce on it. Let's go down an' see ef he's got any news."

Several miners dropped tools and pans, and followed Jake to the landing, and gave a hearty welcome to Tom Chafflin.

He certainly looked like anything but a lucky man; he was good-looking, and seemed smart, but his face wore a dismal expression, which seemed decidedly out of place on the countenance of a habitually lucky man.

"Things hain't gone right, Tom?" asked Cairo Jake.

"Never went worse," declared Tom, gloomily. "Guess I'll sell out, an' try my luck somewheres else."

"Ef you'd only come a little sooner!" sighed Jake, "you'd hev hed a chance that would hev made ev'rything seem to go right till Judgment Day. I'll show yer."

Jake opened the saloon-door, and there sat Sunrise, as bright, modest, and pleasant-looking as ever.

With the air of a man who has conferred a great benefit, and is calmly awaiting his rightful reward, Jake turned to Tom; but his expression speedily changed to one of hopeless wonder, and then to one of delight, as Tom Chafflin walked rapidly up to the cashier's desk, pushed the Dominie one side and the little scales the other, and gave Sunrise several very hearty kisses, to which the lady didn't make the slightest objection—in fact, she blushed deeply, and seemed very happy.

"That's what I went to 'Frisco to look for," explained Tom, to the staring bystander, "but I couldn't find out a word about her."

"Don't wonder yer looked glum, then," said Cairo Jake; "but—but it's jest your luck!"

"Dominie here was going down to hurry you back," said Sunrise; "but—"

"But we'll give him a different job now, my dear," said Tom, completing the sentence.

And they did.



OLD TWITCHETT'S TREASURE.

Old Twitchett was in a very bad way. He must have been in a bad way, for Crockey, the extremely mean storekeeper at Bender, had given up his own bed to Twitchett, and when Crockey was moved with sympathy for any one, it was a sure sign that the object of his commiseration was going to soon stake a perpetual claim in a distant land, whose very streets, we are told, are of precious metal, and whose walls and gates are of rare and beautiful stones.

It was Twitchett's own fault, the boys said, with much sorrowful profanity. When they abandoned Black Peter Gulch to the Chinese, and located at Bender, Twitchett should have come along with the crowd, instead of staying there by himself, in such an unsociable way. Perhaps he preferred the society of rattlesnakes and horned toads to that of high-toned, civilized beings—there was no accounting for tastes—but then he should have remembered that all the rattlesnakes in the valley couldn't have raised a single dose of quinine between them, and that the most sociable horned toad in the world, and the most obliging one, couldn't fry a sick man's pork, or make his coffee.

But, then, Twitchett was queer, they agreed—he always was queer. He kept himself so much apart from the crowd, that until to-night, when the boys were excited about him, few had ever noticed that he was a white-haired, delicate young man, instead of a decrepit old one, and that the twitching of his lips was rather touching than comical.

At any rate it was good for Twitchett that two old residents of Black Peter Gulch had, ignorant of the abandonment of the camp, revisited it, and accidentally found him insensible, yet alive, on the floor of his hut. They had taken turns in carrying him—for he was wasted and light—until they reached Crockey's store, and when they laid him down, while they should drink, the proprietor of the establishment (so said a pessimist in the camp), seeing that his presence, while he lived, and until he was buried, would attract trade and increase the demand for drinks, insisted on putting Twitchett between the proprietary blankets.

Twitchett had rallied a little, thanks to some of Crockey's best brandy, but it was evident to those who saw him that when he left Crockey's he would be entirely unconscious of the fact. Suddenly Twitchett seemed to realize as much himself, and to imagine that his exit might be made very soon, for he asked for the men who brought him in, and motioned to them to kneel beside him.

"I'm very grateful, boys, for your kindness—I wish I could reward you; but haven't got anything—I've got nothing at all. The only treasure I had I buried—buried it in the hut, when I thought I was going to die alone—I didn't wan't those heathens to touch it. I put it in a can—I wish you'd git it, and—it's a dying man's last request—take it—and—"

If Twitchett finished his remark, it was heard only by auditors in some locality yet unvisited by Sam Baker and Boylston Smith, who still knelt beside the dead man's face, and with averted eyes listened for the remainder of Twitchett's last sentence.

Slowly they comprehended that Twitchett was in a condition which, according to a faithful proverb, effectually precluded the telling of tales; then they gazed solemnly into each other's faces, and each man placed his dexter fore-finger upon his lips. Then Boylston Smith whispered:

"Virtue is its own reward—hey, Sam?"

"You bet," whispered Mr. Baker, in reply. "It's on the square now, between us?"

"Square as a die," whispered Boylston.

"When'll we go for it?" asked Sam Baker.

"Can't go till after the fun'ril," virtuously whispered Boylston. "'Twould be mighty ungrateful to go back on the corpse that's made our fortunes."

"Fact," remarked Mr. Baker, holding near the nostrils of Old Twitchett a pocket-mirror he had been polishing on his sleeve. After a few seconds he examined the mirror, and whispered:

"Nary a sign—might's well tell the boys."

The announcement of Twitchett's death was the signal for an animated discussion and considerable betting. How much dust he had washed, and what he had done with it, seeing that he neither drank nor gambled, was the sole theme of discussion. There was no debate on the deceased's religious evidences—no distribution of black crape—no tearful beating down of the undertaker; these accessories of a civilized deathbed were all scornfully disregarded by the bearded men who had feelingly drank to Twitchett's good luck in whatever world he had gone to. But when it came to deceased's gold—his money—the bystanders exhibited an interest which was one of those touches of nature which certifies the universal kinship.

Each man knew all about Twitchett's money, though no two agreed. He had hid it—he had been unlucky, and had not found much—he had slyly sent it home—he had wasted it by sending it East for lottery tickets which always drew blanks—he had been supporting a benevolent institution. Old Deacon Baggs mildly suggested that perhaps he only washed out such gold as he actually needed to purchase eatables with, but the boys smiled derisively—they didn't like to laugh at the deacon's gray hairs, but he was queer.

Old Twitchett was buried, and Sam Baker and Boylston Smith reverently uncovered with the rest of the boys, while Deacon Baggs made an extempore prayer. But for the remainder of the day Old Twitchett's administrators foamed restlessly about, and watched each other narrowly, and listened to the conversation of every group of men who seemed to be talking with any spirit; they kept a sharp eye on the trail to Black Peter Gulch, lest some unscrupulous miner should suspect the truth and constitute himself sole legatee.

But when the shades of evening had gathered, and a few round drinks had stimulated the citizens to more spirited discussion, Sam and Boylston strode rapidly out on the Black Peter Gulch trail, to obtain the reward of virtue.

"He didn't say what kind of a can it was," remarked Mr. Baker, after the outskirts of Bender had been left behind.

"Just what I thought," replied Boylston; "pity he couldn't hev lasted long enough for us to hev asked him. But I've been a-workin' some sums about different kinds of cans—I learned how from Phipps, this afternoon—he's been to college, an' his head's cram-full of sech puzzlin' things. It took multiplyin' with four figures to git the answer, but I couldn't take a peaceful drink till I knowed somethin' 'bout how the find would pan out."

"Well?" inquired Mr. Baker, anathematizing a stone over which he had just stumbled.

"Well," replied Boylston, stopping in an exasperating manner to light his pipe, "the smallest can a-goin' is a half-pound powder-can, and that'll hold over two thousand dollars worth—even that wouldn't be bad for a single night's work—eh?"

"Just so," responded Mr. Baker; "then there's oyster-cans an' meat-cans."

"Yes," said Boylston, "an' the smallest of 'em's good fur ten thousand, ef it's full. An' when yer come to five-pound powders—why, one of them would make two fellers rich!"

They passed quickly and quietly through Greenhorn's Bar. The diggings at the Bar were very rich, and experienced poker-players, such as were Twitchett's executors, had made snug little sums in a single night out of the innocent countrymen who had located at the Bar; but what were the chances of the most brilliant game to the splendid certainty which lay before them?

They reached Black Peter Gulch and found Twitchett's hut still unoccupied, save by a solitary rattlesnake, whose warning scared them not. Mr. Baker carefully covered the single window with his coat, and then Boylston lit a candle and examined the clay floor. There were several little depressions in its surface, and in each of these Boylston vigorously drove his pick, while Mr. Baker stood outside alternately looking out for would-be disturbers, and looking in through a crack in the door to see that his partner should not, in case he found the can, absentmindedly spill some of the contents into his own pocket before he made a formal division.

Boylston stopped a moment for breath, leaned on his pick, stroked his yellow beard thoughtfully, and offered to bet that it would be an oyster-can. Mr. Baker whispered through the crack that he would take that bet, and make it an ounce.

Boylston again bent to the labor, which, while it wearied his body, seemed to excite his imagination, for he paused long enough to bet that it would be a five-pound powder-can, and Mr. Baker, again willing to fortify himself against possible loss, accepted the bet in ounces.

Suddenly Boylston's pick brought to light something yellow and round—something the size of an oyster-can, and wrapped in a piece of oilskin.

"You've won one, bet," whispered Mr. Baker, who was inside before the yellow package had ceased rolling across the floor.

"Not ef this is it," growled Boylston; "it don't weigh more'n ounce can, wrapper and all. Might's well see what 'tis, though."

The two men approached the candle, hastily tore off the oilskin, and carefully shook the contents from the can. The contents proved to be a small package, labeled: "My only treasures."

Boylston mentioned the name of the arch-adversary of souls, while Mr. Baker, with a well-directed blow of his heel, reduced the can from a cylindrical form to one not easily described by any geometric term.

Unwrapping the package, Mr. Baker discovered a picture-case, which, when opened, disclosed the features of a handsome young lady; while from the wrappings fell a small envelope, which seemed distended in the middle.

"Gold in that, mebbe," suggested Boylston, picking it up and opening it. It was gold; fine, yellow, and brilliant, but not the sort of gold the dead man's friends were seeking, for it was a ringlet of hair.

Sadly Mr. Baker put on his coat, careless of the light which streamed through the window; slowly and sorely they wended their way homeward; wrathfully they bemoaned their wasted time, as they passed by the auriferous slumberers of Greenhorn's Bar; depressing was the general nature of their conversation. Yet they were human in spite of their disappointment, for, as old Deacon Baggs, who was an early riser, strolled out in the gray dawn for a quiet season of meditation, he saw Boylston Smith filling up a little hole he had made on top of Old Twitchett's grave, and putting the dirt down very tenderly with his hands.



BLIZZER'S WIFE.

The mining-camp of Tough Case, though small, had its excitements, as well as did many camps of half a dozen saloon-power; and on the first day of November, 1850, it was convulsed by the crisis of by far the greatest excitement it had ever enjoyed.

It was not a lucky "find," for some of the largest nuggets in the State had been taken out at Tough Case. It was not a grand spree, for all sprees at Tough Case were grand, and they took place every Sunday. It was not a fight, for when the average of fully-developed fights fell below one a fortnight, some patriotic citizen would improvise one, that the honor of his village should not suffer.

No; all these promoters of delicious and refreshing Tumult were as nothing to the agitation which, commencing three months before, had increased and taken firmer hold of all hearts at Tough Case, until to-day it had reached its culmination.

Blizzer's wife had come out, and was to reach camp by that day's boat.

Since Blizzer had first announced his expectation, every man in camp had been secretly preparing for the event; but to-day all secrecy was at an end, and white shirts, standing collars, new pants, black hats, polished boots, combs, brushes and razors, and even hair-oil and white handkerchiefs, so transformed the tremulous miners, that a smart detective would have been puzzled in looking for any particular citizen of Tough Case.

Even old Hatchetjaw, whose nickname correctly indicated the moral import of his countenance, sheepishly gave Moosoo, the old Frenchman, an ounce of gold-dust for an hour's labor bestowed on Hatchetjaw's self-asserting red hair.

Bets as to what she looked like were numerous; and, as no one had the slightest knowledge on the subject, experienced bettists made handsome fortunes in betting against every description which was backed by money. For each man had so long pondered over the subject, that his ideal portrait seemed to him absolutely correct; and an amateur phrenologist, who had carefully studied Blizzer's cranium and the usually accepted laws of affinity, consistently bet his last ounce, his pistol, hut, frying-pan, blankets, and even a pack of cards in a tolerable state of preservation.

Sailors, collegemen, Pikes, farmers, clerks, loafers, and sentimentalists, stood in front of Sim Ripson's store, and stared their eyes into watery redness in vain attempts to hurry the boat.

A bet of drinks for the crowd, lost by the non-arrival of the boat on time, was just being paid, when Sim Ripson, whose bar-window commanded the river, exclaimed:

"She's comin'!"

Many were the heeltaps left in glasses as the crowd hurried to the door; numerous were the stealthy glances bestowed on shirt-cuffs and finger-nails and boot-legs. Crosstree, a dandyish young sailor, hung back to regard himself in a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, but was rebuked for his vanity by stumbling over the door-sill—an operation which finally resulted in his nose being laid up in ordinary.

The little steamer neared the landing, whistled shrilly, snorted defiantly, buried her nose in the muddy bank in front of the store, and shoved out a plank.

Several red-shirted strangers got off, but no one noticed them; at any other time, so large an addition to the population of Tough Case would have justified an extra spree.

Sundry barrels were rolled out, but not even old Guzzle inspected the brand; barrels and bags of onions and potatoes were stacked on the bank, but though the camp was sadly in need of vegetables, no one expressed becoming exultation.

All eyes were fixed on the steamer-end of the gang-plank, and every heart beat wildly as Blizzer appeared, leading a figure displaying only the top of a big bonnet and a blanket-shawl hanging on one arm.

They stepped on the gang-plank, they reached the shore, and then the figure raised its head and dropped the shawl.

"Thunder!" ejaculated Fourteenth Street, and immediately retired and drank himself into a deplorable condition.

The remaining observers dispersed respectfully; but the reckless manner in which they wandered through mud-puddles and climbed over barrels and potato-sacks, indicated plainly that their disappointment had been severe.

After another liquid bet had been paid, and while sleeves but lately tenderly protected were carelessly drying damp mustaches, an old miner remarked:

"Reckon that's why he left the States;" and the emphatic "You bet!" which followed his words showed that the Tough Caseites were unanimous on the subject of Mrs. Blizzer.

For she was short and fat, and had a pug nose, and a cast in one eye; her forehead was low and square, and her hair was of a color which seemed "fugitive," as the paper-makers say. Her hands were large and pudgy, her feet afforded broad foundations for the structure above them, and her gait was not suggestive of any popular style. Besides, she seemed ten years older than her husband, who was not yet thirty.

For several days boots were allowed to grow rusty and chins unshaven, as the boys gradually drank and worked themselves into a dumb forgetfulness of their lately cherished ideals.

But one evening, during a temporary lull in the conversation at Sim Ripson's, old Uncle Ben, ex-deacon of a New Hampshire church, lifted up his voice, and remarked:

"'Pears to me Blizzer's beginnin' to look scrumptious. He used to be the shabbiest man in camp."

Through the open door the boys saw Blizzer carrying a pail of water; and though water-carrying in the American manner is not an especially graceful performance, Blizzer certainly looked unusually neat.

Palette, who had spoiled many canvases and paintbrushes in the East, attentively studied Blizzer in detail, and found his hair was combed, his shirt buttoned at the collar, and his trowsers lacking the California soil which always adorns the seat and knees of orthodox mining pantaloons.

"It's her as did it," said Pat Fadden; "an' 'tain't all she's done. Fhat d'ye tink she did dhis mornin'? I was a-fixin' me pork, jist as ivery other bye in camp allers does it, an' jist then who should come along but hersilf. I tuk off me pork, and comminced me breakfast, when sez she to me, sez she, 'Ye don't ate it widout gravy, do ye?' 'Gravy, is it?' sez I. 'Nobody iver heard of gravy here,' sez I. 'Thin it's toime,' sez she, an' she poured off the fat, an' crumbled a bit of cracker in the pan, an' put in some wather, an' whin I thought the ould thing 'ud blow up for the shteam it made, she poured the gravy on me plate—yes, she did."

There were but a few men at Tough Case who were not willing to have their daily fare improved, and as Mrs. Blizzer did not make a tour of instruction, the boys made it convenient to stand near Mrs. Blizzer's own fire, and see the mysteries of cooking.

As a natural consequence, Sim Ripson began to have inquiries for articles which he had never heard of, much less sold, and he found a hurried trip to 'Frisco was an actual business necessity.

As several miners took their departure, after one of these culinary lessons, Arkansas Bill, with a mysterious air, took Fourteenth Street aside.

"Forty," said he, in a most appealing tone, "ken you see what 'twas about? She kep' a-lookin' at my left han' all the time, ez ef she thort there wuz somethin' the matter with it. Mebbe she thort I was tuckin' biscuits up my sleeves, like keerds in a live game. Ken you see any thin' the matter with that paw?"

The aristocratic young reprobate gave the hand a critical glance, and replied:

"Perhaps she thought you didn't know what buttons and buttonholes were made for."

"Thunder!" exclaimed the miner, with an expression of countenance which Archimedes might have worn when he made his famous discovery.

From that day forward the gentleman from Arkansas instituted a rigid buttonhole inspection before venturing from his hut, besides purchasing a share in a new clothesbroom.

"'Pears to me I don't see Blizzer playin' keerds with you fellers ez much ez he wuz," remarked Uncle Ben one evening at the store.

"No," said Flipp, the champion euchre-player, with a sad face and a strong oath. "He used to lose his ounces like a man. But t'other night I knocked at his door, and asked him to come down an' hev a han'. He didn't say nothin', but she up an' sed he'd stopped playin'. I reely tuk it to be my duty to argy with her, an' show her how tough it wuz to cut off a feller's enjoyment; but she sed 'twas too high-priced fur the fun it fetched."

"That ain't the wust, nuther," said Topjack Flipp's usual partner. "There wuz Arkansas Bill an' Jerry Miller, thet used to be ez fond of ther little game ez anybody. Now, ev'ry night they go up thar to Blizzer's, an' jest do nothin' but sit aroun' an' talk. It's enough to make a marble statoo cuss to see good men spiled that way."

"Somethin' 'stonishin' 'bout what comes of it, though," resumed the deacon. "'Twas only yestiddy thet Bill was kerryin' a bucket of dirt to the crick, an' jest ez he got there his foot slipped in, an' he went kerslosh. Knowin' Bill's language on sech occasions ain't what a church-member ort to hear, I was makin' it convenient to leave, when along come her, an' he choked off ez suddin ez a feller on the gallers."