"After scratching his head a moment the hermit looked up and naively answered, 'No, I'm not mad, only astonished, and as for your free medicine, if it is all as bitter as the free dose you have just given me, I don't want any more of it,' and he bowed himself out and was soon lost to the doctor's longing gaze. With eyes still fixed on the door he exclaimed, 'Blast my head if I thought the old crackling had so much dry humor in him. Come, Charley, let's have something to brave our nerves.'" Among the unfortunate victims of the drink habit in an early day was poor old Tom Jones. Nature had endowed him with a splendid physique, but he wrecked himself, traveling downward, until he barely lived from hand to mouth. He made a house on the old Conkling place, up the bay toward the Duwampsh River, his tarrying place. Having been absent from his customary haunts for a considerable time, it was reported that he was dead. In the village of Seattle, some marauder had been robbing henroosts and Tom Jones was accused of being the guilty party. Grandfather John Denny told one of his characteristic stories about being awakened by a great commotion in his henhouse, the lusty cocks crowing "Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead! Tom Jo-o-o-ones is dead!" rejoicing greatly that they were henceforth safe. D. T. Denny gathered up seven men and went to investigate the truth of the report of his demise. They found him rolled up in his blankets, in his bunk, not dead but helplessly sick. When they told him what they had come for--to hold an inquest over his dead body, the tears rolled down his withered face. They had him moved nearer town and cared for, but he finally went the way of all the earth. Another of the army of the wretched was having an attack of the "devil's trimmings," as Grandfather John Denny called them, in front of a saloon one day and a group stood around waiting for him to "come to"; upon his showing signs of returning consciousness, _all but one_ filed into the saloon to get a nerve bracer. D. T. Denny, who relates the incident, turned away, he being the only temperance man in the group. CHAPTER III. TRAILS OF COMMERCE. Samuel L. Simpson wrote this sympathetic poem concerning the old Hudson Bay Company's steamer Beaver, the first steam vessel on the North Pacific Coast. She came out from London in 1836 and is well remembered by Puget Sound pioneers. In 1889 she went on the rocks in Burrard Inlet, British Columbia. THE BEAVER'S REQUIEM. "Forlorn in the lonesome North she lies, That never again will course the sea, All heedless of calm or stormy skies, Or the rocks to windward or a-lee; For her day is done And her last port won Let the wild, sad waves her minstrel be.