I was perfectly willing, so I hoisted it on my shoulder and carried it upstairs, where he fished in his pocket and handed me a quarter. To give a tip in California in those days was an insult, but I was an Easterner and it only amused me to take it and thank him in a respectful manner. After staying long enough to try all his British contraptions for hunting and fishing (with no result), he gave up in despair when the salmon refused to rise to a fly, but could be caught in myriads with the old-fashioned bait—their own eggs—and left, seeming to feel a personal injury. Some time later I went to San Francisco to be at one of the celebrations of the Harvard Club, when who should sit next me at dinner but our Englishman. I had an important part in the evening’s doings and he asked my name, saying he was Sir Rose Price. Then giving me a searching glance, he said: “I’ve met you before some place? In town?” To an Englishman, “town” is London. I said, “No, I met you in Siskiyou County, in the north of the state.” “Oh, but you are mistaken. I met no gentlemen there.” “Nonsense!” I replied. “I carried your trunk upstairs in the hotel and you gave me a quarter.” He stared, got blood red, and turned his back on me for the remainder of the evening. Great news in town—the “schoolmarm” wasn’t coming back! I resolved to apply for the job, which paid seventy-five dollars a month. The board met in Yreka, which was thirty-seven miles north of Sissons, and I went in to see Mr. Jenkins, who was president, treasurer, and seemed to be the whole boss. Seated in his office, which was in back of his grocery store and had a door leading into the bar, he put his feet upon the table and heard my request. “I want to teach the school at Strawberry Valley.” I told him my name and that I had been educated at Harvard. “Oh, I don’t know; you might lie about that,” he replied. “Have you ever been in jail?” “No,” I said. “Well, how do I know that?” Searching around for some credentials to prove my honesty to this most suspicious man, I pulled out a letter from John Forbes, who was very influential and owned railways in the West. He looked it over and said: “Yes, I remember hearing something about him, but how do I know you didn’t write it yourself?” I was nonplused. It was harder than I thought, but I had a last suggestion which I put very timidly indeed. “I have a letter from Mr. Emerson.” He was adamant. “Which one?” My voice almost disappeared in my throat, but I managed to stammer, “Ralph Waldo.” “What!” he yelled, flinging his feet to the floor. “Let me see it!” I handed it to him, and he turned to the end first, reading not a line of my recommendation from the Concord sage. But taking one look at the signature, he ran to the door of the saloon, shouting: “Say! Boys! Come here and meet the new ‘schoolmarm’ of Strawberry Valley! The drinks are on him!” That was my examination.