Never taking his eyes from the fire, but pausing to take long-drawn pulls at his pipe, he told the following tale: “Minin’ camps are queer places, and sometimes the folks that comes ther’ are the kind—wal, you wonder why they come, that’s all. It was ’long ’bout the year ’55, a crowd of us fellers was livin’ in a central camp and goin’ out prospectin’, each one for hisself, when ’long one day in spring comes a young feller, rosy cheeks an’ soft hands, and asts if he can jine us. “I’ll never fergit the way he looked when he rolled in on us—more like a play actor than ennythin’ else—all got up in new minin’ clothes, high boots and all, and luggin’ with him the darnest lot o’ pickaxes, ropes, and contrapshions that ever you see. We was all fer laughin’ at him, at fust, but he was so young an’ so soft like, that it would o’bin jest like makin’ fun o’ a gal, an’ we didn’ hev the heart. So we jest give him the nickname ‘Bub’ and tuk him in. “He was ’bout twenty-two year, but he didn’ look sixteen. That boy could work, tho’—and l’arn?—l’arned quicker’n lightin’. ’Twarn’t mor’n two days till he had off his store togs and borryed a pair o’ overalls. An’ he was so happy-like an’ joyous, singin’ ’round all day like a canary in a cage. “Seems like luck was ag’in’ him from the first, tho’. Nothin’ he teched turned out right. Thet boy would give up a claim he’d bin workin’ fur months, with never a sign o’ color, when ’long would come some feller the very nex’ day and strike it rich with one turn o’ the shovel. Yes, Bub was allus jest one shovel o’ dirt away from vict’ry. “He didn’ ’pear to mind, tho’—not as long as Joe Bascom rode up ev’ry month or so with the mails and brung him one o’ them big fat envelopes writ on baby-blue paper. Bub used to walk down the road, sometimes five mile, t’ meet Joe—he was that anxious to git that letter. We all knew ’twas a gal, and used to josh him ’bout it, but I didn’ guess how serious ’twas till he come to me one day an’ said: “‘Peter, I’ve got to strike it soon, and I’ve got to strike it rich.’ “‘Wal,’ I answered, ‘this is one deal where yer cain’t stack the cards. If you got luck, you’ll hit it, and if you ’ain’t, you won’t.’ “‘But I must hit it, you see. He was more serious ’en I’d ever seen him. ‘Fact of the matter is, Peter, I’m in love, and she won’t marry me till I can show her twenty thousand dollars.’ “‘Whew!’ I says. Then to cheer him up: ‘Bub, don’ be scared; if she loves you she’ll take you without a cent.’ “‘Maybe, Peter, maybe, but that’s the sum she named, and I’m a-goin’ to git it.’ “He was allus that way after a talk—seemed to raise his sperits. “Long ’bout spring things changed. He come in a whoopin’ one even’ ’bout sunset, and nearly turned the camp upside down. He’d struck it at last. Not much, but gold—real gold—and in this game you never kin tell what’s layin’ jest ’round th’ corner. “A few months later he come to me agin.