“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.