As Hanney’s had no preacher, it will be readily imagined it had no church. With the first crowd who located there came an insolvent rumseller from the East. He called himself Pentecost, which was as near his right name as is usual with miners, and the boys dubbed his shop “Pentecost Chapel” at once. The name, somehow, reached the East, for within a few months there reached the post-office at Hanney’s a document addressed to “Preacher in charge of Pentecost Chapel.” The postmaster went up and down the brook in high spirits, and told the boys; they instantly dropped shovel and pan, formed line, and escorted the postmaster and document to the chapel. Pentecost acknowledged the joke, and stood treat for the crowd, after which he solemnly tore the wrapper, and disclosed the report of a certain missionary society. Modestly expressing his gratification at the honor, and his unworthiness of it, he moved that old Thompson, who had the loudest voice in the crowd, should read the report aloud, he, Pentecost, volunteering to furnish Thompson all necessary spirituous aid during the continuance of his task. Thompson promptly signified his acquiescence, cleared his throat with a glass of amber-colored liquid, and commenced, the boys meanwhile listening attentively, and commenting critically. “Too much cussed heavenly twang,” observed one, disapprovingly, as one letter largely composed of Scriptural extracts was read. “Why the deuce didn’t he shoot?” indignantly demanded another, as a tale of escape from heathen pursuers was read. “Shet up wimmen in a derned dark room! Well, _I’ll_ be durned!” soliloquized a yellow-haired Missourian, as Thompson read an account of a Zenana. “Reckon they’d set an infernal sight higher by wimmen if they wuz in the diggins’ six months—hey, fellers?” “You bet!” emphatically responded a majority of those present.