I think it has been already recorded in this narrative that Jim Struggles, the wandering prospector, had gained the reputation of being the wit of the camp. It was not only in airy badinage, but in the conception and execution of more pretentious practical pleasantries that Jim had earned his reputation. His adventure in the morning had caused a certain stagnation in his usual flow of humor; but the company and his potations were gradually restoring him to a more cheerful state of mind. He had been brooding in silence over some idea since the departure of Ferguson, and he now proceeded to evolve it to his expectant companions. “Say, boys,” he began. “What day’s this?” “Friday, ain’t it?” “No, not that. What day of the month?” “Darned if I know!” “Well, I’ll tell you now. It’s the first o’ April. I’ve got a calendar in the hut as says so.” “What if it is?” said several voices. “Well, don’t you see, it’s All Fools’ day. Couldn’t we fix up some little joke on some one, eh? Couldn’t we get a laugh out of it? Now there’s old Bones, for instance; he’ll never smell a rat. Couldn’t we send him off somewhere and watch him go maybe? We’d have something to chaff him on for a month to come, eh?” There was a general murmur of assent. A joke, however poor, was always welcome to the Sluice. The broader the point, the more thoroughly was it appreciated. There was no morbid delicacy of feeling in the gulches. “Where shall we send him?” was the query. Jim Struggles was buried in thought for a moment. Then an unhallowed inspiration seemed to come over him, and he laughed uproariously, rubbing his hands between his knees in the excess of his delight. “Well, what is it?” asked the eager audience. “See here, boys. There’s Miss Sinclair. You was saying as Abe’s gone on her. She don’t fancy him much you think. Suppose we write him a note--send it him to-night, you know.” “Well, what then?” said McCoy. “Well, pretend the note is from her, d’ye see? Put her name at the bottom. Let on as she wants him to come up an’ meet her in the garden at twelve. He’s bound to go. He’ll think she wants to go off with him. It’ll be the biggest thing played this year.” There was a roar of laughter. The idea conjured up of honest Bones mooning about in the garden, and of old Joshua coming out to remonstrate with a double-barrelled shot-gun, was irresistibly comic. The plan was approved of unanimously. “Here’s pencil and here’s paper,” said the humorist. “Who’s goin’ to write the letter?” “Write it yourself, Jim,” said Shamus. “Well, what shall I say?” “Say what you think right.” “I don’t know how she’d put it,” said Jim, scratching his head in great perplexity. “However, Bones will never know the differ. How will this do? ‘Dear old man. Come to the garden at twelve to-night, else I’ll never speak to you again,’ eh?” “No, that’s not the style,” said the young miner. “Mind, she’s a lass of eddication. She’d put it kinder flowery and soft.”