“Well,” I replied smilingly, “it is about time we introduced ourselves, isn’t, it? My name is William Weymouth, recently of Kentucky, a doctor by profession, and bound for Jacksonville, where I contemplate digging gold when the weather will permit, and practicing medicine when it will not.” “A doctor, an’ bound fer Jacksonville, eh? Well, Doc,” said my new acquaintance, reaching out his grimy paw with a cordiality that could not be mistaken, “I’m d--d glad ter know ye! Jacksonville is our town, an’ a h--l uv a good town she is at that, y’u bet! We’re jest gittin’ back from Frisco, an’ doin’ it on tick, too. We’ve been doin’ the sport racket down yonder, an’ I reckon the sports hev done us, eh, pards?” His “pards” having acquiesced, my brawny friend cut off a huge chew of “nigger heel,” stowed it away in his capacious cheek, and after a few preliminary expectorations that resembled geysers, continued: “If it hadn’t been fer ole Tom McDougal up thar on the box, we’d a took Walker’s line back ter our claims”--and the big miner glanced gratefully in the direction of the generous Mr. McDougal. “And now that I have found that you are to be my fellow townsmen,” I said pleasantly, “permit me to remind you that the introduction has been one-sided. What are your names, may I ask?” The miner winked at his companions, laughed a little deep down in his huge red beard, and replied: “D--d if I didn’t fergit that ther was two sides to the interdoocin’ bizness. Ye see, stranger, we aint payin’ much attention ter feller’s handles in the mines. Most enny ole thing’ll do fer a name. That’s why we sometimes fergits our manners. This yere gang is purty well supplied with names, but ye mightn’t hev sich good luck ev’ry time, ’specially in Tuolumne county, eh, pards?” His “pards” having again nodded and winked their approval, my brawny friend proceeded with his introductions. “I’m called in the diggin’s by sev’ral names an’ y’u kin do like the rest uv my fren’s--take yer pick. I’m mostly known as Big Brown, tho’ some folks calls me Big Sandy. When I was in the states, I b’lieve they used to call me Daniel W. Brown, but I wouldn’t swar to it. This feller nex’ ter me hyar, is the hon’able Mr. Dixie,’ or Snub-nose Dixie fer short, who aint never hed much ter say about his other name, if he ever had enny, eh, Dixie? That lantern-jawed cuss a settin’ long side uv y’u, is Deacon Jersey, utherwise an’ more favor’bly known ez Link Spears. We calls him Deacon, cuz he never was inside of a church in his hull life. He’s the only genooine deacon this side of the Sierras. Thar aint none uv the hypercrit’ erbout him, neither, I kin tell ye. Ye’ll find us fellers’ tastes kinder runs erlike, f’r instance,”--and Big Brown looked longingly in the direction of my “pistol” pocket. “In the matter of thirst,” I suggested.