There was no better opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted with the town of Jacksonville, its people and its customs, than was afforded by the Tuolumne House, where I made my headquarters. There may be better hotels in the world than that primitive one, but it had outgrown its canvas period and had become a pretentious frame structure, and this fact alone made it famous. It had no rival, for the old “Empire,” so long presided over by that honest, sturdy old Scot, Rob McCoun, had long since been converted into a Chinese grocery, while its erstwhile owner had been dead for several years. As for the only other hotel, McGinnis, its proprietor, had never been in the race since his cook, one unlucky day, brewed the coffee and tea simultaneously in the same pot. The hundred and seventy-odd boarders who fed at McGinnis’ “festive” rack were not to be consoled--they “quit him cold” and went over to the enemy. Tradition says that “Mac.” half killed the luckless cook, one Mike Corcoran, “Fer puttin’ coffee in the tay pot, ther d--d scoundrel!” but the boarders were not to be placated.[A] My fellow citizens of Jacksonville were very particular, and quite sensitive, with respect to the quality and quantity of liquids that entered their stomachs. [A] Axin’ Mr. McGinnis’ pardon--if he be still living.--Author. The material comforts of the Tuolumne House aside, there was never a cheerier, heartier, pluckier boniface than George Keyse. He was to the manner born, and could take a gun or a knife away from an excited boarder quite as gracefully and quickly as he could, if necessary, turn his own flapjacks. Mr. Keyse had an invaluable assistant in one Dave Smuggins, who officiated alternately as barkeeper, porter and hotel clerk. Smuggins was a well-bred man, and, it was said, was originally educated for the ministry. The only evidence at hand, however, was certain oratorical propensities that overcame him and made him forget his real position when he awakened the boarders early o’ mornings. I can hear him now, as he stood at the top of the stairway, yelling in stentorian tones--“Arouse all ye sleepers, an’ listen to the purty little airly birds singin’ praises tew the Lord! D--n yer bloody eyes! Git up!” saying which the modern psalmist discreetly went below and took his position behind the bar, ready to dispense “eye-openers” to the early caller.