The nationality of the hapless passenger in the floating house and the hopelessness of an attempt at rescue, even, if our citizens had been so disposed, served to silence the spectators of the Chinaman’s fate. In justice to my old friends, I will state that I have never doubted that an effort to save the luckless Mongolian would have been made, had any means of rescue been at hand. Not a boat was left in town, and even had there been a hundred at our disposal, it looked like certain death to attempt to traverse the terrific torrent that confronted us. The Chinaman was apparently clearly doomed, and the end was only a question of minutes, a fact which the poor fellow himself appreciated even more keenly than we did, as was shown by the renewed vigor of his frantic cries for assistance, as he caught sight of the dam that his strange craft was so rapidly nearing. But, as Big Brown was wont to say, “Nobody hez sich good luck ez er fool, ’ceptin’ a d--d Chinaman.” The house in which the luckless voyager was making his unwilling and terrible journey, caught upon the debris that had accumulated near the center of the dam! Here it remained poised for an instant, almost upon the very verge of destruction, then swinging squarely about in the rushing current, it lodged broad-side to, in such a manner that it came to a full stop and remained motionless. The unfortunate Chinaman now redoubled his cries for assistance, and the crowd, in silent awe, awaited the giving way of the temporary obstruction and the inevitable destruction of the house and its unhappy tenant. A moment later, a man was seen to emerge from the scrub pines near the water’s edge upon the opposite side of the river, some distance below Toppy’s cabin. He was dragging a small boat, that had evidently been concealed among the trees. The man pushed his little craft into the swift running water, sprang in, and pulled boldly away from the bank! As he did so, he stood upright for a moment and turned his features squarely toward us. Even at that distance there was no mistaking that magnificent physique and fearless bearing! “It’s Poker Jim, by G--d!” cried a number of men simultaneously. Almost automatically, several among the crowd drew their pistols and fired at the far-distant figure--a useless feat of bravery, as their target was probably beyond rifle-shot, to say nothing of trying to hit a man at that distance with a six-shooter. “Hold on, boys!” cried Big Brown, in astonishment. “If he aint goin’ arter that d--d Chinaman I’ll eat my hat! Well, I’ll be kerflummuxed! If that don’t beat h--l!” If there was anything the early settlers of the diggings worshipped, it was reckless, fool-hardy bravery. From that moment Jim was a hero, a Bayard, _sans peur et sans reproche_, before whose chivalry every man who saw his courageous act was ready to bow down to the very earth.