There were no tears in her eyes as she stooped down and kissed the dead man on the forehead. "My poor little Jimmie," she murmured, "my poor little Jimmie." It was decided to bury the remains at Lundy and a grave had already been dug for that purpose, over which some heartless fellow had placed a head board, bearing the following inscription: "Jim Slack, the toughest cuss in all Mono diggin's." "This here don't go, I tell yer," said big Bill Hall, the hotel man, "and this is what I'll do with sich a board," and seizing it threw it over the Geiger grade, where it went clankety, clankety, clankety, down 2,000 feet to the creek below. "Who can sing a hymn in this here crowd?" enquired Bill. "I used ter know a couple of hymns when I went to Sunday School," ventured Dick Byzicks, and one or two others owned up that they, too, knew a hymn or two and the volunteers stepped to the side of the woods to rehearse. It was an unusually quiet day in Lundy. The bar room was closed, the first time in its history. Heads were uncovered as the little cortege proceeded slowly from the hotel to the newly made grave. Jack Hamlin walked with the little mother. A quartette of pretty fair voices sang "Rock of Ages," and "Nearer My God to Thee." Hamlin read a few passages from the only Bible in camp and the body was laid at rest. A representative from the May Lundy mine, whose stockholders lived in Calais, Maine, called on Mrs. Slack, offering her $10,000 for her son's prospects, and after a little negotiation, the deal, was consummated, Jack Hamlin generously waiving his partnership rights in favor of Mrs. Slack. A little marble monument marks the last resting place of Jim Slack, which bears the following legend and no mark of disrespect has ever been shown the grave: "Sacred to the memory of James Slack, who died July 15th, A. D. 18--. Erected by his mother, who always loved her son." HE NEVER CAME BACK. While the writer was on a long journey recently he was often entertained by his old friends at their commercial clubs or other hospitable resorts and an evening of genuine enjoyment was always sure to ensue. At Ashland, Oregon, Frank Routledge, the genial manager of the Western Union Telegraph Company tendered a smoker, at which were present some 30 telegraph and ex-telegraph men, all glad to get together for an evening. Story telling was in order, and as most of the guests present had traveled a good deal in their time, the tales told covered every known topic. "I'd like to know something about 'Bogy,'" exclaimed George Eubanks, an erstwhile telegraph man and now a banker of Ashland. "I have heard so much about 'Bogy's' great ability, but have never heard it corroborated. Can anyone present tell me if it is really so that he could copy 50 words behind, all night?"