Leadville. You would run a good chance of following your boots. "Do you see that man there, paring his boot with a knife?" asked my companion. "Yes," said I, "I see him; there is a good deal of him to see." "Well," said he, "that's So-and-so. He sold so-and-so for $400,000 about a year ago. But he busted last Fall. And if you get into conversation with him, he'll be glad to borrow a dollar from you." "Then I shall not get into conversation with him," I replied. "And do you see that old fellow on the other side, leaning against the hitching post, outside the Post Office?" "Well," said I, "they seem to be mostly leaning against the hitching-post, but I presume you mean the gentleman in the middle." "Yes," was the reply. "That's So-and-so. He struck the so-and-so, got $80,000 for his share about six weeks ago--and is busted." And so on ad infinitum. The problem was a very puzzling one to me at first--why do such men make fortunes if they take the first opportunity of throwing them away? But the solution, I fancy, is this--that these men do not care for money. It is to them what knowledge is to the philosopher, a means of acquiring more--worthless in itself, but, as leading to larger results, worthy of all eagerness in its pursuit. They do not put Wealth before themselves as an accumulation of current coins, capable of purchasing everything that makes life materially pleasant. They contemplate it merely in the bulk. Much in the same way a whaler never thinks of the number of candles in the spermaceti into which he has struck a harpoon. He looks at his quarry only as a "ten barrel" or a "fifteen barrel" whale, as the case may be. He does not content himself with the illuminating potentialities of the creature he pursues. He is only anxious as to how it will barrel off, and the barrels might be pork, or potatoes, or anything else. So with the man who goes out mine-hunting. He harpoons a lode, lays open so many "millions" of ore, sells it to a company for a "million" or two, and straightway goes and "busts" for so many "millions." It does not seem to concern such a one that a "million" of dollars is so many guineas, or roubles, or napoleons, or mohurs, and so forth, and that if he goes on to the end of his life, he can never achieve more than money. His arithmetic goes mad, and he begins computing from the wrong end of the line. Ten thousands of dollars make one 50-cent piece, two 50-cent pieces make one quarter, five quarters make one nickel, five nickels make one cent, and "quite a lot" of cents make one fortune. So at it he goes again, trying to foot up a satisfactory balance with thousands for units--and "busts" before he gets to the end of the sum.