was a conundrum. Perhaps he had some secret method buried in the same
box with his hoarded coin. His long evenings were passed reading the
_Family Herald and Weekly Star_ and the _Ashcroft Journal_ by
candle-light; for those were the only papers he would subscribe for. His
bed consisted of, first, boards, then straw, then sacking; and it had
remained so long without being frayed out that it had become packed as
hard as terra firma. His blankets had not seen the light of day, nor
enjoyed the fresh cool breezes for many long years. His one window was
opaque with the smoke of many years' accumulation. Although his chickens
had a coop of their own where they roosted at night, they ran about the
floor of his "dug-out" in the daytime looking for crumbs that fell from
the poor man's table; and his cat, through years of criminal impunity,
would sit on the table at mealtime and help himself to the victuals just
as the spirit moved him. A stump had been left standing when the cabin
was built; it had been hewn at the appropriate elevation of a chair.
This was near his air-tight heater, and his favorite position was to sit
there with his feet propped against the stove and smoke by candle-light;
and sometimes he would sit in the dark to save candles. His other
furniture consisted of "Reindeer" brand condensed milk and blue-mottled
soap boxes, which he had acquired at times from F.W. Foster's general
store at Clinton.
Hard Times Hance was living on first principles; but then, if a man
wishes to save any coin in this world he must make great personal
sacrifices; and so he was perfectly happy in his temporary aboriginal
condition. There were no restrictions upon him. He was even outside the
circumference of any ministerial jurisdiction, and had never been
cautioned about the hereafter. Like an Indian, he moved just as the
impulse seized him. How this man expected to submit to the personal
restrictions and embargoes imposed by modern fashions and society was
known only to himself. The song of the forest had been his only concert;
the whisper of the creek his sole heart companion. When occasion
permitted he would wander the entire day on the high mountains, at the
end of his trail, hunting for game, and little caring whether he found
it or not, so long as he had the wild and congenial environs to admire
and embrace. What was city life in comparison with this?
At last the day arrived when he realized that he must develop wings, so
he wrapped himself up in a cocoon; and while the metamorphosis was in
process of development he had ample time to study Hamlet's soliloquy. It
would mean a divorce from everything he held dear; a parting with his
very soul. It would mean the most sorrowful widowhood that could be
imposed on man. It would be equivalent to leaving this earth and taking
up his abode in Mars. He must sacrifice his love for the creek and the
trail. He must renounce his freedom and go into social slavery. It was
the emerging from the woods into the prairie; the coming from darkness
into the light; a resurrection from the dead. In future he must tread
the smooth cement walk between cultivated lawns and plants, instead of
climbing the rude, uneven trail obstructed by fallen trees and
surrounded with vegetation in its wildest and most primeval forms. He
would walk the polished mahogany floor with patent boots, instead of
the terrestrial one of his dug-out with obsolete overshoes.
But it must be. For years he had been preparing and planning. The object
of his past had been a preparation for a better future; and why not?
Others enjoyed the good things of this life, and why not he? Had he not
paid the price. Others reaped where they had not sown; he had sown, yes,
sown in persecution, now he would reap in envious joy. He had lived the
first half of his life in squalor and darkness, that the latter half
might be clean and cheerful. When he had set out in his young days to
live his pre-arranged history it was with an ambition to be wealthy, no
matter by what means it should be acquired, so long as it was honest.
Now he was wealthy. He had been poor; now he was rich, and money would
put the world at his feet, which henceforth had been over his head. He
had been an animal; from now on he would be human.
But in his enthusiasm of development he forgot that he had grown
attached to the wild, aboriginal life; that the parting might snap
thongs and inflict wounds which even time would not mend or cure. At
times the creek would sing, and the trail would speak, but he banished
the tempters from his mind to make room for his illuminating prospects,
and his wings continued to grow towards maturity. He struggled and freed
himself from the cocoon. He went to Vancouver a caterpillar and returned
a butterfly, and the earthquake which accompanied his debut was equal
to that which destroyed San Francisco. He had sold his farm, which
included the creek, and the trail, and the dug-out, and his salt pork
barrel, for a song, and with his coin and icties about him, and in his
lately acquired form, he invaded Clinton with an accentuated front. The
street was lined with people as though a procession had been going
by--all the sweet and familiar sounds and sights had been sacrificed
criminally, and he was on his way to sip honey from flower to flower.
He sounded about Clinton for some time for a suitable anchorage on which
to materialize the plans and specifications of his mansion, but he did
not drive a stake, because Clinton was very much inferior to his "class"
ideal; it had no electric light, and no water system. So he migrated
south to Ashcroft, and there he pre-empted a large lot and made
arrangements for the foundation of his castle. Out of the ground in a
short period arose one of the most up-to-date bungalows. While the
building was in course of construction Hard Times Hance, who had
repudiated this headline, moved about in his dress suit, stiff hat, silk
gloves, and a cane, and gave such orders to the contractor as he saw
fit. He was looked upon as the most remarkable freak that had ever
invaded the dry belt. And he sprang into society spontaneously. The
people clamored for him. Progressive socials were arranged in his honor
at all the leading social centres in their eagerness to cultivate his
society. Some had faint recollections of having seen him at times,
others claimed to have heard of him at his hermitage, but they all
pretended to have known him personally and thoroughly, and many even
suspected that he possessed more, intrinsically, than he had revealed
superficially. He was the lion of the hour, and he did not forget to
hand around the coin in his efforts to retain the position which he had
secured.
When his mansion was turned over by the contractor, and had been
accepted by the architect, he issued invitations to one of the most
magnificent social functions which had ever erupted at Ashcroft. Those
who were invited were flattered, and those who were not called were
grossly insulted and wondered what disqualified them. They danced the
"tango," and the "bango," and the "flango," and all the "light
fantastics" until their feet went on strike, and their ear drums had
become phonographic and reproduced the music with a perpetual motion
which could not be stopped. Every lady was eager to reveal the dancing
secrets to mine host, and before the evening was over he could waltz,
tango, and do many of the up-to-date ridiculous "stunts."
And then they dined on a French dinner. It was cooked in French style,
and they ate it in French; and then they drank French toasts to the King
of England, the Governor-General of Canada, Sir Wilfrid Laurier, and the
gentlemen drank to the ladies in general all over the world. Then the
ladies proposed a French toast to "mine host." Not one of them could
speak French, although a few of them could repeat, parrot-like, the
words "Parlez-vous Francais?" but they only knew it as a "foreign
phrase" which sounded extremely cultured.
And the menu was as follows: "Canape of Anchovies," "Celery en Branch,"
"Potage a la Reine," "Consomme au Celeri," "Calves' Sweetbreads a la
Rothschilds," "French Lamb Chops a la Nelson," "Café noir," etc., etc.
In the midst of all this foreign celestialism mine host forgot the
creek, the trail, the dug-out, the beans and bacon, and the
kin-i-kin-nick pipe; and he prided himself on his rapid and agreeable
transition into swift channels of life. He was taking to society as a
duck takes to water.
In mode of living, as well as in personal appearance, it was the
greatest metamorphosis that had ever taken place in a human being in the
memory of man. It was a miniature "Log Cabin to White House" episode. He
furnished his castle with the most elaborate fittings and ornaments that
the world could produce. He had steam heated rooms and electric lighting
from cellar to attic. Every floor was carpeted with the most expensive
of imported Brussels. The walls were most elaborately painted and
decorated. To secure a final footing in society he had acquired a
collection of obsolete paintings, which were very unattractive and
vulgar, and could only have been of value as heirlooms to some private
family. These were conspicuously displayed on the panelled walls, in
partnership with other more or less modest busts and imaginary
landscapes. His ceilings were frescoed and figured in most extravagant,
but unappealing designs. It was plainly seen that the building had been
erected more to satisfy the taste and please the eye of the architect,
who had received an unrestricted contract, than for acceptance by the
purchaser. The furnishings were very much in keeping with the fixtures
and fittings, and his musical instruments were all electrically-automatic
machines; and his "canned" music filled the halls and stairways from
morning till night. There was no modern convenience or indulgence that
he did not lasso and drag home to his castle.
Before, he had wallowed in the one extreme of society, but now he lolled
at the other. While before he had been neglected and despised by his
fellow rivals, he was now courted, and admired, and feasted almost to
death: so much does the possession of the coin-asset change people's
opinions with regard to others.
His auto was the envy of all the chauffeurs and private car owners in
the interior, and there was great rivalry among the licensed drivers as
to who should secure the position as his private chauffeur. One engineer
offered his services gratis to have the privilege of sitting behind such
wind-shields.
Hard Times Hance persuaded himself that he had reached his "Utopia," and
that his past forty years of loneliness and savagery was the price he
had paid for the present heaven-rivalling blessings.
A man of his standing in society could not long remain in single
dormancy; he was therefore besieged by many of the fair sex. This was
very pleasing and flattering to him, although he concealed his
appreciation. Of course a palace such as his, without a wife, was like a
garden of Eden without an Eve. He had no one to use the electric vacuum
cleaner on his linoleums and tapestries. He had no one to meet him when
he reached home to take his hat, and gloves, and cane, and place them on
the hall rack. He had no one to kiss and afford companionship throughout
the long evenings, no one to arrange for social entertainments and meet
and welcome the guests; no one to direct and manage the culinary
department, and place the furniture in appetizing arrangement. Of course
he had the Chinese cook, but he was stale and without spice. There were
millions of qualified candidates in the world, looking for partners, who
would be more than pleased to have the opportunity to manipulate his
vacuum cleaner.
No sooner had he made up his mind to organize a family partnership
concern than he set out to have the necessary forms of contract drafted
and prepared. A great many fair ones nominated themselves as candidates
for election, but as he was living under Christian methods he could only
accept one--which was annoying--no matter how eager he may have been to
Mormonize himself. They fluttered around him like moths about an
electric arc, and they even deserted their former pre-emptions for the
new float prospects. In due course the successful candidate was
introduced to the Legislature as a new member.
The nuptials over, they migrated in the fall with the swallows to
California, on their honeymoon, and, after escaping the earthquake,
returned to their happy and beautiful home. There was a great eruption
among the marriageable prospects of Ashcroft, because many of them had
dropped a real bone into the water in snapping at the illusory shadow.
An indignation meeting was arranged at which it was resolved that the
least prepossessing and most unlikely of the nominees had secured the
winning majority. But love is a very contrary commodity, and a defect
may be a virtue in the eyes of a hero-worshipper; and "My Lady" was
serenely happy in spite of her unpopularity with her rivals. Hard Times
Hance had sprouted from pauperdom and had bloomed into princedom, and
his newly acquired partner placed the final mouldings and decorations to
his life.
They gave frequent balls and banquets, and the most select society in
the environs clamored for admittance. To his wife the prince was a
modern Aladdin. She had but to wish and the wish was granted. "Eaton's"
catalogue was her Bible, and it was her only food between meals;
packages arrived daily with the regularity of the _Vancouver Province_.
She had a standing order there for hats, dresses and kimonas, to be
rushed out the moment the fashions changed. While before Hance had taken
a pleasure in saving, he now had a mania for spending money; and their
merry marriage bells continued to ring for a few sweet years without
ceasing.
But gradually the spell wore off the self-made prince. The little creek,
the long trail, the deep woods, the dug-out, and the salt pork barrel
loomed up occasionally before his mind's eye. In absent-minded dreams he
would find himself wandering among the stock on the range at his old
ranch; or he would be drinking water from the creek in the
old-fashioned, natural way; or chasing a deer at the other end of the
long trail. His wife's sweet voice would recall him to the immediate,
and in her presence he would regret his meditations. But it would be but
temporary. What profits a man to gain the world, if he lose his peace of
mind? "What! I unhappy among all this kingly paraphernalia, and with a
queen wife?" he would ask himself, going down into the basement to
replenish the furnace. With every shovelful of coal he would curse
himself for his feebleness of mind.
The charm was beginning to wear off. The sound of the singing creek and
the wild wood noises were beginning to knock at his door. He was
beginning to long for the old, wild life--the life of the wild man of
the woods. He was like a coyote in confinement, walking backward and
forward at the bars seeking release. He was a fish out of water gasping
for its natural element, and his soul was languishing within him.
He made desperate but vain efforts to enjoy his beautiful environs, and
for a long time he sustained the "bluff." The piano became a bore to
him; its music was not half so sweet as the creek song. The tapestry was
not half so pleasing to the eye as the green foliage of the trees had
been; his cement walk not so agreeable to his feet as had been the long,
wild trail. The "icties" which had cost him thousands of dollars became
to him like so much junk, and his beautiful home became a prison--so
much does man become attached to mother earth. Among all this junk one
jewel still continued persistently to shine, however, and that gem was
his wife; she was all he had left, next his heart, to balance against
the thousands of dollars which he had squandered. A man's best comfort
is his wife, and Hance had fallen into the trap in the usual man-like
way.
His attraction for the modern in society had dwindled down to a single
item--his love for his wife; and between this fire, and the fire of the
old life, he remained poised. Of course it would be madness to suggest
that she return with him to the woods and adopt the Adam and Eve mode of
society, so he kept his skeleton securely locked up.
He had sold his farm for a song, but now he found it could not be
re-bought for real money. The situation was hopeless. There was no
retracing of steps. But still the old sounds could not be divorced from
his ears; and the old salt-pork barrel was an unpardonable culprit. If
he could only sit once again on the old stump which had not been hewn
away in the centre of his dug-out, it would be a source of joy to him.
If he could only smoke the old kin-i-kin-nick pipe, his appetite would
be satisfied.
One day he climbed into his auto and made a bee-line for the old ranch.
He would have a rock on that old stump if it should cause a scandal in
society. But the spot where the dug-out once stood was now bare. The
cabin had been burned to the ground by the new proprietors. He went home
like a whipped cur. A link in his beautiful past had vanished. An
impassable chasm, of his own making, yawned between him and his desire,
and he cursed the day which lured him away from his natural, green
pastures.
One day he disappeared entirely, and when he did not return for several
days, and his wife was insane with grief, a search party was sent out in
quest of him. They found him camping on the old trail, dressed in his
aboriginal attire, eating beans and bacon with his knife, and chewing
venison Indian fashion.
"This is the only square meal I have had since I left the woods," he
said, when they captured him; and he filled his pipe with kin-i-kin-nick
and puffed the sweet, mild fumes. He had returned to his natural
element.
"I have been rounding up stock," he said, "and I shot this buck just
over the hill there. Here, dig in, it is jake."
He had to live among the steers, and the coyotes, and the wild trails in
accordance with his early training; original things were his food.
Society, and his wife, demanded that he remain on the surface, but his
aboriginal inclinations lured him to the woods; so, during six months of
every year he was an Indian to all intents and purposes. Early in May he
would load a cayuse with beans, bacon, canned milk, frying pan and
blankets, and with this treasure he would take to the hills and bask
the livelong summer among the junipers, the firs, and the spruces; and
he would eat huckleberries, choke-cherries and soap-o-lalies, and smoke
kin-i-kin-nick until his complexion assumed the tan of the Chilcoten
Indian.
The lure of the limelight had been great, but it had worn off just as
soon as he had a surfeit of its false glories. He found that beans and
bacon eaten with a knife were sweeter and more wholesome than "blanc
mange," "consomme," or "café noir" cooked in French style, and served by
a French chef.
Of the Too Sure Man
Once upon a time, in the town of Lillooet, county of Lillooet, Province
of British Columbia, there lived a man who was so sure of his footing
that he closed his eyes and floundered along in the dark. When people
told him there were chasms in front of him, or that there was ice on the
trail ahead, he would not believe them, but put his fingers in his ears
so that he could not hear, and thus became deaf and blind to his own
interests. The people pestered him so much about his folly, and he
learned to hate them so much for their interference in his personal
matters, that he crossed the names of all his friends from his list of
social possibilities, would recognize none of them, and refused to speak
even when addressed; he thus became a blind, deaf and dumb mute. The
result was that he ultimately slipped upon the ice on the trail, and
fell into a chasm and has not been seen since. It was in the first days
of the Lillooet quartz discoveries. Gold had been mined from Cayuse
Creek, Bridge River, and the Fraser River, in uncountable ounces, in the
free state, by the placer or hydraulic process of mining, for a great
number of years, but the source of supply from which the free gold had
originated had not yet been located. It was even doubted if there was
any source of supply, although it was generally conceded that all gold
was originally pilfered by the streams and rivers from the hard
quartz-rocks of which the great mountains of Cayuse Creek and Bridge
River were formed. While some of the miners contented themselves with
making wing-dams, turning streams from their natural courses, and
scraping about the mud and gravel of the exposed beds for the pure, free
gold, picking up nuggets at sight and capturing the "dust" with
quicksilver, others, looking for bigger game, climbed the high
mountains, tore the moss from their sides to expose the rock, and
pounced upon every piece of "float" which would indicate the possible
existence of a "mother lode" somewhere near at hand or higher up.
The Too Sure Man of this story was one of the latter. He had found a
piece of "float rock" with a shining speck in it near where the nigger's
cabin now stands on Cayuse Creek in the vicinity of Lillooet, and he
traced it to the very spot where it had dropped from the mountain above.
There he discovered a ledge several feet wide full of shining specks,
and he traced it with his eyes right to the bed of the creek.
"All mine! All mine!" he shouted.
Now, he was a poor man, and he had a family--which made him poorer; but
the sight of this precious piece of "float" with the gold sticking out
of it, and the possession of this enormous ledge of gold-bearing quartz
made him a millionaire in an instant. Here was a whole mountain "lousy"
with gold, all his! Why, Solomon or Vanderbilt would be so small in the
puddle that he would splash mud on them with his superior tread in the
sweet "very soon."