It was the rainy season, the winter of 1864 and 1865, but there were
many pleasant days, when they could go pocket-hunting, and Samuel
Clemens soon added a knowledge of this fascinating science to his other
acquirements. Sometimes he worked with Dick Stoker, sometimes with one
of the Gillis boys. He did not make his fortune at pocket-mining; he
only laid its corner-stone. In the old note-book he kept of that sojourn
we find that, with Jim Gillis, he made a trip over into Calaveras County
soon after Christmas and remained there until after New Year's, probably
prospecting; and he records that on New Year's night, at Vallecito, he
saw a magnificent lunar rainbow in a very light, drizzling rain. A lunax
rainbow is one of the things people seldom see. He thought it an omen of
good-fortune.
They returned to the cabin on the hill; but later in the month, on the
they crossed over into Calaveras again, and began pocket-hunting not far
from Angel's Camp. The note-book records that the bill of fare at the
Camp hotel consisted wholly of beans and something which bore the name
of coffee; also that the rains were frequent and heavy.
January 27. Same old diet--same old weather--went out to the
pocket-claim--had to rush back.
They had what they believed to be a good claim. Jim Gillis declared the
indications promising, and if they could only have good weather to work
it, they were sure of rich returns. For himself, he would have been
willing to work, rain or shine. Clemens, however, had different views
on the subject. His part was carrying water for washing out the pans of
dirt, and carrying pails of water through the cold rain and mud was not
very fascinating work. Dick Stoker came over before long to help. Things
went a little better then; but most of their days were spent in the
bar-room of the dilapidated tavern at Angel's Camp, enjoying the
company of a former Illinois River pilot, Ben Coon,--[This name has been
variously given as “Ros Coon,” “Coon Drayton,” etc. It is given here as
set down in Mark Twain's notes, made on the spot. Coon was not (as
has been stated) the proprietor of the hotel (which was kept by a
Frenchman), but a frequenter of it.]--a solemn, fat-witted person,
who dozed by the stove, or old slow, endless stories, without point or
application. Listeners were a boon to him, for few came and not many
would stay. To Mark Twain and Jim Gillis, however, Ben Coon was a
delight. It was soothing and comfortable to listen to his endless
narratives, told in that solemn way, with no suspicion of humor. Even
when his yarns had point, he did not recognize it. One dreary afternoon,
in his slow, monotonous fashion, he told them about a frog--a frog that
had belonged to a man named Coleman, who trained it to jump, but
that failed to win a wager because the owner of a rival frog had
surreptitiously loaded the trained jumper with shot. The story had
circulated among the camps, and a well-known journalist, named Samuel
Seabough, had already made a squib of it, but neither Clemens nor Gillis
had ever happened to hear it before. They thought the tale in itself
amusing, and the “spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through
such a queer yarn without ever smiling was exquisitely absurd.” When
Coon had talked himself out, his hearers played billiards on the frowsy
table, and now and then one would remark to the other:
“I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other
frog,” and perhaps the other would answer:
“I ain't got no frog, but if I had a frog I'd bet you.”
Out on the claim, between pails of water, Clemens, as he watched Jim
Gillis or Dick Stoker “washing,” would be apt to say, “I don't see
no p'ints about that pan o' dirt that's any better'n any other pan o'
dirt,” and so they kept it up.
Then the rain would come again and interfere with their work. One
afternoon, when Clemens and Gillis were following certain tiny-sprayed
specks of gold that were leading them to pocket--somewhere up the long
slope, the chill downpour set in. Gillis, as usual, was washing, and
Clemens carrying water. The “color” was getting better with every pan,
and Jim Gillis believed that now, after their long waiting, they were to
be rewarded. Possessed with the miner's passion, he would have gone
on washing and climbing toward the precious pocket, regardless of
everything. Clemens, however, shivering and disgusted, swore that each
pail of water was his last. His teeth were chattering and he was wet
through. Finally he said, in his deliberate way:
“Jim, I won't carry any more water. This work is too disagreeable.”
Gillis had just taken out a panful of dirt.
“Bring one more pail, Sam,” he pleaded.
“Oh, hell, Jim, I won't do it; I'm freezing!”
“Just one more pail, Sam,” he pleaded.
“No, sir, not a drop, not if I knew there were a million dollars in that
pan.”
Gillis tore a page out of his note-book, and hastily posted a thirty-day
claim notice by the pan of dirt, and they set out for Angel's Camp. It
kept on raining and storming, and they did not go back. A few days
later a letter from Steve Gillis made Clemens decide to return to San
Francisco. With Jim Gillis and Dick Stoker he left Angel's and walked
across the mountains to Jackass Hill in the snow-storm--“the first I
ever saw in California,” he says in his notes.
In the mean time the rain had washed away the top of the pan of earth
they had left standing on the hillside, and exposed a handful of
nuggets-pure gold. Two strangers, Austrians, had come along and,
observing it, had sat down to wait until the thirty-day claim notice
posted by Jim Gillis should expire. They did not mind the rain--not
with all that gold in sight--and the minute the thirty days were up they
followed the lead a few pans farther and took out--some say ten, some
say twenty, thousand dollars. In either case it was a good pocket.
Mark Twain missed it by one pail of water. Still, it is just as well,
perhaps, when one remembers that vaster nugget of Angel's Camp--the
Jumping Frog. Jim Gillis always declared, “If Sam had got that pocket he
would have remained a pocket-miner to the end of his days, like me.”
In Mark Twain's old note-book occurs a memorandum of the frog story--a
mere casual entry of its main features:
Coleman with his jumping frog--bet stranger $50--stranger had no
frog, and C. got him one:--in the mean time stranger filled C.'s
frog full of shot and he couldn't jump. The stranger's frog won.
It seemed unimportant enough, no doubt, at the time; but it was the
nucleus around which was built a surpassing fame. The hills along the
Stanislaus have turned out some wonderful nuggets in their time, but no
other of such size as that.