In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote
me from the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon
Wheeler, and inquired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley,
as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a
lurking suspicion that _Leonidas W._ Smiley is a myth; and that my
friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured
that if I asked old Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his
infamous _Jim Smiley_, and he would go to work and bore me to death
with some exasperating reminiscence of him as long and as tedious
as it should be useless to me. If that was the design, it succeeded.
I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the bar-room stove of
the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel’s, and I
noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of
winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance.
He roused up, and gave me good-day. I told him a friend had
commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion
of his boyhood named _Leonidas W_. Smiley—_Rev. Leonidas W._
Smiley, a young minister of the Gospel, who he had heard was at one
time a resident of Angel’s Camp. I added that if Mr. Wheeler could
tell me anything about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel
under many obligations to him.
Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there
with his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous
narrative which follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never
frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key
to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed the
slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable
narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity,
which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there
was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it
as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of
transcendent genius in _finesse_. I let him go on in his own way,
and never interrupted him once.
“Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le—well, there was a feller here
once by the name of _Jim_ Smiley, in the winter of ’49—or may be it
was the spring of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though
what makes me think it was one or the other is because I remember
the big flume warn’t finished when he first came to the camp; but
any way, he was the curiousest man about always betting on anything
that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the
other side; and if he couldn’t he’d change sides. Any way that
suited the other man would suit _him_—any way just so’s he got a
bet, _he_ was satisfied. But still he was lucky, uncommon lucky;
he most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for
a chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry thing mentioned but that
feller’d offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as I
was just telling you. If there was a horse-race, you’d find him
flush or you’d find him busted at the end of it; if there was a
dog-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on
it; if there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there was
two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly
first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg’lar
to bet on Parson Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter
about here, and he was, too, and a good man. If he even see a
straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it
would take him to get to—to wherever he _was_ going to, and if you
took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but what
he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on
the road. Lots of the boys here has seen that Smiley and can tell
you about him. Why, it never made no difference to _him_—he’d bet
on _any_ thing—the dangest feller. Parson Walker’s wife laid very
sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn’t going
to save her; but one morning he come in, and Smiley up and asked
him how she was, and he said she was considerable better—thank the
Lord for his inf’nit’ mercy—and coming on so smart that with the
blessing of Prov’dence she’d get well yet; and Smiley, before he
thought, says, ‘Well, I’ll risk two-and-a-half she don’t anyway.’”
Thish-yer Smiley had a mare—the boys called her the fifteen-minute
nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she
was faster than that—and he used to win money on that horse, for
all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper,
or the consumption, or something of that kind. They used to give
her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under
way; but always at the fag-end of the race she’d get excited
and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and
scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and
sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up
m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and
sneezing and blowing her nose—and always fetch up at the stand just
about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.
And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you’d think
he warn’t worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay
for a chance to steal something. But as soon as money was up on him
he was a different dog; his under-jaw’d begin to stick out like the
fo’-castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine
like the furnaces. And a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him,
and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times,
and Andrew Jackson—which was the name of the pup—Andrew Jackson
would never let on but what _he_ was satisfied, and hadn’t expected
nothing else—and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other
side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a
sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j’int of his hind
leg and freeze to it—not chaw, you understand, but only just grip
and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year.
Smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog
once that didn’t have no hind legs, because they’d been sawed off
in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough,
and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his
pet holt, he see in a minute how he’d been imposed on, and how
the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he ’peared
surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn’t
try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad. He
gave Smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it
was _his_ fault, for putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for
him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight,
and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died. It was a
good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for
hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius—I
know it, because he hadn’t no opportunities to speak of, and it
don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he
could under them circumstances if he hadn’t no talent. It always
makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his’n, and
the way it turned out.
Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and
tom-cats and all of them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest,
and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match
you. He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he
cal’lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three
months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump. And
you bet you he _did_ learn him, too. He’d give him a little punch
behind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air
like a doughnut—see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if
he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like
a cat. He got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep’
him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as fur
as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education,
and he could do ’most anything—and I believe him. Why, I’ve seen
him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor—Dan’l Webster was the
name of the frog—and sing out, “Flies, Dan’l, flies!” and quicker’n
you could wink he’d spring straight up and snake a fly off’n the
counter there, and flop down on the floor ag’in as solid as a
gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his
hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doin’
any more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog so modest and
straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when it
come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over
more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever
see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand;
and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long
as he had a red. Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well
he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres,
all said he laid over any frog that ever _they_ see.
Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to
fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet. One day a feller—a
stranger in the camp, he was—come acrost him with his box, and says:
“What might be that you’ve got in the box?”
And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, “It might be a parrot, or
it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t—it’s only just a frog.”
And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it
round this way and that, and says, “H’m—so ’tis. Well, what’s _he_
good for?”
“Well,” Smiley says, easy and careless, “he’s good enough for _one_
thing, I should judge—he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county.”
The feller took the box again, and took another long, particular
look, and give it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate,
“Well,” he says, “I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any
better’n any other frog.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Smiley says. “Maybe you understand frogs and
maybe you don’t understand ’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and
maybe you ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got _my_
opinion and I’ll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in
Calaveras County.”
And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like,
“Well, I’m only a stranger here, and I ain’t got no frog; but if I
had a frog, I’d bet you.”
And then Smiley says, “That’s all right—that’s all right—if
you’ll hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get you a frog.” And so
the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with
Smiley’s, and set down to wait.
So he set there a good while thinking and thinking to hisself,
and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a
teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot—filled! him pretty near
up to his chin—and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the
swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he
ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller,
and says:
“Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, with his
forepaws just even with Dan’l’s, and I’ll give the word.” Then he
says, “One—two—three—_git_!” and him and the feller touched up the
frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l
give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders—so—like a Frenchman, but
it warn’t no use—he couldn’t budge; he was planted as solid as a
church, and he couldn’t no more stir than if he was anchored out.
Smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he
didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of course.
The feller took the money and started away; and when he was going
out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder—so—at
Dan’l, and says again, very deliberate, “Well,” he says, “_I_ don’t
see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog.”
Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at Dan’l a
long time, and at last says, “I do wonder what in the nation that
frog throwed off for—I wonder if there ain’t something the matter
with him—he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.” And he ketched
Dan’l up by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, “Why
blame my cats if he don’t weigh five pounds!” and turned him upside
down and he belched out a double handful of shot. And then he see
how it was, and he was the maddest man—he set the frog down and
took out after that feller, but he never ketched him. And——
(Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and
got up to see what was wanted.) And turning to me as he moved away,
he said: “Just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy—I ain’t
going to be gone a second.”
But, by your leave, I did not think that a continuation of the
history of the enterprising vagabond _Jim_ Smiley would be likely
to afford me much information concerning the Rev. _Leonidas W._
Smiley, and so I started away.
At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, and he
buttonholed me and recommenced:
“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yaller, one-eyed cow that didn’t have
no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and——”
However, lacking both time and inclination, I did not wait to hear
about the afflicted cow, but took my leave.