villainous-looking mitrailleuse settled into the glowing embers, there
was no foot of space, no nook or corner within the wooden walls of that
humble dwelling, that was a good place for a man to be who was not fully
prepared to exchange worlds.
File firing commenced on the right of the fireplace, under cover of
burning brands. There was a sharp report, a cloud of ashes and a shower
of coals, and amid the general din the stem and bowl of the meerschaum
in the teeth of Theodore Arthur Willoughby Spooner dissolved partnership
at once and forever.
At the same instant the old water pitcher jumped from the table mortally
wounded in the abdomen.
During the next few moments there was extraordinary ground and lofty
tumbling inside the cabin.
Not because I was possessed of greater fear, or less courage, than any
of the party, but because I felt that I had more to live for, I was the
first to reach the open air. The “Judge” was following close at my
heels, but in his blind haste he tripped in the doorway and blocked the
passage. It was at this critical moment that the leap-frog performance
commenced.
[Illustration: NEEDED AIR.]
The antics of Chirini’s circus troupe, during their most brilliant
achievements, dwindled into mere schoolboy exercise when compared with
the gymnastic efforts of the excited miners. Out came my friend Colyer
over the prostrate form of the Judge, and the one-eyed Swede over
Colyer, his hair erect and his one dilated eye standing in bold relief
from his dark face, like the ornamental stud on a horse’s blinker. Last
though not least interested or frightened, came Theodore Arthur
Willoughby Spooner, sailing like a flying squirrel over the one-eyed
Swede. In the meantime the pistol was jumping about in the fire like a
fish in a scoop-net, showering bullets in every direction.
The clock hung silent upon the wall, having received a charge of
buckshot full in the face, and the dog lay dead upon the hearthstone.
“Chickens come home to roost,” saith the old proverb, and indeed it
would seem so, for poor Judge Twitchell, whose rashness brought about
the whole calamity, received a parting salute, a farewell shot, just as
he had gathered himself on all fours to make a final lunge from the
fusillade within. Fortunately the wound was not a fatal one, though
severe enough to keep his memory green for weeks.
Some time elapsed before any person would venture back into the cabin
after the firing ceased. No one had kept count of the shots or knew at
what moment the battery might open again. We probably would have
remained out all night rather than take any chances, but the coals which
had been thrown over the cabin, started a brisk fire in half a dozen
different places, and we were obliged to run some risks to extinguish
the flames and save the place.
[Illustration]
THE PRIZE I DIDN’T WIN.
Who hath contended for a prize? Who hath stood in front of an armed host
with a noble emulation warming his breast? Who, with one eye glancing
along the barrel to the target in the distance, and the other closed
upon the world, hath pressed carefully upon the decisive trigger? And
who hath seen the glittering bone of contention passing away into other
hands than his at the close of the contest? If such a person there be,
then can he sympathize with me in this, my dark hour of despondency.
[Illustration: THE BEST SHOT.]
To-day I entered the lists with eighty men to compete for a gold watch
and chain of two hundred and fifty dollars in value. It was to be
presented to the winner by the Governor of the State, at a grand ball in
the evening. I, who prided myself that I was no woman with a gun, made a
very fair impression upon the target; and fell back. For six long,
dragging hours I watched the marksmen striving to beat my score. One by
one the good shots whom I had reason to fear stepped forward, discharged
their pieces, and fell back cursing their ill luck. At last nearly all
had fired, and I in fancy could hear the elegant time-piece ticking in
my pocket, and was already preparing the usual impromptu speech with
which to thank the generous donor. At this point an individual stepped
forward whom I had not included among my dangerous competitors, because
on former occasions he failed to hit the broad side of a mountain. Yet
to my astonishment he bore off the glittering prize!
I shall always think the devil rode astride of that individual’s bullets
and guided them into the target; for while taking aim, the muzzle of his
gun was tossing around like the tip of a cow’s horn when she’s grazing
in a clover field.
What a picture was I, as I stood that evening at the ball, watching his
Excellency presenting the magnificent watch I had for hours together
looked upon as mine. Had I not received the premature congratulations of
my friends, and been lavish of change at the bar in consequence? And the
watch—where was it? I feel that I shall never have the face to look my
musket in the muzzle again.
[Illustration]
THE COUNTRYMAN’S TOOTH.
Last evening, while sitting in a physician’s office, I was amused by a
countryman who entered the office to have a tooth extracted. The doctor
took one of the old-fashioned “cant hooks” and went for the molar, but
whether it was owing to lack of skill or the patient’s ducking while the
instrument was being adjusted, it became fixed directly between two
teeth, and after a painful struggle, out they both were drawn. The
operator saw he had taken out two masticators instead of one, and before
the patient noticed the fact, one was chucked under some papers lying
upon the table by his side.
“Jerusalem!” cried the countryman, as soon as he could speak. “I thought
by the yankin’ and the torturin’ pain you had hitched the blamed
thingamagig onto my back-bone and was a snakin’ it out. Why, bless my
soul!” he continued, as he ran his tongue into the awful chasm. “Hain’t
you made a mistake, doctor, and pulled out the jaw instead of the tooth?
Thar appears to be a ginneral cavin’ in all around thar.”
“Oh, no,” said the doctor; “there is the tormentor, sir,” and he held up
the one tooth before the contorted face of the victim in triumph. “Your
teeth pull out easy, sir, for their size,” he continued, as he wiped his
instruments and put them away.
“They do, eh?” he exclaimed. “Wal, dear help them that have teeth that
come out hard. ‘Taint all in the pullin’ nuther, but the incredulous
hole they leave ahind ’em when they do come. Why, my teeth seem as far
apart as two Sundays to a laborin’ man.”
“The other teeth will crowd over after a while,” said the doctor,
encouragingly.
“It may be I’ll git sort of used to it after a while,” he replied, “but
I’ll be blowed to the moon, if it doesn’t feel as though my tongue was
wabblin’ around in some other person’s mouth about this time;” and he
arose from the inquisitorial chair, paid the damages, and left the
office.
MINING STOCKS.
The city to-day has been in a state of feverish excitement over
dispatches received from the mining regions. The telegrams were fraught
with startling intelligence. There has been a rich strike in the Savage
mine, and stock is going up accordingly.
When stocks are running high,
How natural to sigh,
Ah, that I a thousand shares did command,
That I might drink champagne,
And hold a double rein,
And be counted a power in the land.
The streets are crowded with men, women and children. It is certainly—as
an old woman remarked at my elbow—easier for a needle to go through a
camel’s eye, than for a person to pass through the throng at some of the
corners. At present the person who does not own Savage stock is not
considered of much account. I, who am always on the alert for new
developments, and act upon the moment, make haste to give a sketch of
the Savage stock going up.
[Illustration: THE ASCENT.]
It is ascending at a lively rate, there is no mistake about that. There
is always two sides to a hill, however, and though the lucky stockholder
to-day may reach the summit of his expectations, to-morrow may bring a
descent that will be something to stand from under. And being possessed
of quite a prophetic soul, I anticipate the event, and as a companion
piece for the foregoing, give another sketch of the Savage stock coming
down, which it will undoubtedly be before many days.
[Illustration: THE DESCENT.]
Well, I can exclaim with Banquo’s facetious murderer, “Let it comedown,”
the decline cannot destroy my peace, nor deplete my purse.
[Illustration]
ODE ON A FLEA.
“A lofty theme,
Fit subject for the noblest bard
That ever strung a lyre.”
—_Coleridge._
Insufferable pest! that with wondrous force
Sinks in my quivering flesh thy noxious tooth,
To tap life’s current in its healthful course,
And break my needful rest, and bring me ruth.
Oh! virulent marauder, thou art a bore in truth,
And who, that smarts beneath thy awful bite,
And poisonous delving, but will, forsooth,
Think that sage poet may have erred a mite,
Who ably sang in ages past, “Whatever is, is right.”
I’ll place thee foremost in the swarm of those
Tormenting insects that plague mankind;
Yet greater craven from the earth ne’er rose,
Than thou, mute robber of my peace of mind.
In the musical mosquito noble traits we find;
When he at night upon his mission goes,
And quits the ceiling where he long has pined,
On his shrill bugle a lusty blast he blows,
To warn his drowsy prey that a raid he doth propose.
The vampire bat of Southern latitudes,
That preys at night upon the throat of man,
Quite conscious of the pain his tooth intrudes,
Doth with membraneous wings the victim fan,
To hold him still unconscious if he can,
Of the dark demon hovering o’er his head,
Drawing the blood from visage cold and wan,
Till fully gorged it leaves the sleeper’s bed,
And he, awaking, scarce believes he has been freely bled.
But thou, black delver, what virtue canst thou claim?
Save great activity, which makes me hate thee more.
Through night and day thy laboring is the same,
Insatiate ever, thou never wilt give o’er,
But glutton-like, still sap and bite, and bore.
Yet truly thou art cursed in having such a jaw,
The champ of which doth try my patience sore.
And soon thou hast to scud from angry scratch and claw,
And often thou must bite afresh ere surfeited thy maw!
Hadst thou instead of escharotic teeth
Been furnished with a blood-extracting bill,
Which once insinuated skin beneath,
The worst were past; I’d feel no thrill
To make me shiver as though an ague chill
Did all my joints and nerves undo,
Till I sit chattering like a fanning mill,
Perhaps when sitting in the still church pew,
Where I should think of heaven instead of things like you.
I grant there’s naught on earth, nor in the sea,
Nor in the windy waste around our rolling sphere,
That can at all compare with thy agility
When thou art taken with a sense of fear.
And what was ever formed that can come near
Thy well-knit bones? Thy strange infrangibility
Is too well known to need long mention here,
For who but oft has seen thee spring away quite free,
Although between the fingers rolled most spitefully.
[Illustration]
FIGHTING IT OUT ON THAT LINE.
While crossing Telegraph Hill this evening in the vicinity of the beach,
I witnessed an incident which has kept me smiling to myself for the last
two hours.
A couple of carters met in a street at a place which needed repairing.
One cart was heavily loaded with brick. The other contained a small lot
of coal.
The driver of No. 1 was in favor of suspending that time-honored clause
in common law, which says, “turn to the right.” Having the heavier load
he wished to adopt the English system:—
“The law of the road is a paradox quite;
For as you are driving along,
If you go to the left you are sure to go right,
If you go to the right you go wrong.”
But driver No. 2 was immovable as Cæsar when the conspirators with ready
weapons knelt around him. He was determined to enforce his prerogative,
even to the anchoring of his opponent’s cart.
No. 1 said he would “stand there until his corns sprouted.” No. 2
replied that he “wouldn’t budge until his corns not only sprouted, but
until they went to seed, or he would have his rights.”
After considerable loud talk in which they freely expressed unqualified
opinions of each other, they commenced unhitching their horses from the
carts, as night was setting in, and quietly started off to their
respective stables.
It happened they had met directly before the residence of a stout Teuton
who owns a large brewery at the Beach. They had scarcely left the
disputed point when the brewer arrived. His flushed face showed he had
been freely testing the quality of his malt liquor. He demanded of some
bystanders how the carts came there. Being informed of the whys and
wherefores to his satisfaction, he called out his two stout sons to
assist in removing the unsightly ornaments.
The united efforts of the three soon started the carts down the hill, in
the direction of the bay, like a battery of flying artillery. It was
only a few rods to the water, and in they plunged, one after the other,
and shot out from the shore like things of life. The old man and his
sons stood upon the crest of the hill viewing the descent in silence.
After they had been successfully launched, the trio retired into the
house with that self-satisfied and confident air that Emperor William
and his two warlike aids might exhibit when retiring to their tent after
a battle in which the enemy was routed. To some of the bystanders this
seemed rather a precipitate proceeding; but to my untutored mind it was
an act worthy to be ranked with the judicial hangings by the San
Francisco Vigilance Committee.
As I left the hill, I took a last look back at the carts, fast growing
indistinct in the gloom and mist closing over the bay. One craft was
hugging the shore off Black Point, with a close reefed tail-board, and
her wheel well under water. The other was sinking by the stern, but
still scudding under bare poles in the direction of Raccoon Straits.
DUDLEY’S FIGHT WITH DR. TWEEZER.
Jim Dudley called again last night, and, as usual, bored me with one of
his yarns. I overshot myself by mentioning to him how low he stood in
the estimation of Doctor Tweezer, for that brought down the following
upon my head:—
“Dr. Tweezer didn’t speak very highly of me, eh! Wal, ’tain’t to be
wondered at when you know how I wrought upon his feelin’s once. When a
feller has to go around among his patients for more’n two weeks with a
beefsteak the size of a hearth rug tied to his face, as _he_ did, he
ain’t agwine to hurt himself eulogizin’ the person who set him off,—not
much.
“Ever fight? wal, I reckon you’d think so if you had seen the Doctor’s
yard arter we got through turnin’ the chips over thar. _He_ can fight,
and squirm like a cat with her tail in a tongs, that Dr. Tweezer can.
“You see the Doctor’s place was alongside the widder Gezot’s, and she
had a numerous assortment of hens, specimens from cold countries, with
feathers clear down to thar toe nails; and others from bilin’ hot
districts, with no feathers at all onto ’em, ‘ceptin’ a few downy
substitutes frillin’ around the neck. They were continually a-gettin’
into his garden and a sprawlin’ round in the soft beds thar.
“He was pooty mad over it too, for he prided himself on razin’ early
vegetables, and two or three times he cautioned her to look arter her
p’ultry, or he’d gin ’em a dose that would warm thar little gizzards for
em’ if he was any judge of drugs.
“The widder Gezot was a plaguey stirrin’ little woman, one that was
allers willin’ to flounder ahead the best way she could. Being myself
somewhat interested in the lady, I used to ginnerally chime in when she
got into any difficulty.
“She soon told me what Dr. Tweezer said about the hens; so we set in,
and poked ’em, and stuck feathers through their bills, and did all we
could, except wringing their necks, to keep ’em out of his garden.
“But hens are hens, you know, and the warm sand makes ’em feel mi’ty
nice, I reckon. They still managed to git through the fence, or over it,
and hold caucuses in the Doctor’s onion beds. One day arter I had bin
down town talkin’ politics with the boys thar, I was settin’ on the
widder’s door-step smokin’ and musin’ like, when I see her hens come
a-rustlin’ hum as though forty hawks were a-stirrin’ ’em up. They
p’inted straight for the water trough, and after takin’ about two dips
into it, commenced the wildest gymnastic feats you ever see,
flip-flopin’ around, stannin’ on thar heads, and then on thar tails.
Finally they quieted down, and turnin’ feet up, lay thar dead as the
chips around ’em.
“I more than suspected Dr. Tweezer had gin ’em a dose of arsenic or some
other mi’ty tellin’ drug. So I jest riz up quietly and took a look over
into his yard, and sure enough thar he was, a-staggerin’ and squirmin’
around, a-holdin’ of his sides, and e’enmost a-bustin’ with in’ard
laughter. Now this sort of upsot me. Not that I cared so much about the
widder’s chickens, but I didn’t like to see a feller so mi’ty tickled
over a mean trick. So I went prancin’ around to the Doctor’s yard pooty
durned lively, a-pullin’ off my coat as I ran. I cal’lated I couldn’t
devote much time to strippin’ arter I got in thar.
[Illustration: GOING FOR THE DOCTOR.]
“His back was towards me, and he never suspicioned I was comin’, but
stooped over warpin’ around and sort of unwittin’ly invitin’ a kick.
“‘It’s mi’ty funny business, a-pizenin’ chickens, isn’t it?’ I ses, jest
that way, and at the same time I gin him such a hoist, that I sent him
playin’ leap-frog mor’n fifteen feet, and for a few moments I reckon he
thought he had backed up ag’inst a batterin’ ram.
“He was mi’ty cranky though, and turned round quicker than a dog when
his tail is trod on.
“‘Dudley,’ he hollered, ‘you meddlin’ ruffian, you’ve invoked the pest,
so now look out for scabs,’ and with that he came at me like a cluckin’
hen at a strange dog. I see I was in for a lively time, as the boy said
when he upset the bee hive. At it we went, ring and twist, duck and
dodge, hop and catch it, round and round the yard like fightin’ turkeys.
I could play around him at boxin’ like a cooper round a barrel, but he
was grizzly on a hug, and could kick and gouge like a Mississippian.
“He went for my right eye like an Irishman for a ballot box. I’ll be
blowed if I didn’t think I’d have to go one eye on it ever arterwards.
Several times he had it stickin’ out like a door knob. Finally while he
was a-fumblin’ around he accident’ly slipped his finger into my mouth,
and I shut down on it mi’ty fast now I can tell you.
“‘Fair play! fair play!’ he hollered, ‘no bitin’.’
“‘Rats!’ ses I, jest that way, ’twixt my teeth, ‘all’s grist that comes
to my mill, I reckon,’ and with that I snapped it off at the second jint
like a radish. Jest then his wife, hearin’ an unusual rustlin’ and
scrapin’ around the yard, come a-runnin’ to the door to see what was up.
Woman like, without inquirin’ into the particulars, she took sides to
wunst, and started with a dish of hot water cal’latin’ to gin me an
alfired scaldin’. Luckily she stumbled over the dog that was a-skelpin’
into the house to git out of harm’s way, and her own young ’un that was
crawlin’ around the floor munchin’ dirt got the hottest bath it ever
experienced. That gave her somethin’ else to look arter, so that the
Doctor and I had it out alone.
“Arter we had bin at it about fifteen minutes we held a sort of informal
truce, just arter a simultaneous exchange of compliments, which left the
Doctor layin’ across the grindstone and me astride the pump. It was the
first chance I had of gittin’ a fair look at him, since we started in. I
see he was punished mi’ty bad. One eye was retirin’ from active service
pooty fast, while his face ginnerally looked as if he had bin bobbin’
for pennies in a dish of tomato sauce. I reckon he wasn’t aware he
presented such an appearance, for ses he:—
“‘You’re lookin’ mi’ty bad, Dudley, and you mout as well gin up now as
any time, for you’ll eventually have to holler.’
“‘If I looked one-half as bad as you do, Doctor, I would holler,’ I
answered.
“‘I ginnerally have to look about this bad before my blood gits up to a
fightin’ heat,’ he ses detarminedly.
“‘Wal,’ ses I, ‘I’ve fit at every election for the last five years, and
last Fourth, put the bully mate of Terre Haute into a coal bunker, blind
as a bat, and I cal’late no derned pill-mixer is agwine to git away with
me very bad.’
“‘You’ll have to be born ag’in before you can whale me, Dudley,’ he
shouted, ‘for I’ll fight while there’s enough blood left in me to lunch
a stall-fed musketeer.’
“‘We both suck through the same straw then, Doctor,’ ses I, ‘for I
cal’late to stick to you like a poor man’s plaster to a beggar’s ribs or
I’ll have the worth of the widder’s chickens out on ye,’ and with that I
spit out his finger that I had forgot all about, and the hul time had
bin chawin’ like a piece of flag-root, I was so burnin’ mad. I allers
will think he would have gin up the fight then, if he hadn’t seen me
spit out the finger. He looked down at his maimed hand and then at me,
and the awful sight seemed to spur him on ag’in.
“‘You cannibal varmint!’ he hollered, as he edged up to me. ‘I’ll make
head-cheese of ye!’ and with that he made a pass at me; so at it we went
ag’in, hotter than ever, hands up and heads down like fightin’ wasps,
round and about, over the goose-house and wheelbarrow spat-a-te-kick,
and down into the sink pool roll-et-e-roll, and the hair was a-flyin’
and the teeth war a-spinnin’. I got in a left-handed wipe on his chin
while his mouth was open, swarin’, and I made his jaws snap like a wolf
trap, and sent one of his molars a-buzzin’ through the kitchen winder
like a bullet from a Springfield muskit.
[Illustration: HANDS UP AND HEADS DOWN.]
“I never knowed a man could lose so much blood and stand up arter it,
until I had that fight with Dr. Tweezer. The blood was a-flyin’ from him
every which way, like the water from a sprinklin’ cart, and yet he
wouldn’t holler.
“Arter a while he clinched and throwed me, but I managed to turn him,
and commenced to shut off his supply of wind by twistin’ his necktie;
but jest as his tongue began to crop out promisin’ly, a couple of
fellers drivin’ by in a wagon seen us, and they allowed that I was one
of the Doctor’s crazy patients that had got the better of him; so they
come runnin’ in with a long rope, and set in to tie me up right thar.
“The plaguey Doctor turned in to help ’em do it, too. I cussed, and
hollered, and kicked off both boots, and broke two of my teeth
a-grittin’ of ’em, I was so consumin’ mad. But it was no go; I was
a-playin’ a lone hand, with both bowers and the ace ag’inst me.
“The fust thing I knew they had me tied hand and foot, and h’isted into
thar greasy old meat wagon with some dead hogs.
“‘To the lock-up with him,’ shouted the Doctor, jest bilin’ with rage;
‘he’s crazy as a cow with her horns knocked off.’ They took me thar,
sure enough, and I staid thar till midnight before the mistake was
known. I was pooty well scratched up, but that Dr. Tweezer was the most
horrid sight you ever did see.
[Illustration: ALAS! POOR DOCTOR.]
“Arter that fight he looked as though he had been the subject in a
dissectin’ room, with at least a dozen medical students peelin’ and
hackin’ of him in the interests of science. The Doctor allowed that the
erysipelas would set in, seein’ thar were so many small veins busted in
his face, so he painted it all over with scarlet iodine as a
precautionary measure.
“He did look like the very old Nick, and no mistake. His face was
fearfully puffed up, you see, and his nose was knocked clear away round
to one side. His mouth in particular was a study that a feller couldn’t
git familiar with. It was a problem that the more you looked into the
more your ideas got confused. It was swelled and twisted and run around,
out of all shape and proportion.
“He had the terriblest time you ever heard of gittin’ his victuals into
it and fairly started down his throat. Thar he would sit at the table
explorin’ about for fully five minutes strivin’ to make the harbor, and
when he couldn’t fetch it, he would draw the spoon back and look at it a
while, plannin’ another expedition. He knew where his mouth _ought_ to
be, you see, and where it _had_ been a few hours before, and to be
obliged to canvass the whole of his head to find it, was somethin’ he
wasn’t accustomed to.