One day in ’49 an honest miner up in Calaveras county, California, bit
himself with a small snake of the garter variety, and either as a
possible antidote, or with a determination to enjoy the brief remnant
of a wasted life, applied a brimming jug of whisky to his lips, and
kept it there until, like a repleted leech, it fell off.
The man fell off likewise.
The next day, while the body lay in state upon a pine slab, and the
bereaved partner of the deceased was unbending in a game of seven-up
with a friendly Chinaman, the game was interrupted by a familiar voice
which seemed to proceed from the jaws of the corpse: “I say—Jim!”
Bereaved partner played the king of spades, claimed “high,” and then,
looking over his shoulder at the melancholy remains, replied, “Well,
what is it, Dave? I’m busy.”
“I say—Jim!” repeated the corpse in the same measured tone.
With a look of intense annoyance, and muttering something about “people
that could never stop dead more’n a minute,” the bereaved partner rose
and stood over the body with his cards in his hand.
“Jim,” continued the mighty dead, “how fur’s this thing gone?”
“I’ve paid the Chinaman two-and-a-half to dig the grave,” responded the
bereaved.
“Did he strike anything?”
The Chinaman looked up: “Me strikee pay dirt; me no bury dead ’Melican
in ’em grave. Me keep ’em claim.”
The corpse sat up erect: “Jim, git my revolver and chase that pig-tail
off. Jump his dam sepulchre, and tax his camp five dollars each fer
prospectin’ on the public domain. These Mungolyun hordes hez got to be
got under. And—I say—Jim! ’f any more serpents come foolin’ round here
drive ’em off. ’T’aint right to be bitin’ a feller when whisky’s two
dollars a gallon. Dern all foreigners, anyhow!”
And the mortal part pulled on its boots.