I have not much fault to find with this world--although the people in it
do some strange things, and often act in a manner that puzzles me to
comprehend. The man of whom Guinane had borrowed the mule, was himself
an original character. After my comrade's death, I became slightly
acquainted with this individual; and was much amused, though also a
little pained, at what I thought to be his eccentric behaviour.
Original types of mankind are, perhaps, more frequently met with on gold
fields than elsewhere. Men without a certain spirit and character of
their own, are less likely to adopt a life of so many perils and
hardships, as gold diggers must needs encounter.
But there are also men who can _appear_ eccentric--even amongst gold
diggers; and the individual to whom I have alluded was one of these.
His name was Foster.
The mail from the Atlantic States was due in San Francisco every
fortnight; and, of course, at about the same interval of time, in the
different diggings to which the letters were forwarded--the Stanislaus
among the rest. Three days, before its arrival, at the last mentioned
place, Foster used to leave his work, and go to the post-office--which
stood at a considerable distance from his claim--for letters. He would
return to his tent, as a matter of course, disappointed; but this did
not prevent him from going again to the post-office, about six hours
after.
"Has the mail arrived yet?" he would inquire of the post-master.
"No. I told you a few hours ago, that I did not expect it in less than
three days."
"Yes, I know; but the mail is uncertain. It is possible for it to
arrive two or three days earlier than usual; and I want my letters as
soon as they get in."
"No doubt," the post-master would say, "no doubt you do; and I advise
you to call again in about three days."
"Thank you; I will do so," Foster would answer; and six hours after he
would call again!
"As soon as the mail arrives," the post-master would then tell him, "I
will _send_ your letters to you. It will be less trouble for me to do
that, than to be so often unnecessarily annoyed."
"No, no!" Foster would earnestly exclaim, "pray don't trust them into
the hands of any one. They might be lost. It is no trouble for me to
call."
"I can easily believe that," the post-master would rejoin. "If it was
any trouble, you would not come so often. I must, therefore, adopt some
plan to save me from this annoyance. As soon as the mail arrives I will
put up a notice outside the window here, and that will save you the
trouble of coming in, and me of being bothered with your questions.
Whenever you come in front of the house, and do not see that notice, you
may be sure that the mail has not arrived. You understand?"
"Yes, thank you; but I don't wish to give any unnecessary trouble. I
dare say the mail will be here by the time I come again. Good-day!"
Six hours after, Foster would be at the post-office again!
"Any news of the mail?" he would ask.
"Are you working a good claim?" inquired the post-master once--in answer
to this perpetual dunning.
"Yes," replied Foster. "Tolerably good."
"I am sorry to hear it."
"Why?"
"Because if you were not doing well, you might be willing to go into
some other business--the post-office for instance--and buy me out. If
you were here yourself, you would have your letters as soon as they
arrived. Since getting _them_ seems to be your principal business, you
should be on the spot to attend to it. Such an arrangement would
relieve me, from a world of annoyance. You worry me, more than all the
rest of the several hundred people who come here for letters. I can't
stand it much longer. You will drive me mad. I shall commit suicide.
I don't wish to be uncivil in a public capacity; but I can't help
expressing a wish that you would go to Hell, and never let me see your
face again."
Foster's chagrin, at not getting his letters, would be so great, that
the post-master's peculiar wish would pass unheeded; and the
letter-seeker would only go away to return again, a few hours after.
Usually about the tenth time he called, the mail would be in; and in the
general scramble of the delivery, Foster would get _two letters_--never
more, and never less.
One evening, near mail time, he was, as usual on a visit to the
post-office after his letters; and his mate--whose name was Farrell--
having got weary of sitting alone in his tent, came over to mine--to
pass an hour or two in miner's gossip. He told me, that Foster had been
for his letters seven times during the two days that had passed!
"He will have to go about three times more," said Farrell, "and then he
will probably get them. The mail should be in this evening."
"Forster appears to think very much of his family?" I remarked to his
partner. "I never saw a person so impatient for news from home."
"He is certainly very anxious to hear from home," said Farrell, "but not
exactly for the reasons you may be supposing. Foster and I are from the
same neighbourhood, and have known each other for many years. We came
to California together; and I am well acquainted with all the
circumstances under which he is acting. Now, if you hailed from
anywhere near that part of the world to which we belong, I should say
nothing about him; but as you don't, and it's not likely you'll ever
drift in that direction, there can be no more harm in my telling you
what I know, than there would be in talking about some one of whom we
have read, and who has been dead a thousand years ago."
"Foster married when he was very young--his wife being a woman about ten
years older than himself. She was worse than old--she was plain; and
besides had but very little sense. Add to this, that she was always
ill; and ill-tempered, and you have a woman, whom you will admit could
not be very agreeable for a wife.
"He had not been married over a week, before he discovered that he had
been making a fool of himself.
"You have noticed his anxiety about the letters. Well--I shall explain
it. By every mail, he expects news of the death of his wife; and it is
his impatience to hear _that_ which makes him so uneasy about the
arrival of the post. If he should get a letter to-night containing the
news of her death, he would be the happiest man in California; and I
dare say would start for home, within an hour after receiving it."
I expressed some surprise, that one man should intrust another with such
a disgraceful secret; and plainly proclaimed my disapprobation of
Foster's conduct.
"You are wrong, my friend," rejoined his partner. "For my part, I
admire his frank and manly spirit. What is the use of one's pretending
that he wishes his wife to live, if he really desires her to die? I
hate a hypocrite, or a person who will, in any way, deceive another. I
don't suppose that Foster can help disliking his wife--any more than he
can keep from sleeping. The feeling may be resisted for a while; but it
will conquer in the end. Foster is a man, in whom I cannot be deceived;
and I respect him for the plain straightforward manner, in which he
avows his sentiments."
"This indecent impatience to hear of the death of his wife," said I,
"cannot wholly arise from hatred. There is probably some other woman
with whom he is anxious to be united?"
"That is very, very likely," answered Farrell, "and the second letter he
always receives along with the one from his wife may serve as an
affirmative answer to your conjecture. Well! he is one of the most
open-hearted honourable fellows I ever met; and I don't care how soon
his hopes are realised. Because a man has been foolish a little in his
youth, is no reason why he should always be punished for it."
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Foster himself--who
appeared in a high state of pleasant excitement.
"Come on, Farrell!" cried he, "let us go to the tent, and settle up. It
is all over with the old lady; and I start for home by daybreak
to-morrow morning."
Farrell bade me good-night and Foster, who did not expect to see me
again, shook hands at parting--bidding me a final goodbye.
There was much in the expression of Foster's countenance that I did not
admire; and, notwithstanding, the apparent openness of his speech, I
could not help thinking him a fellow not only without good feeling, but
hypocritical, and treacherous.
Farrell purchased his mule, and also his share of the mining tools; and
by break of day the next morning, Foster was on his way to San
Francisco.
The post-master of Sonora was annoyed by him no more; and Farrell was
left to regret the loss of his plain-speaking partner.
Volume One, Chapter XXV.