Chapter VI (3)

The colonel's next visit to the seminary did not produce the same sensation as the first, although it was accompanied with equal disturbance to the fair principals. Had he been a less conceited man he might have noticed that their antagonism, although held in restraint by their wholesome fear of him, was in danger of becoming more a conviction than a mere suspicion. He was made aware of it through Pansy's resentment towards them, and her revelation of a certain inquisition that she had been subjected to in regard to his occupation, habits, and acquaintances. Naturally of these things Pansy knew very little, but this had not prevented her from saying a great deal. There had been enough in her questioners' manner to make her suspect that her guardian was being attacked, and to his defense she brought the mendacity and imagination of a clever child. What she had really said did not transpire except through her own comments to the colonel: “And of course you've killed people--for you're a kernel, you know?” (Here the colonel admitted, as a point of fact, that he had served in the Mexican war.) “And you kin PREACH, for they heard you do it when you was here before,” she added confidently; “and of course you own niggers--for there's 'Jim.'” (The colonel here attempted to explain that Jim, being in a free State, was now a free man, but Pansy swept away such fine distinctions.) “And you're rich, you know, for you gave me that ten-dollar gold piece all for myself. So I jest gave 'em as good as they sent--the old spies and curiosity shops!” The colonel, more pleased at Pansy's devotion than concerned over the incident itself, accepted this interpretation of his character as a munificent, militant priest with a smiling protest. But a later incident caused him to remember it more seriously.

They had taken their usual stroll through the Alameda, and had made the round of the shops, where the colonel had exhibited his usual liberality of purchase and his exalted parental protection, and so had passed on to their usual refreshment at the confectioner's, the usual ices and cakes for Pansy, but this time--a concession also to the tyrant Pansy--a glass of lemon soda and a biscuit for the colonel. He was coughing over his unaccustomed beverage, and Pansy, her equanimity and volubility restored by sweets, was chirruping at his side; the large saloon was filling up with customers--mainly ladies and children, embarrassing to him as the only man present, when suddenly Pansy's attention was diverted by another arrival. It was a good-looking young woman, overdressed, striking, and self-conscious, who, with an air of one who was in the habit of challenging attention, affectedly seated herself with a male companion at an empty table, and began to pull off an overtight glove.

“My!” said Pansy in admiring wonder, “ain't she fine?”

Colonel Starbottle looked up abstractedly, but at the first glance his face flushed redly, deepened to a purple, and then became gray and stern. He had recognized in the garish fair one Miss Flora Montague, the “Western Star of Terpsichore and Song,” with whom he had supped a few days before at Sacramento. The lady was “on tour” with her “Combination troupe.”

The colonel leaned over and fixed his murky eyes on Pansy. “The room is filling up; the place is stifling; I must--er--request you to--er--hurry.”

There was a change in the colonel's manner, which the quick-witted child heeded. But she had not associated it with the entrance of the strangers, and as she obediently gulped down her ice, she went on innocently,--

“That fine lady's smilin' and lookin' over here. Seems to know you; so does the man with her.”

“I--er--must request you,” said the colonel, with husky precision, “NOT to look that way, but finish your--er--repast.”

His tone was so decided that the child's lips pouted, but before she could speak a shadow leaned over their table. It was the companion of the “fine lady.”

“Don't seem to see us, Colonel,” he said with coarse familiarity, laying his hand on the colonel's shoulder. “Florry wants to know what's up.”

The colonel rose at the touch. “Tell her, sir,” he said huskily, but with slow deliberation, “that I 'am up' and leaving this place with my ward, Miss Stannard. Good-morning.” He lifted Pansy with infinite courtesy from her chair, took her hand, strolled to the counter, threw down a gold piece, and passing the table of the astonished fair one with an inflated breast, swept with Pansy out of the shop. In the street he paused, bidding the child go on; and then, finding he was not followed by the woman's escort, rejoined his little companion.

For a few moments they walked silently side by side. Then Pansy's curiosity, getting the better of her pout, demanded information. She had applied a child's swift logic to the scene. The colonel was angry, and had punished the woman for something. She drew closer to his side, and looking up with her big eyes, said confidentially.

“What had she been a-doing?”

The colonel was amazed, embarrassed, and speechless. He was totally unprepared for the question, and as unable to answer it. His abrupt departure from the shop had been to evade the very truth now demanded of him. Only a supreme effort of mendacity was left him. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief, coughed, and began deliberately:--

“The--er--lady in question is in the habit of using a scent called--er--patchouli, a--er--perfume exceedingly distressing to me. I detected it instantly on her entrance. I wished to avoid it--without further contact. It is--er--singular but accepted fact that some people are--er--peculiarly affected by odors. I had--er--old cherished friend who always--er--fainted at the odor of jasmine; and I was intimately acquainted with General Bludyer, who--er--dropped like a shot on the presentation of a simple violet. The--er--habit of using such perfumes excessively in public,” continued the colonel, looking down upon the innocent Pansy, and speaking in tones of deadly deliberation, “cannot be too greatly condemned, as well as the habit of--er--frequenting places of public resort in extravagant costumes, with--er--individuals who--er--intrude upon domestic privacy. I trust you will eschew such perfumes, places, costumes, and--er--companions FOREVER and--ON ALL OCCASIONS!” The colonel had raised his voice to his forensic emphasis, and Pansy, somewhat alarmed, assented. Whether she entirely accepted the colonel's explanation was another matter.

The incident, although not again alluded to, seemed to shadow the rest of their brief afternoon holiday, and the colonel's manner was unmistakably graver. But it seemed to the child more affectionate and thoughtful. He had previously at parting submitted to be kissed by Pansy with stately tolerance and an immediate resumption of his loftiest manner. On this present leave-taking he laid his straight closely shaven lips on the crown of her dark head, and as her small arms clipped his neck, drew her closely to his side. The child uttered a slight cry; the colonel hurriedly put his hand to his breast. Her round cheek had come in contact with his derringer--a small weapon of beauty and precision--which invariably nestled also at his side, in his waistcoat pocket. The child laughed; so did the colonel, but his cheek flushed mightily.

It was four months later, and a turbulent night. The early rains, driven by a strong southwester against the upper windows of the Magnolia Restaurant, sometimes blurred the radiance of the bright lights within, and the roar of the encompassing pines at times drowned the sounds of song and laughter that rose from a private supper room. Even the clattering arrival and departure of the Sacramento stage coach, which disturbed the depths below, did not affect these upper revelers. For Colonel Starbottle, Jack Hamlin, Judge Beeswinger, and Jo Wynyard, assisted by Mesdames Montague, Montmorency, Bellefield, and “Tinky” Clifford, of the “Western Star Combination Troupe,” then performing “on tour,” were holding “high jinks” in the supper room. The colonel had been of late moody, irritable, and easily upset. In the words of a friend and admirer, “he was kam only at twelve paces.”

In a lull in the general tumult a Chinese waiter was seen at the door vainly endeavoring to attract the attention of the colonel by signs and interjections. Mr. Hamlin's quick eye first caught sight of the intruder. “Come in, Confucius,” said Jack pleasantly; “you're a trifle late for a regular turn, but any little thing in the way of knife swallowing”--

“Lill missee to see connle! Waitee waitee, bottom side housee,” interrupted the Chinaman, dividing his speech between Jack and the colonel.

“What! ANOTHER lady? This is no place for me!” said Jack, rising with finely simulated decorum.

“Ask her up,” chirped “Tinky” Clifford.

But at this moment the door opened against the Chinaman, and a small figure in a cloak and hat, dripping with raindrops, glided swiftly in. After a moment's half-frightened, half-admiring glance at the party, she darted forward with a little cry and threw her wet arms round the colonel. The rest of the company, arrested in their festivity, gasped with vague and smiling wonder; the colonel became purple and gasped. But only for a moment. The next instant he was on his legs, holding the child with one hand, while with the other he described a stately sweep of the table.

“My ward--Miss Pansy Stannard,” he said with husky brevity. But drawing the child aside, he whispered quickly, “What has happened? Why are you here?”

But Pansy, child-like, already diverted by the lights, the table piled with delicacies, the gayly dressed women, and the air of festivity, answered half abstractedly, and as much, perhaps, to the curious eyes about her as to the colonel's voice,--

“I runned away!”

“Hush!” whispered the colonel, aghast.

But Pansy, responding again to the company rather than her guardian's counsel, and as if appealing to them, went on half poutingly: “Yes! I runned away because they teased me! Because they didn't like you and said horrid things. Because they told awful, dreadful lies! Because they said I wasn't no orphan!--that my name wasn't Stannard, and that you'd made it all up. Because they said I was a liar--and YOU WAS MY FATHER!”

A sudden outbreak of laughter here shook the room, and even drowned the storm outside; again and again it rose, as the colonel staggered gaspingly to his feet. For an instant it seemed as if his struggles to restrain himself would end in an apoplectic fit. Perhaps it was for this reason that Jack Hamlin checked his own light laugh and became alert and grave. Yet the next moment Colonel Starbottle went as suddenly dead white, as leaning over the table he said huskily, but deliberately, “I must request the ladies present to withdraw.”

“Don't mind US, Colonel,” said Judge Beeswinger, “it's all in the family here, you know! And now I look at the girl--hang it all! she DOES favor you, old man. Ha! ha!”

“And as for the ladies,” said Wynyard with a weak, vinous laugh, “unless any of 'em is inclined to take the matter as PERSONAL--eh?”

“Stop!” roared the colonel.

There was no mistaking his voice nor his intent now. The two men, insulted and instantly sobered, were silent. Mr. Hamlin rose, playfully but determinedly tapped his fair companions on the shoulders, saying, “Run away and play, girls,” actually bundled them, giggling and protesting, from the room, closed the door, and stood with his back against it. Then it was seen that the colonel, still very white, was holding the child by the hand, as she shrank back wonderingly and a little frightened against him.

“I thank YOU, Mr. Hamlin,” said the colonel in a lower voice--yet with a slight touch of his habitual stateliness in it, “for being here to bear witness, in the presence of this child, to my unqualified statement that a more foul, vile, and iniquitous falsehood never was uttered than that which has been poured into her innocent ears!” He paused, walked to the door, still holding her hand, and, as Mr. Hamlin stepped aside, opened it, told her to await him in the public parlor, closed the door again, and once more faced the two men. “And,” he continued more deliberately, “for the infamous jests that you, Judge Beeswinger, and you, Mr. Wynyard, have dared to pass in her presence and mine, I shall expect from each of you the fullest satisfaction--personal satisfaction. My seconds will wait on you in the morning!”

The two men stood up sobered--yet belligerent.

“As you like, sir,” said Beeswinger, flashing.

“The sooner the better for me,” added Wynyard curtly.

They passed the unruffled Jack Hamlin with a smile and a vaguely significant air, as if calling him as a witness to the colonel's madness, and strode out of the room.

As the door closed behind them, Mr. Hamlin lightly settled his white waistcoat, and, with his hands on his hips, lounged towards the colonel. “And THEN?” he said quietly.

“Eh?” said the colonel.

“After you've shot one or both of these men, or one of 'em has knocked you out, what's to become of that child?”

“If--I am--er--spared, sir,” said the colonel huskily, “I shall continue to defend her--against calumny and sneers”--

“In this style, eh? After her life has been made a hell by her association with a man of your reputation, you propose to whitewash it by a quarrel with a couple of drunken scallawags like Beeswinger and Wynyard, in the presence of three painted trollops and a d----d scamp like myself! Do you suppose this won't be blown all over California before she can be sent back to school? Do you suppose those cackling hussies in the next room won't give the whole story away to the next man who stands treat?” (A fine contempt for the sex in general was one of Mr. Hamlin's most subtle attractions for them.)

“Nevertheless, sir,” stammered the colonel, “the prompt punishment of the man who has dared”--

“Punishment!” interrupted Hamlin, “who's to punish the man who has dared most? The one man who is responsible for the whole thing? Who's to punish YOU?”

“Mr. Hamlin--sir!” gasped the colonel, falling back, as his hand involuntarily rose to the level of his waistcoat pocket and his derringer.

But Mr. Hamlin only put down the wine glass he had lifted from the table and was delicately twirling between his fingers, and looked fixedly at the colonel.

“Look here,” he said slowly. “When the boys said that you accepted the guardianship of that child NOT on account of Dick Stannard, but only as a bluff against the joke they'd set up at you, I didn't believe them! When these men and women to-night tumbled to that story of the child being YOURS, I didn't believe that! When it was said by others that you were serious about making her your ward, and giving her your property, because you doted on her like a father, I didn't believe that.”

“And--why not THAT?” said the colonel quickly, yet with an odd tremor in his voice.

“Because,” said Hamlin, becoming suddenly as grave as the colonel, “I could not believe that any one who cared a picayune for the child could undertake a trust that might bring her into contact with a life and company as rotten as ours. I could not believe that even the most God-forsaken, conceited fool would, for the sake of a little sentimental parade and splurge among people outside his regular walk, allow the prospects of that child to be blasted. I couldn't believe it, even if he thought he was acting like a father. I didn't believe it--but I'm beginning to believe it now!”

There was little to choose between the attitudes and expressions of the two set stern faces now regarding each other, silently, a foot apart. But the colonel was the first to speak:--

“Mr. Hamlin--sir! You said a moment ago that I was--er--ahem--responsible for this evening's affair--but you expressed a doubt as to who could--er--punish me for it. I accept the responsibility you have indicated, sir, and offer you that chance. But as this matter between us must have precedence over--my engagements with that canaille, I shall expect you with your seconds at sunrise on Burnt Ridge. Good-evening, sir.”

With head erect the colonel left the room. Mr. Hamlin slightly shrugged his shoulders, turned to the door of the room whither he had just banished the ladies, and in a few minutes his voice was heard melodiously among the gayest.

For all that he managed to get them away early. When he had bundled them into a large carryall, and watched them drive away through the storm, he returned for a minute to the waiting room for his overcoat. He was surprised to hear the sound of the child's voice in the supper room, and the door being ajar, he could see quite distinctly that she was seated at the table, with a plate full of sweets before her, while Colonel Starbottle, with his back to the door, was sitting opposite to her, his shoulders slightly bowed as he eagerly watched her. It seemed to Mr. Hamlin that it was the close of an emotional interview, for Pansy's voice was broken, partly by sobs, and partly, I grieve to say, by the hurried swallowing of the delicacies before her. Yet, above the beating of the storm outside, he could hear her saying,--

“Yes! I promise to be good--(sob)--and to go with Mrs. Pyecroft--(sob)--and to try to like another guardian--(sob)--and not to cry any more--(sob)--and--oh, please, DON'T YOU DO IT EITHER!”

But here Mr. Hamlin slipped out of the room and out of the house, with a rather grave face. An hour later, when the colonel drove up to the Pyecrofts' door with Pansy, he found that Mr. Pyecroft was slightly embarrassed, and a figure, which, in the darkness, seemed to resemble Mr. Hamlin's, had just emerged from the door as he entered.

Yet the sun was not up on Burnt Ridge earlier than Mr. Hamlin. The storm of the night before had blown itself out; a few shreds of mist hung in the valleys from the Ridge, that lay above coldly reddening. Then a breeze swept over it, and out of the dissipating mist fringe Mr. Hamlin saw two black figures, closely buttoned up like himself, emerge, which he recognized as Beeswinger and Wynyard, followed by their seconds. But the colonel came not, Hamlin joined the others in an animated confidential conversation, attended by a watchful outlook for the missing adversary. Five, ten minutes elapsed, and yet the usually prompt colonel was not there. Mr. Hamlin looked grave; Wynyard and Beeswinger exchanged interrogatory glances. Then a buggy was seen driving furiously up the grade, and from it leaped Colonel Starbottle, accompanied by Dick MacKinstry, his second, carrying his pistol case. And then--strangely enough for men who were waiting the coming of an antagonist who was a dead shot--they drew a breath of relief!

MacKinstry slightly preceded his principal, and the others could see that Starbottle, though erect, was walking slowly. They were surprised also to observe that he was haggard and hollow eyed, and seemed, in the few hours that had elapsed since they last saw him, to have aged ten years. MacKinstry, a tall Kentuckian, saluted, and was the first one to speak.

“Colonel Starbottle,” he said formally, “desires to express his regrets at this delay, which was unavoidable, as he was obliged to attend his ward, who was leaving by the down coach for Sacramento with Mrs. Pyecroft, this morning.” Hamlin, Wynyard, and Beeswinger exchanged glances. “Colonel Starbottle,” continued MacKinstry, turning to his principal, “desires to say a word to Mr. Hamlin.”

As Mr. Hamlin would have advanced from the group, Colonel Starbottle lifted his hand deprecatingly. “What I have to say must be said before these gentlemen,” he began slowly. “Mr. Hamlin--sir! when I solicited the honor of this meeting I was under a grievous misapprehension of the intent and purpose of your comments on my action last evening. I think,” he added, slightly inflating his buttoned-up figure, “that the reputation I have always borne in--er--meetings of this kind will prevent any--er--misunderstanding of my present action--which is to--er--ask permission to withdraw my challenge--and to humbly beg your pardon.”

The astonishment produced by this unexpected apology, and Mr. Hamlin's prompt grasp of the colonel's hand, had scarcely passed before the colonel drew himself up again, and turning to his second said, “And now I am at the service of Judge Beeswinger and Mr. Wynyard--whichever may elect to honor me first.”

But the two men thus addressed looked for a moment strangely foolish and embarrassed. Yet the awkwardness was at last broken by Judge Beeswinger frankly advancing towards the colonel with an outstretched hand. “We came here only to apologize, Colonel Starbottle. Without possessing your reputation and experience in these matters, we still think we can claim, as you have, an equal exemption from any misunderstanding when we say that we deeply regret our foolish and discourteous conduct last evening.”

A quick flush mounted to the colonel's haggard cheek as he drew back with a suspicious glance at Hamlin.

“Mr. Hamlin!--gentlemen!--if this is--er--!”

But before he could finish his sentence Hamlin had clapped his hand on the colonel's shoulder. “You'll take my word, colonel, that these gentlemen honestly intended to apologize, and came here for that purpose;--and--SO DID I--only you anticipated me!”

In the laughter that followed Mr. Hamlin's frankness the colonel's features relaxed grimly, and he shook the hands of his late possible antagonists.

“And now,” said Mr. Hamlin gayly, “you'll all adjourn to breakfast with me--and try to make up for the supper we left unfinished last night.”

It was the only allusion to that interruption and its consequences, for during the breakfast the colonel said nothing in regard to his ward, and the other guests were discreetly reticent. But Mr. Hamlin was not satisfied. He managed to get the colonel's servant, Jim, aside, and extracted from the negro that Colonel Starbottle had taken the child that night to Pyecroft's; that he had had a long interview with Pyecroft; had written letters and “walked de flo'” all night; that he (Jim) was glad the child was gone!

“Why?” asked Hamlin, with affected carelessness.

“She was just makin' de kernel like any o' de low-down No'th'n folks--keerful, and stingy, and mighty 'fraid o' de opinions o' de biggety people. And fo' what? Jess to strut round wid dat child like he was her 'spectable go to meeting fader!”

“And was the child sorry to leave him?” asked Hamlin.

“Wull--no, sah. De mighty curos thing, Marse Jack, about the gals--big and little--is dey just USE de kernel--dat's all! Dey just use de ole man like a pole to bring down deir persimmons--see?”

But Mr. Hamlin did not smile.

Later it was known that Colonel Starbottle had resigned his guardianship with the consent of the court. Whether he ever again saw his late ward was not known, nor if he remained loyal to his memories of her.

Readers of these chronicles may, however, remember that years after, when the colonel married the widow of a certain Mr. Tretherick, both in his courtship and his short married life he was singularly indifferent to the childish graces of Carrie Tretherick, her beloved little daughter, and that his obtuseness in that respect provoked the widow's ire.

PROSPER'S “OLD MOTHER”

“It's all very well,” said Joe Wynbrook, “for us to be sittin' here, slingin' lies easy and comfortable, with the wind whistlin' in the pines outside, and the rain just liftin' the ditches to fill our sluice boxes with gold ez we're smokin' and waitin', but I tell you what, boys--it ain't home! No, sir, it ain't HOME!”

The speaker paused, glanced around the bright, comfortable barroom, the shining array of glasses beyond, and the circle of complacent faces fronting the stove, on which his own boots were cheerfully steaming, lifted a glass of whiskey from the floor under his chair, and in spite of his deprecating remark, took a long draught of the spirits with every symptom of satisfaction.

“If ye mean,” returned Cyrus Brewster, “that it ain't the old farmhouse of our boyhood, 'way back in the woods, I'll agree with you; but ye'll just remember that there wasn't any gold placers lying round on the medder on that farm. Not much! Ef thar had been, we wouldn't have left it.”

“I don't mean that,” said Joe Wynbrook, settling himself comfortably back in his chair; “it's the family hearth I'm talkin' of. The soothin' influence, ye know--the tidiness of the women folks.”

“Ez to the soothin' influence,” remarked the barkeeper, leaning his elbows meditatively on his counter, “afore I struck these diggin's I had a grocery and bar, 'way back in Mizzoori, where there was five old-fashioned farms jined. Blame my skin ef the men folks weren't a darned sight oftener over in my grocery, sittin' on barrils and histin' in their reg'lar corn-juice, than ever any of you be here--with all these modern improvements.”

“Ye don't catch on, any of you,” returned Wynbrook impatiently. “Ef it was a mere matter o' buildin' houses and becomin' family men, I reckon that this yer camp is about prosperous enough to do it, and able to get gals enough to marry us, but that would be only borryin' trouble and lettin' loose a lot of jabberin' women to gossip agin' each other and spile all our friendships. No, gentlemen! What we want here--each of us--is a good old mother! Nothin' new-fangled or fancy, but the reg'lar old-fashioned mother we was used to when we was boys!”

The speaker struck a well-worn chord--rather the worse for wear, and one that had jangled falsely ere now, but which still produced its effect. The men were silent. Thus encouraged, Wynbrook proceeded:--

“Think o' comin' home from the gulch a night like this and findin' yer old mother a-waitin' ye! No fumblin' around for the matches ye'd left in the gulch; no high old cussin' because the wood was wet or you forgot to bring it in; no bustlin' around for your dry things and findin' you forgot to dry 'em that mornin'--but everything waitin' for ye and ready. And then, mebbe, she brings ye in some doughnuts she's just cooked for ye--cooked ez only SHE kin cook 'em! Take Prossy Riggs--alongside of me here--for instance! HE'S made the biggest strike yet, and is puttin' up a high-toned house on the hill. Well! he'll hev it finished off and furnished slap-up style, you bet! with a Chinese cook, and a Biddy, and a Mexican vaquero to look after his horse--but he won't have no mother to housekeep! That is,” he corrected himself perfunctorily, turning to his companion, “you've never spoke o' your mother, so I reckon you're about fixed up like us.”

The young man thus addressed flushed slightly, and then nodded his head with a sheepish smile. He had, however, listened to the conversation with an interest almost childish, and a reverent admiration of his comrades--qualities which, combined with an intellect not particularly brilliant, made him alternately the butt and the favorite of the camp. Indeed, he was supposed to possess that proportion of stupidity and inexperience which, in mining superstition, gives “luck” to its possessor. And this had been singularly proven in the fact that he had made the biggest “strike” of the season.

Joe Wynbrook's sentimentalism, albeit only argumentative and half serious, had unwittingly touched a chord of simple history, and the flush which had risen to his cheek was not entirely bashfulness. The home and relationship of which they spoke so glibly, HE had never known; he was a foundling! As he lay awake that night he remembered the charitable institution which had protected his infancy, the master to whom he had later been apprenticed; that was all he knew of his childhood. In his simple way he had been greatly impressed by the strange value placed by his companions upon the family influence, and he had received their extravagance with perfect credulity. In his absolute ignorance and his lack of humor he had detected no false quality in their sentiment. And a vague sense of his responsibility, as one who had been the luckiest, and who was building the first “house” in the camp, troubled him. He lay staringly wide awake, hearing the mountain wind, and feeling warm puffs of it on his face through the crevices of the log cabin, as he thought of the new house on the hill that was to be lathed and plastered and clapboarded, and yet void and vacant of that mysterious “mother”! And then, out of the solitude and darkness, a tremendous idea struck him that made him sit up in his bunk!

A day or two later “Prossy” Riggs stood on a sand-blown, wind-swept suburb of San Francisco, before a large building whom forbidding exterior proclaimed that it was an institution of formal charity. It was, in fact, a refuge for the various waifs and strays of ill-advised or hopeless immigration. As Prosper paused before the door, certain told recollections of a similar refuge were creeping over him, and, oddly enough, he felt as embarrassed as if he had been seeking relief for himself. The perspiration stood out on his forehead as he entered the room of the manager.

It chanced, however, that this official, besides being a man of shrewd experience of human weakness, was also kindly hearted, and having, after his first official scrutiny of his visitor and his resplendent watch chain, assured himself that he was not seeking personal relief, courteously assisted him in his stammering request.

“If I understand you, you want some one to act as your housekeeper?”

“That's it! Somebody to kinder look arter things--and me--ginrally,” returned Prosper, greatly relieved.

“Of what age?” continued the manager, with a cautious glance at the robust youth and good-looking, simple face of Prosper.

“I ain't nowise partickler--ez long ez she's old--ye know. Ye follow me? Old--ez of--betwixt you an' me, she might be my own mother.”

The manager smiled inwardly. A certain degree of discretion was noticeable in this rustic youth! “You are quite right,” he answered gravely, “as yours is a mining camp where there are no other women, Still, you don't want any one TOO old or decrepit. There is an elderly maiden lady”--But a change was transparently visible on Prosper's simple face, and the manager paused.

“She oughter be kinder married, you know--ter be like a mother,” stammered Prosper.

“Oh, ay. I see,” returned the manager, again illuminated by Prosper's unexpected wisdom.

He mused for a moment. “There is,” he began tentatively, “a lady in reduced circumstances--not an inmate of this house, but who has received some relief from us. She was the wife of a whaling captain who died some years ago, and broke up her home. She was not brought up to work, and this, with her delicate health, has prevented her from seeking active employment. As you don't seem to require that of her, but rather want an overseer, and as your purpose, I gather, is somewhat philanthropical, you might induce her to accept a 'home' with you. Having seen better days, she is rather particular,” he added, with a shrewd smile.

Simple Prosper's face was radiant. “She'll have a Chinaman and a Biddy to help her,” he said quickly. Then recollecting the tastes of his comrades, he added, half apologetically, half cautiously, “Ef she could, now and then, throw herself into a lemming pie or a pot of doughnuts, jest in a motherly kind o' way, it would please the boys.”

“Perhaps you can arrange that, too,” returned the manager, “but I shall have to broach the whole subject to her, and you had better call again to-morrow, when I will give you her answer.”

“Ye kin say,” said Prosper, lightly fingering his massive gold chain and somewhat vaguely recalling the language of advertisement, “that she kin have the comforts of a home and no questions asked, and fifty dollars a month.”

Rejoiced at the easy progress of his plan, and half inclined to believe himself a miracle of cautious diplomacy, Prosper, two days later, accompanied the manager to the cottage on Telegraph Hill where the relict of the late Captain Pottinger lamented the loss of her spouse, in full view of the sea he had so often tempted. On their way thither the manager imparted to Prosper how, according to hearsay, that lamented seaman had carried into the domestic circle those severe habits of discipline which had earned for him the prefix of “Bully” and “Belaying-pin” Pottinger during his strenuous life. “They say that though she is very quiet and resigned, she once or twice stood up to the captain; but that's not a bad quality to have, in a rough community, as I presume yours is, and would insure her respect.”

Ushered at last into a small tank-like sitting room, whose chief decorations consisted of large abelone shells, dried marine algae, coral, and a swordfish's broken weapon, Prosper's disturbed fancy discovered the widow, sitting, apparently, as if among her husband's remains at the bottom of the sea. She had a dejected yet somewhat ruddy face; her hair was streaked with white, but primly disposed over her ears like lappets, and her garb was cleanly but sombre. There was no doubt but that she was a lugubrious figure, even to Prosper's optimistic and inexperienced mind. He could not imagine her as beaming on his hearth! It was with some alarm that, after the introduction had been completed, he beheld the manager take his leave. As the door closed, the bashful Prosper felt the murky eyes of the widow fixed upon him. A gentle cough, accompanied with the resigned laying of a black mittened hand upon her chest, suggested a genteel prelude to conversation, with possible pulmonary complications.

“I am induced to accept your proposal temporarily,” she said, in a voice of querulous precision, “on account of pressing pecuniary circumstances which would not have happened had my claim against the shipowners for my dear husband's loss been properly raised. I hope you fully understand that I am unfitted both by ill health and early education from doing any menial or manual work in your household. I shall simply oversee and direct. I shall expect that the stipend you offer shall be paid monthly in advance. And as my medical man prescribes a certain amount of stimulation for my system, I shall expect to be furnished with such viands--or even”--she coughed slightly--“such beverages as may be necessary. I am far from strong--yet my wants are few.”

“Ez far ez I am ketchin' on and followin' ye, ma'am,” returned Prosper timidly, “ye'll hev everything ye want--jest like it was yer own home. In fact,” he went on, suddenly growing desperate as the difficulties of adjusting this unexpectedly fastidious and superior woman to his plan seemed to increase, “ye'll jest consider me ez yer”--But here her murky eyes were fixed on his and he faltered. Yet he had gone too far to retreat. “Ye see,” he stammered, with a hysterical grimness that was intended to be playful--“ye see, this is jest a little secret betwixt and between you and me; there'll be only you and me in the house, and it would kinder seem to the boys more homelike--ef--ef--you and me had--you bein' a widder, you know--a kind of--of”--here his smile became ghastly--“close relationship.”

The widow of Captain Pottinger here sat up so suddenly that she seemed to slip through her sombre and precise enwrappings with an exposure of the real Mrs. Pottinger that was almost improper. Her high color deepened; the pupils of her black eyes contracted in the light the innocent Prosper had poured into them. Leaning forward, with her fingers clasped on her bosom, she said: “Did you tell this to the manager?”

“Of course not,” said Prosper; “ye see, it's only a matter 'twixt you and me.”

Mrs. Pottinger looked at Prosper, drew a deep breath, and then gazed at the abelone shells for moral support. A smile, half querulous, half superior, crossed her face as she said: “This is very abrupt and unusual. There is, of course, a disparity in our ages! You have never seen me before--at least to my knowledge--although you may have heard of me. The Spraggs of Marblehead are well known--perhaps better than the Pottingers. And yet, Mr. Griggs”--

“Riggs,” suggested Prosper hurriedly.

“Riggs. Excuse me! I was thinking of young Lieutenant Griggs of the Navy, whom I knew in the days now past. Mr. Riggs, I should say. Then you want me to”--

“To be my old mother, ma'am,” said Prosper tremblingly. “That is, to pretend and look ez ef you was! You see, I haven't any, but I thought it would be nice for the boys, and make it more like home in my new house, ef I allowed that my old mother would be comin' to live with me. They don't know I never had a mother to speak of. They'll never find it out! Say ye will, Mrs. Pottinger! Do!”

And here the unexpected occurred. Against all conventional rules and all accepted traditions of fiction, I am obliged to state that Mrs. Pottinger did NOT rise up and order the trembling Prosper to leave the house! She only gripped the arm of her chair a little tighter, leaned forward, and disdaining her usual precision and refinement of speech, said quietly: “It's a bargain. If THAT'S what you're wanting, my son, you can count upon me as becoming your old mother, Cecilia Jane Pottinger Riggs, every time!”

A few days later the sentimentalist Joe Wynbrook walked into the Wild Cat saloon, where his comrades were drinking, and laid a letter down on the bar with every expression of astonishment and disgust. “Look,” he said, “if that don't beat all! Ye wouldn't believe it, but here's Prossy Riggs writin' that he came across his mother--his MOTHER, gentlemen--in 'Frisco; she hevin', unbeknownst to him, joined a party visiting the coast! And what does this blamed fool do? Why, he's goin' to bring her--that old woman--HERE! Here--gentlemen--to take charge of that new house--and spoil our fun. And the God-forsaken idiot thinks that we'll LIKE it!”

It was one of those rare mornings in the rainy season when there was a suspicion of spring in the air, and after a night of rainfall the sun broke through fleecy clouds with little islets of blue sky--when Prosper Riggs and his mother drove into Wild Cat camp. An expression of cheerfulness was on the faces of his old comrades. For it had been recognized that, after all, “Prossy” had a perfect right to bring his old mother there--his well-known youth and inexperience preventing this baleful performance from being established as a precedent. For these reasons hats were cheerfully doffed, and some jackets put on, as the buggy swept up the hill to the pretty new cottage, with its green blinds and white veranda, on the crest.

Yet I am afraid that Prosper was not perfectly happy, even in the triumphant consummation of his plans. Mrs. Pottinger's sudden and business-like acquiescence in it, and her singular lapse from her genteel precision, were gratifying but startling to his ingenuousness. And although from the moment she accepted the situation she was fertile in resources and full of precaution against any possibility of detection, he saw, with some uneasiness, that its control had passed out of his hands.

“You say your comrades know nothing of your family history?” she had said to him on the journey thither. “What are you going to tell them?”

“Nothin', 'cept your bein' my old mother,” said Prosper hopelessly.

“That's not enough, my son.” (Another embarrassment to Prosper was her easy grasp of the maternal epithets.) “Now listen! You were born just six months after your father, Captain Riggs (formerly Pottinger) sailed on his first voyage. You remember very little of him, of course, as he was away so much.”

“Hadn't I better know suthin about his looks?” said Prosper submissively.

“A tall dark man, that's enough,” responded Mrs. Pottinger sharply.

“Hadn't he better favor me?” said Prosper, with his small cunning recognizing the fact that he himself was a decided blond.

“Ain't at all necessary,” said the widow firmly. “You were always wild and ungovernable,” she continued, “and ran away from school to join some Western emigration. That accounts for the difference of our styles.”

“But,” continued Prosper, “I oughter remember suthin about our old times--runnin' arrants for you, and bringin' in the wood o' frosty mornin's, and you givin' me hot doughnuts,” suggested Prosper dubiously.

“Nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Pottinger promptly. “We lived in the city, with plenty of servants. Just remember, Prosper dear, your mother wasn't THAT low-down country style.”

Glad to be relieved from further invention, Prosper was, nevertheless, somewhat concerned at this shattering of the ideal mother in the very camp that had sung her praises. But he could only trust to her recognizing the situation with her usual sagacity, of which he stood in respectful awe.

Joe Wynbrook and Cyrus Brewster had, as older members of the camp, purposely lingered near the new house to offer any assistance to “Prossy and his mother,” and had received a brief and passing introduction to the latter. So deep and unexpected was the impression she made upon them that these two oracles of the camp retired down the hill in awkward silence for some time, neither daring to risk his reputation by comment or oversurprise.

But when they approached the curious crowd below awaiting them, Cyrus Brewster ventured to say, “Struck me ez ef that old gal was rather high-toned for Prossy's mother.”

Joe Wynbrook instantly seized the fatal admission to show the advantage of superior insight:--

“Struck YOU! Why, it was no more than I expected all along! What did we know of Prossy? Nothin'! What did he ever tell us'? Nothin'! And why'? 'Cos it was his secret. Lord! a blind mule could see that. All this foolishness and simplicity o' his come o' his bein' cuddled and pampered as a baby. Then, like ez not, he was either kidnapped or led away by some feller--and nearly broke his mother's heart. I'll bet my bottom dollar he has been advertised for afore this--only we didn't see the paper. Like as not they had agents out seekin' him, and he jest ran into their hands in 'Frisco! I had a kind o' presentiment o' this when he left, though I never let on anything.”

“I reckon, too, that she's kinder afraid he'll bolt agin. Did ye notice how she kept watchin' him all the time, and how she did the bossin' o' everything? And there's ONE thing sure! He's changed--yes! He don't look as keerless and free and foolish ez he uster.”

Here there was an unmistakable chorus of assent from the crowd that had joined them. Every one--even those who had not been introduced to the mother--had noticed his strange restraint and reticence. In the impulsive logic of the camp, conduct such as this, in the face of that superior woman--his mother--could only imply that her presence was distasteful to him; that he was either ashamed of their noticing his inferiority to her, or ashamed of THEM! Wild and hasty as was their deduction, it was, nevertheless, voiced by Joe Wynbrook in a tone of impartial and even reluctant conviction. “Well, gentlemen, some of ye may remember that when I heard that Prossy was bringin' his mother here I kicked--kicked because it only stood to reason that, being HIS mother, she'd be that foolish she'd upset the camp. There wasn't room enough for two such chuckle-heads--and one of 'em being a woman, she couldn't be shut up or sat upon ez we did to HIM. But now, gentlemen, ez we see she ain't that kind, but high-toned and level-headed, and that she's got the grip on Prossy--whether he likes it or not--we ain't goin' to let him go back on her! No, sir! we ain't goin' to let him break her heart the second time! He may think we ain't good enough for her, but ez long ez she's civil to us, we'll stand by her.”

In this conscientious way were the shackles of that unhallowed relationship slowly riveted on the unfortunate Prossy. In his intercourse with his comrades during the next two or three days their attitude was shown in frequent and ostentatious praise of his mother, and suggestive advice, such as: “I wouldn't stop at the saloon, Prossy; your old mother is wantin' ye;” or, “Chuck that 'ere tarpolin over your shoulders, Pross, and don't take your wet duds into the house that yer old mother's bin makin' tidy.” Oddly enough, much of this advice was quite sincere, and represented--for at least twenty minutes--the honest sentiments of the speaker. Prosper was touched at what seemed a revival of the sentiment under which he had acted, forgot his uneasiness, and became quite himself again--a fact also noticed by his critics. “Ye've only to keep him up to his work and he'll be the widder's joy agin,” said Cyrus Brewster. Certainly he was so far encouraged that he had a long conversation with Mrs. Pottinger that night, with the result that the next morning Joe Wynbrook, Cyrus Brewster, Hank Mann, and Kentucky Ike were invited to spend the evening at the new house. As the men, clean shirted and decently jacketed, filed into the neat sitting room with its bright carpet, its cheerful fire, its side table with a snowy cloth on which shining tea and coffee pots were standing, their hearts thrilled with satisfaction. In a large stuffed rocking chair, Prossy's old mother, wrapped up in a shawl and some mysterious ill health which seemed to forbid any exertion, received them with genteel languor and an extended black mitten.

“I cannot,” said Mrs. Pottinger, with sad pensiveness, “offer you the hospitality of my own home, gentlemen--you remember, Prosper, dear, the large salon and our staff of servants at Lexington Avenue!--but since my son has persuaded me to take charge of his humble cot, I hope you will make all allowances for its deficiencies--even,” she added, casting a look of mild reproach on the astonished Prosper--“even if HE cannot.”

“I'm sure he oughter to be thankful to ye, ma'am,” said Joe Wynbrook quickly, “for makin' a break to come here to live, jest ez we're thankful--speakin' for the rest of this camp--for yer lightin' us up ez you're doin'! I reckon I'm speakin' for the crowd,” he added, looking round him.

Murmurs of “That's so” and “You bet” passed through the company, and one or two cast a half-indignant glance at Prosper.

“It's only natural,” continued Mrs. Pottinger resignedly, “that having lived so long alone, my dear Prosper may at first be a little impatient of his old mother's control, and perhaps regret his invitation.”

“Oh no, ma'am,” said the embarrassed Prosper.

But here the mercurial Wynbrook interposed on behalf of amity and the camp's esprit de corps. “Why, Lord! ma'am, he's jest bin longin' for ye! Times and times agin he's talked about ye; sayin' how ef he could only get ye out of yer Fifth Avenue saloon to share his humble lot with him here, he'd die happy! YOU'VE heard him talk, Brewster?”

“Frequent,” replied the accommodating Brewster.

“Part of the simple refreshment I have to offer you,” continued Mrs. Pottinger, ignoring further comment, “is a viand the exact quality of which I am not familiar with, but which my son informs me is a great favorite with you. It has been prepared by Li Sing, under my direction. Prosper, dear, see that the--er--doughnuts--are brought in with the coffee.”

Satisfaction beamed on the faces of the company, with perhaps the sole exception of Prosper. As a dish containing a number of brown glistening spheres of baked dough was brought in, the men's eyes shone in sympathetic appreciation. Yet that epicurean light was for a moment dulled as each man grasped a sphere, and then sat motionless with it in his hand, as if it was a ball and they were waiting the signal for playing.

“I am told,” said Mrs. Pottinger, with a glance of Christian tolerance at Prosper, “that lightness is considered desirable by some--perhaps you gentlemen may find them heavy.”

“Thar is two kinds,” said the diplomatic Joe cheerfully, as he began to nibble his, sideways, like a squirrel, “light and heavy; some likes 'em one way, and some another.”

They were hard and heavy, but the men, assisted by the steaming coffee, finished them with heroic politeness. “And now, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Pottinger, leaning back in her chair and calmly surveying the party, “you have my permission to light your pipes while you partake of some whiskey and water.”

The guests looked up--gratified but astonished. “Are ye sure, ma'am, you don't mind it?” said Joe politely.

“Not at all,” responded Mrs. Pottinger briefly. “In fact, as my physician advises the inhalation of tobacco smoke for my asthmatic difficulties, I will join you.” After a moment's fumbling in a beaded bag that hung from her waist, she produced a small black clay pipe, filled it from the same receptacle, and lit it.

A thrill of surprise went round the company, and it was noticed that Prosper seemed equally confounded. Nevertheless, this awkwardness was quickly overcome by the privilege and example given them, and with, a glass of whiskey and water before them, the men were speedily at their ease. Nor did Mrs. Pottinger disdain to mingle in their desultory talk. Sitting there with her black pipe in her mouth, but still precise and superior, she told a thrilling whaling adventure of Prosper's father (drawn evidently from the experience of the lamented Pottinger), which not only deeply interested her hearers, but momentarily exalted Prosper in their minds as the son of that hero. “Now you speak o' that, ma'am,” said the ingenuous Wynbrook, “there's a good deal o' Prossy in that yarn o' his father's; same kind o' keerless grit! You remember, boys, that day the dam broke and he stood thar, the water up to his neck, heavin' logs in the break till he stopped it.” Briefly, the evening, in spite of its initial culinary failure and its surprises, was a decided social success, and even the bewildered and doubting Prosper went to bed relieved. It was followed by many and more informal gatherings at the house, and Mrs Pottinger so far unbent--if that term could be used of one who never altered her primness of manner--as to join in a game of poker--and even permitted herself to win.

But by the end of six weeks another change in their feelings towards Prosper seemed to creep insidiously over the camp. He had been received into his former fellowship, and even the presence of his mother had become familiar, but he began to be an object of secret commiseration. They still frequented the house, but among themselves afterwards they talked in whispers. There was no doubt to them that Prosper's old mother drank not only what her son had provided, but what she surreptitiously obtained from the saloon. There was the testimony of the barkeeper, himself concerned equally with the camp in the integrity of the Riggs household. And there was an even darker suspicion. But this must be given in Joe Wynbrook's own words:--

“I didn't mind the old woman winnin' and winnin' reg'lar--for poker's an unsartin game;--it ain't the money that we're losin'--for it's all in the camp. But when she's developing a habit o' holdin' FOUR aces when somebody else hez TWO, who don't like to let on because it's Prosper's old mother--it's gettin' rough! And dangerous too, gentlemen, if there happened to be an outsider in, or one of the boys should kick. Why, I saw Bilson grind his teeth--he holdin' a sequence flush--ace high--when the dear old critter laid down her reg'lar four aces and raked in the pile. We had to nearly kick his legs off under the table afore he'd understand--not havin' an old mother himself.”

“Some un will hev to tackle her without Prossy knowin' it. For it would jest break his heart, arter all he's gone through to get her here!” said Brewster significantly.

“Onless he DID know it and it was that what made him so sorrowful when they first came. B'gosh! I never thought o' that,” said Wynbrook, with one of his characteristic sudden illuminations.

“Well, gentlemen, whether he did or not,” said the barkeeper stoutly, “he must never know that WE know it. No, not if the old gal cleans out my bar and takes the last scad in the camp.”

And to this noble sentiment they responded as one man.

How far they would have been able to carry out that heroic resolve was never known, for an event occurred which eclipsed its importance. One morning at breakfast Mrs. Pottinger fixed a clouded eye upon Prosper.

“Prosper,” she said, with fell deliberation “you ought to know you have a sister.”

“Yes, ma'am,” returned Prosper, with that meekness with which he usually received these family disclosures.

“A sister,” continued the lady, “whom you haven't seen since you were a child; a sister who for family reasons has been living with other relatives; a girl of nineteen.”

“Yea, ma'am,” said Prosper humbly. “But ef you wouldn't mind writin' all that down on a bit o' paper--ye know my short memory! I would get it by heart to-day in the gulch. I'd have it all pat enough by night, ef,” he added, with a short sigh, “ye was kalkilatin' to make any illusions to it when the boys are here.”