“When are you going home–to the States?”
“To-morrow!”–with an evolution or two, ending with a sitting position.
“Well–no–but next month, at furthest.”
“We’ll go in the same steamer.”
“Agreed.”
A pause.
“Steamer of the 10th?”
“Yes. No, the 1st.”
“All right.”
Another pause.
“Where are you going to live?” said Higbie.
“San Francisco.”
“That’s me!”
Pause.
“Too high–too much climbing”–from Higbie.
“What is?”
“I was thinking of Russian Hill–building a house up there.”
“Too much climbing? Shan’t you keep a carriage?”
“Of course. I forgot that.”
Pause.
“Cal., what kind of a house are you going to build?”
“I was thinking about that. Three-story and an attic.”
“But what kind?”
“Well, I don’t hardly know. Brick, I suppose.”
“Brick–bosh.”
“Why? What is your idea?”
“Brown stone front–French plate glass–billiard-room off the dining-
room–statuary and paintings–shrubbery and two-acre grass plat–
greenhouse–iron dog on the front stoop–gray horses–landau, and a
coachman with a bug on his hat!”
“By George!”
A long pause.
“Cal., when are you going to Europe?”
“Well–I hadn’t thought of that. When are you?”
“In the Spring.”
“Going to be gone all summer?”
“All summer! I shall remain there three years.”
“No–but are you in earnest?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I will go along too.”
“Why of course you will.”
“What part of Europe shall you go to?”
“All parts. France, England, Germany–Spain, Italy, Switzerland, Syria,
Greece, Palestine, Arabia, Persia, Egypt–all over–everywhere.”
“I’m agreed.”
“All right.”
“Won’t it be a swell trip!”
“We’ll spend forty or fifty thousand dollars trying to make it one,
anyway.”
Another long pause.
“Higbie, we owe the butcher six dollars, and he has been threatening to
stop our–”
“Hang the butcher!”
“Amen.”
And so it went on. By three o’clock we found it was no use, and so we
got up and played cribbage and smoked pipes till sunrise. It was my week
to cook. I always hated cooking–now, I abhorred it.
The news was all over town. The former excitement was great–this one
was greater still. I walked the streets serene and happy. Higbie said
the foreman had been offered two hundred thousand dollars for his third
of the mine. I said I would like to see myself selling for any such
price. My ideas were lofty. My figure was a million. Still, I honestly
believe that if I had been offered it, it would have had no other effect
than to make me hold off for more.
I found abundant enjoyment in being rich. A man offered me a three-
hundred-dollar horse, and wanted to take my simple, unendorsed note for
it. That brought the most realizing sense I had yet had that I was
actually rich, beyond shadow of doubt. It was followed by numerous other
evidences of a similar nature–among which I may mention the fact of the
butcher leaving us a double supply of meat and saying nothing about
money.
By the laws of the district, the “locators” or claimants of a ledge were
obliged to do a fair and reasonable amount of work on their new property
within ten days after the date of the location, or the property was
forfeited, and anybody could go and seize it that chose. So we
determined to go to work the next day. About the middle of the
afternoon, as I was coming out of the post office, I met a Mr. Gardiner,
who told me that Capt. John Nye was lying dangerously ill at his place
(the “Nine-Mile Ranch”), and that he and his wife were not able to give
him nearly as much care and attention as his case demanded. I said if he
would wait for me a moment, I would go down and help in the sick room.
I ran to the cabin to tell Higbie. He was not there, but I left a note
on the table for him, and a few minutes later I left town in Gardiner’s
wagon.
CHAPTER XLI.
Captain Nye was very ill indeed, with spasmodic rheumatism. But the old
gentleman was himself–which is to say, he was kind-hearted and agreeable
when comfortable, but a singularly violent wild-cat when things did not
go well. He would be smiling along pleasantly enough, when a sudden