[Sam P. Davis, The Pocket-Miner, from Short Stories (1886)]

 

THE POCKET-MINER.

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            In the person of the pocket-miner one finds a fair exemplification of the ups and downs of a Pacific Coast fortune-hunter. Old Slug was one of this class. I never knew his right name, and furthermore was never so fortunate as to meet anyone who did.

            I first met him on California Street, some six years ago, standing in front of a bulletin board with his chin turned up toward the quotations. His mouth was firmly set, one eye half closed, and his hands were in his pockets. He scanned the list carefully without a change of countenance, and walked away stroking his chin whiskers, which were red.

            He was next seen in a two-bit saloon circumventing a pretty good sized horn of brandy, while the barkeeper sipped a little Seltzer at his invitation. Slug threw down a $20 piece, and it was evident that he was long on the market.

            He was seen frequently on California Street, walking up and down, saying little or nothing to anybody, and drinking often. When the market rose he was extravagant in his expenditures, and with a depression he was correspondingly economical. I soon became aware of the fact that to see Old Slug blind drunk indicated a deal in Ophir.

20        SHORT STORIES.

            He came by the nick-name of " Old Slug " from the habit he had of maintaining that a $50 slug of '49 was the only true coin of the realm.

            Old Slug was a pocket-miner. Such men pin their faith on finding stowed away in the hills fortunes which nature has placed in out-of-the-way places, and to which she has forgotten to leave any clew.

            Old Slug always insisted that these deposits of gold in pockets existed mainly in Nevada county. There the hills were dotted with pine and hemlock, and the underbrush is thickened with creeping vines. Beneath this covering of verdure are quartz ledges, gravel deposits, and pockets of gold.

            Experience has taught Old Slug where to look for pockets. He despised the plan of mining practiced upon the Comstock. He cursed the sage-brush country, and had a hearty contempt for " croppings," such as are stamped upon the topography of Nevada. To mine by means of deep shafts, to take out rock to be milled, to follow plans, surveys, methods, and forms, all this smacked of a ceremonial which Old Slug loathed. To know that a ledge had a certain angle, and pay-rock could be struck by running exactly 235 feet from the winze on the 175o foot level, was reducing mining to a mathematical basis, which was to Old Slug what photography is to a painter. Chance was his goddess, and he spent the best years of his life serving her.

            I picked up a good deal of his history along the street. Almost everyone knew something about him. He had periodical appearances and disappearances, and, like Richard, would stake all upon the hazard of a die. He delighted in desperate ventures, and possessed the astonishing nerves which are born in gamblers. He doted

THE POCKET-MINER.         21

on tremendous odds, and lost more coolly than most men would win.

            One day I entered into conversation with him : "Will there be a break ?"

            " Get 'em lower if there is."

            " Will we have a market ?"

            " Cost yer more if we do."

            While I was revolving in my mind the best method of turning this information to any practical account on a capital of $30, Old Slug sauntered off to a bulletin board, scratching his chin-whiskers reflectively.

            During the same week there were feverish symptoms observable in the market. The crowds on California Street thickened daily, and signs were not wanting to the observing that San Francisco was on the eve of its periodical speculation debauch.

            Something of more than common interest was afoot in the Big Board room ; and when this great financial heat began to pulsate with stronger throbs, there was a responsive quickening in the blood which moved through the commercial arteries of the State. Ophir, the bell-wether of the market, climbed up a little higher every hour, and the lesser stocks followed in its wake. The city responded to the excitement, and a hoarse yell went up from the throat of speculation.

            Yesterday, fever.

            To-day, delirium.

            To-morrow, madness.

            Men saw fortunes accumulating on their hands without any effort of their own. The outsiders wanted to devour the whole list ; the insiders fed the famished multitude in driblets, in quantities to suit, in big blocks to order—for

22        SHORT STORIES.

cash. In the midst of all this turmoil Old Slug maintained his equilibrium.

            Nothing could disturb the knowing quiet which always held possession of the man. When the street was like a battle-field Slug was as undisturbed as a rye-patch. He simply watched the market, stroked his chin-whiskers, and drank mechanically. He was exactly the same as when a few months ago the market lay like a water-logged ship becalmed in the doldrums.

            The break came.

            There was a breath of panic on the street, and the big structure which took $45,000,000 to rear began to topple.

            " They want to get hold of our stock," said one of the wise ones.

            " They'll pay higher when they get mine," said another, equally wise.

            " They can't put 'em down after to-morrow."

            " Some of the timid holders are selling."

            The Post, author of all the spring rises, invested its stock articles with a flavor of humor that took off the edge of care, and advised people to beware of combinations to break the market temporarily.

            The public whistled merrily as it entered the graveyard. The papers still had a cheery tone, and predicted a stronger market for the coming week. They showed how Eastern capitalists were just getting interested in the Pacific Coast market.

            Keene was buying heavily. (Taking in one hundred shares with a big flourish, and letting out a thousand quietly.)

            McDonald had broken the market for a couple of days to fill his shorts.

THE POCKET-MINER.         23

            " Damn McDonald."

            The public were about to get control of the market, and would cinch the bears.

            Bless the public.

            A syndicate of bulls, backed by millions, were about to do something immense.

            For all these crumbs which fell from the editorial and reportorial tables the public were profoundly thankful.

            Everybody felt that the big magnates were sorry that they had sold, and they determined to make them pay like the devil for everything they got.

            The insiders have a habit of selling stock for little or nothing, and then paying a big price for it in thirty days. The break continued.

            Margins melted away like a line of foam disappearing upon the sand. There was a frantic call for " mud" from the brokers, who had thrown their customers' stock upon the market. Another case of an eagle who found a shaft quivering in its breast guided by a feather dropped from its own wing.

            Everybody wanted to sell and no body wanted to buy. The insiders had unloaded a few days before, and when the panic had touched bottom they bought back their stocks about seventy-five per cent. cheaper. The people found consolation in reading the newspapers which fearlessly exposed the job. These newspaper articles were written with great force and ability. The public at least had the consolation of knowing who got the money.

            In the midst of this crashing market I noticed Old Slug stroking his chin-whiskers as calmly as ever, and pouring two-bit whisky down his throttle.

            "What do you think of the situation ?" I asked one morning.

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            " They've got us again."

            In the afternoon I saw him minus his heavy gold watch and chain—" Uncle " Harris. Next day he had disappeared.

            A few days later found him back again in the hills of Nevada county, looking for a pocket. In the little cabin in the grove he had a cat, a few mining and cooking utensils, a side of bacon, and a tack of flour. He had passed through a few weeks of turmoil and excitement, and dropped $15,000. This was his vacation. Next followed a season of industry.

            He toiled away for months, pushing his little tunnel into the hill-side. Ten, twelve, and sometimes fifteen hours a day he delved and sweated in this lonely spot. He wallowed in red clay, and burrowed like a mole through the uninviting stratifications of barren quartz. Misfortunes spurned him from behind, and hope beckoned him from before. At night he rested his weary limbs on his hard bed, having accomplished nothing. He would have despised to have worked for wages at $5 a day.

            It was sad to reflect that this poor devil was slaving his life away in order to help pay for a palatial mansion on Nob Hill, from the door of which he would have been kicked had he tried to enter. His broker had begun the erection of the building with the expectation of meeting several hundred of just such men. Winter passed on, and spring opened. Old Slug got anxious when he saw the snow stealing down to the streams and the flowers budding upon the hills.

            " I must be down for the spring rise."

            His provisions were getting low, and his little store of cash could be counted with a few movements of the fingers. He worked long hours, and his toil was beginning

THE POCKET-MINER.         25

to tell. There might be gold just beyond, and there might be nothing but barrenness for rods ahead. More exasperating still, he might have passed a rich pocket a few inches to the right or left. He began to feel that Providence would never throw another channel in his way, and despondency took the place of hope.

            One afternoon, just at sundown, he struck his long-sought pocket. A blow of the pick revealed the shining treasure, and, at the next, a mass of quartz flecked with free gold rolled at his feet. He scratched his red chin whiskers, now developed into a full heard, and said softly to himself :

            " She's just blistered with it."

            That night he was spreeing royally in Grass Valley. After his debauch he settled down to business, and, for the next week or so, it was almost like taking honey from a hive. He cleaned up some $15,000—just about enough to pay for the last four-in-hand his broker had bought.

            Old Slug was now equipped for the spring rise. Grab-all & Co., of California Street, was ready for Old Slug.

            He was soon in San Francisco, and on California Street, his native heath. His big watch chain once more stretched across his vest front. His face—all but the chin whiskers—was cleanly shaven, and a diamond pin blazed in his hickory shirt front.

            He left $10,000 with his broker, and took the balance to go round and see the town. He at first contemplated a spree, but recollected that his old partner, who was caved on in a tunnel at Dutch Flat, had a widow somewhere on North Beach, and he went down there to inquire. " Have you seen any woman round here they

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call Jack Hardy's widow? " He bored hundreds with this question, and at last his patience was rewarded.

            He found her with two little children, in a hand to hand battle with poverty and an exacting landlord.

            He left some money there; no one knows how much, but it was a comfortable sum.

            Mrs. Hardy when she saw the coin—but why mangle up these scenes with a pen which can only mechanically record the bursting forth of a woman's sympathy. Old Slug gave the money with no flourish. He simply laid down the sack on the table, remarking : " I prospected with Hardy. You stow that away," and got out of the place at once, because he hated to see a woman cry. She never knew who left the money.

            That night he turned himself loose, as he called it.

            When he started on his spree the spring rise began.

            Old Slug's doings kept pace with the market in which he had invested. He smashed up a team coming in from the Cliff, at four o'clock in the morning. He made a pandemonium of all the fashionable and bad resorts at night, and thrashed several of his old enemies by day. His fines one morning at Louderback's levee were $450. He paid his fines, kept up his spree, and otherwise enjoyed himself.

            Bracing up, he went down to California street, to find he was worth $20,000 and the market boiling.

            Assuring his broker that he was still on deck, he drew a thousand dollars from his winnings and plunged again into a midnight hilarity and heavy tussels with the tiger. In a week Ophir was $280 and booming.

            Old Slug was worth $100,000.

            " Now Slug," he said, reflectively, "don't make a blasted ass of yourself again. Sell out and quit."

THE POCKET-MINER.         27

            Old Slug's broker was on the verge of ruin. A combination of men had vowed his financial downfall—and that sort of fall embraces all the rest—and now they had him in their toils. He was struggling in a net-work which a gang of shrewd speculators had woven about him. These highwaymen of California Street were calling upon him to stand and deliver. Nothing short of the Bank of California could have saved him. He went over to that little brown building and implored for help. He little knew just then that the weapon held by his enemies was forged in that same place. He got no assistance, cursed himself for shorting at the wrong time on such a market, and then began sacrificing his customers' stock.

            Next day he was a dead cock in the pit. The afternoon papers gave detailed accounts of his failure, and the clique who engineered his ruin had a sumptuous spread at the Poodle Dog that night. The broker of shattered fortune improved the opportunity of being alone a few moments that evening by blowing out his brains.

            Old Slug was again a pauper. He simply remarked : " Got me again, by Jove !" soaked his watch, and started for the foothills to find another pocket.

            On the Stockton boat that afternoon, a man who had been acting quite strangely in the cabin was suddenly observed to spring upon the wheel-house and shout :

            " Sixty-five for any part of a thousand !" All looked up. It was Old Slug.

            " Sixty-six—sell 'er thirty."

            There was no response, and waving his hands aloft, he sprang into the bay.

            The boats were promptly lowered, the poor devil picked

28        SHORT STORIES.

up, and, a few days afterwards, he was duly installed inmate- of the lunatic asylum.

            He was very quiet for a few weeks, but one morning he glanced at the clock ; it was on the stroke of eleven. Mounting a chair he called every body to order by rapping on a table in front, and the throng of madmen and women about him paused and crowded to the front. Old Slug leaned over and shouted :

            " Ophir !" in a voice which rang through the building. "Seventy-five for a hundred shares !" yelled a man springing from the corner of the room.

            "Eighty for any part of a thousand," was echoed back. The last voice sounded so business-like that the motley crowd caught up the cry at once and began to bid uproariously.

            None had stock to sell. All were anxious to buy.

            The crazed creatures crowded about Old Slug, and, with glaring eyes and screeching voices, they beat each other's breasts, and bid for the stock in lots ranging from ten shares to a hundred thousand.

            The scene grew wilder every instant. The crowd, of some score or more who began the deal were soon joined by others, who came flocking in from all sides, and melted into the excitement.

            Frenzied men and decrepit old women clutched each other's rags, and fought for place as they bulled the stock, and it rose spasmodically $20,000 per share in three minutes. " Thus the poor devils went down the list, raving of fortunes lost and won.

            The market closed with a deal in the wild cats, which left Phoenix at $800, and Pictou at $650 a share.

            After that the authorities of the asylum kept Old Slug by himself that the excitement might not be repeated.

THE POCKET-MINER.         29

            Each day at eleven, however, even when the poor fellow had no timepiece to go by, he would rise solemnly to his feet, and call the list in regular order. After a few weeks he became quiet, and one day he was missing.

            He had escaped.

            A few months later some miners found a skeleton in an old, deserted tunnel.

            It was the same one in which Old Slug had struck his rich pocket.

            The tunnel had been worked a few feet beyond, the fleshless hand of the skeleton still grasped the pick. Where the quartz had fallen away the glittering ore was in sight. The poor lunatic had died while drifting for a pocket.

            He is still drifting—drifting into that unprospected country beyond the grave, where the theological expert assures us the ore is rich with gold of divine forgiveness, and where the market of everlasting happiness booms without a single break. If Old Slug locates in that district, let us hope that the work of charity he performed when he left a sack of gold upon the widow's table, will enable him to hold his claim for ever.