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Dick showed this letter to his last and only friend, the ex-deacon, the Rev. Tudor Crisp, known to many publicans and sinners as the 'Bishop. The two digested the parson's words in a small cabin situated upon a pitiful patch of ill-cultivated land; land irreclaimably mortgaged to the hilt, which the 'Bishop' spoke of as "my place."
While the ex-deacon, Uncle Ben, was trying to determine to go home, he found quite a pretty nugget that settled his mind, and he announced that same night, at the store, that all his mining property was for sale, as he was going back East. "I'll go with you, Uncle Ben," said Fourteenth Street.
But, very unhappily for Dick, the supply of fools suddenly failed, and, lo! Dick's occupation was gone. Finally, in despair, he allied himself to another remittance man, an ex-deacon of the Church of England, and the two drifted slowly out of decent society upon a full tide of Bourbon whisky.
But one evening, during a temporary lull in the conversation at Sim Ripson's, old Uncle Ben, ex-deacon of a New Hampshire church, lifted up his voice, and remarked: "'Pears to me Blizzer's beginnin' to look scrumptious. He used to be the shabbiest man in camp."
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