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Updated: June 24, 2025
"How could the master know that Jack and Columbus did not do it themselves?" said others. "Maybe they did!" "Don't tell me!" cried old Mrs. Horne. "Don't tell me! Boys can't be managed without whipping, and plenty of it. 'Bring up a child and away he goes, as the Bible says. When you hire a master, you want a master, says I." "What a tongue that Sue Lanham has got!" said Mr. Higbie, Mr.
Under the laws of the district, work of a certain character must be done upon the claim within ten days after location in order to establish the right of possession. Mark was called away to the bedside of a sick friend, Higbie failed to receive Mark's note, and the work was never done each thinking it was being properly attended to by the other.
We claimed two hundred feet each six hundred feet in all the smallest and compactest organization in the district, and the easiest to manage. No one can be so thoughtless as to suppose that we slept, that night. Higbie and I went to bed at midnight, but it was only to lie broad awake and think, dream, scheme.
Higbie had been dreaming about the marvelous cement for months; and now, against his better judgment, he had gone off and "taken the chances" on my keeping secure a mine worth a million undiscovered cement veins. They had not been followed this time. His riding out of town in broad daylight was such a common-place thing to do that it had not attracted any attention.
He grew quiet, now, and the doctor and I withdrew and left him to his friends. It was a little after one o'clock. As I entered the cabin door, tired but jolly, the dingy light of a tallow candle revealed Higbie, sitting by the pine table gazing stupidly at my note, which he held in his fingers, and looking pale, old, and haggard. I halted, and looked at him. He looked at me, stolidly.
Once Higbie said: "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.
Just as the darkness shut down we came booming into port, head on. Higbie dropped his oars to hurrah I dropped mine to help the sea gave the boat a twist, and over she went! The agony that alkali water inflicts on bruises, chafes and blistered hands, is unspeakable, and nothing but greasing all over will modify it but we ate, drank and slept well, that night, notwithstanding.
Once Higbie said: "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.
He contracted a severe cold and came near getting poisoned by the chemicals. Recovering, he went with Higbie for an outing to Mono Lake, a ghastly, lifeless alkali sea among the hills, vividly described in "Roughing It." At another time he went with Higbie on a walking trip to the Yosemite, where they camped and fished undisturbed, for in those days few human beings came to that far isolation.
A year ago my esteemed and in every way estimable old millionaire partner, Higbie, wrote me from an obscure little mining camp in California that after nine or ten years of buffetings and hard striving, he was at last in a position where he could command twenty-five hundred dollars, and said he meant to go into the fruit business in a modest way.
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