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Updated: May 13, 2025
He knowed more about mining, that cat did, than any man I ever, ever see. You couldn't tell him noth'n' 'bout placer-diggin's 'n' as for pocket-mining, why he was just born for it. He would dig out after me an' Jim when we went over the hills prospect'n', and he would trot along behind us for as much as five mile, if we went so fur.
"Why don't you quit that dead work and do a little chloriding yourself? Pound out a little gold that's the way to get a stake!" Old Hassayamp spat the words out impatiently, but Rimrock seemed hardly to hear. "Nope," he said, "no pocket-mining for me. There's copper there, millions of tons of it. I'll make my winning yet." "Huh!" grunted Hassayamp, and Rimrock came out of his trance.
It was the rainy season, but on pleasant days they all went pocket-mining, and, in January, Mark Twain, Gillis, and Stoker crossed over into Calaveras County and began work near Angel's Camp, a place well known to readers of Bret Harte. They put up at a poor hotel in Angel's, and on good days worked pretty faithfully. But it was generally raining, and the food was poor.
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