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Adams, quickly. "But I owe you the mine, anyway," insisted Mr. Motte. "Your ticket from Panama was what brought me to San Francisco." "The whole thing's soon settled," boomed the big red-shirt. "Hooray for Gold Hill!" cheered the miners. "An' I further app'int Eph Saunders clerk, to record the minutes when he gets whar thar's somethin' to record with.
The rhetorical trick of belittling the matter by speaking of it as "fisticuffs" will not pass in this discussion. When the South Carolina negroes on election day looked into the rifle-barrels of the Red-shirt clubs, it was no matter of fisticuffs. When every statesman in our country was eagerly seeking a peaceful solution of the Hayes-Tilden dispute, it was not fisticuffs that they feared.
Charley daringly darted forward and picked them up. Billy followed and rescued his rifle. "Are those the same?" queried red-shirt, of Charley. "Yes, sir." "All right. Now," repeated red-shirt, to the Jacobs trio, "you git, as aforesaid." They had left not only Billy's gun, but their own guns also. Young Mrs. Motte now was speaking, and so was her husband. "It isn't fair," she declared bravely.
The heads of the three men in the hollow poked up over the rim, as their owners surveyed, probably in amazement, the onslaught. The muzzles of the guns protruded, also, but the big red-shirt made no account of them. "Come out o' thar!" he roared, in a voice that might have been heard a mile. "Drop those weapons; they'll do you no good. So come out o' thar, an' come quick.
The miner Eph had very politely helped the little woman to the stake, and stooping had traced with his gnarled finger the words on the notice. "This is the claim," he announced. "Shore as shootin'." "Hooray!" cheered the Rough and Ready crowd. Said the red-shirt, to the Jacobs trio: "You git!
Won't you consider our documents in this matter?" "Shot-gun rights don't go any longer in Grass Valley, mister," roared the red-shirt. "If you'd had the right sort o' rights you'd have proved 'em peaceable. Besides, with yore docyments which you stole you're barkin' up the wrong tree.
"There bein' no other bus'ness before the meetin'," shouted red-shirt, "I declare it hereby dissolved an' every man for himself. Stake yore claims, boys, while thar are any!" Away he jumped, and away broke all. With shouts and cheers and laughter the whole hill was covered, in an incredibly short time, with men picking and digging and peering and driving their stakes or piling up stones. Mr.
Nothing of his had been published. He was not known anywhere outside of Oakland, and in Oakland, with the few who thought they knew him, he was notorious as a red-shirt and a socialist. So there was no explaining this sudden acceptability of his wares. It was sheer jugglery of fate.
More than this is not credible, but the energy shown by Captain Marryat in safeguarding the interests of the British residents at Marsala caused the Neapolitan ships to delay opening fire till the very last Red-shirt was out of harm's way on dry land.
"But the claim was abandoned. It hasn't been worked for a year," spoke up one of the long-nosed man's companions. "Then you lose out thar, too, stranger," retorted the red-shirt. "'Cause in that case, barrin' better rights, it belongs to these two boys by right o' rediscivvery. So don't argue with me; I'm a reg'lar lawyer in argufyin'."
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