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Updated: May 3, 2025
Every day the criss-cross of ties lengthened out along the winding road-bed, and the lines of glistening rails kept pace with them. The sun beat down hot the dust flew in sheets and puffs the smoky veils floated up from the desert. Red-shirted toilers, blue-shirted toilers, half-naked toilers, sweat and bled, and laughed grimly, and sucked at their pipes, and bent their broad backs.
True, the poet, the story-writer, and the careless stranger will be fascinated by the heroes of camp and glen. High-booted, red-shirted, revolver-carrying, bearded argonauts are they, braving all hardships, enjoying sudden wealth, and leading romantic lives. Stories of camp and cabin, with brief Monte-Cristo appearances at San Francisco, are the popular rage.
In every direction are old water-ditches, heaps of gravel, and abandoned shafts all telling, in language more eloquent than word or pen, of the palmy days of '49, and succeeding years; when, in these deep gulches, and on these yellow hills, thousands of bronzed, red-shirted miners dug and delved, and "rocked the cradle" for the precious yellow dust and nuggets.
"Why, that crew of barefooted, red-shirted Canary-Islanders have got me scared! Besides, you don't know me!" "Well, you don't know me, either," he replied, with his winning smile. Then I awoke to my own obtuseness and to the fact that here was a real man, in spite of the significance of a crest upon his linen.
One of the red-shirted men was attending to a pot over a charcoal fire. Turning his head he saw, standing looking out of the window, his friend Tom Haldane. "Halloa, Tom," he said, in a whisper, which, however, reached the midshipman's ears. He turned sharply round, and hurried to the bedside. "Thank God, Dick, you are conscious again.
Ristofalo sat facing him a little way off on the right. A youth of nineteen sat tipped against the wall on the left, and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirted young Irishman occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs across a corner of it and letting the other down to the floor.
Apart from the others was the huge figure of a red-shirted man standing motionless, scowling in the direction of the Lang wharf. As he looked closer, he became conscious of the fact that he had seen the red-shirted giant before. Boisterous laughter floated across the intervening strip of water and a scarlet sleeve flashed as the big man shook his fist threateningly at the rival dock.
She was thinking of Prince Charming, and, that she might think of him all the more, she did not talk of him, but prattled on about the ship in which Jim was going to sail, about the gold he was certain to find, about the wonderful heiress whose life he was to save from the wicked, red-shirted bushrangers. For he was not to remain a sailor, or a supercargo, or whatever he was going to be. Oh, no!
I went to my own room, where the samovar was bubbling its familiar tune and a smiling red-shirted Russian boy was helping my Buriat servant to unpack my wardrobe, and I asked for any back numbers of newspapers that could be supplied at a moment's notice.
I think Swope knew just what was coming, and he found sport in the situation. "What do you want, my man?" his soft voice inquired. A flood of agitated words poured out of the red-shirted man's mouth. "Captain a terrible mistake foully mistreated, all of these men foully mistreated by your officers tried to see you and was beaten. . . ." With an effort he made his speech more coherent.
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