It was by no means a novel or, under the circumstances, a shocking disclosure to Daddy. He had seen similar missives from daughters, and even wives, consequent on the varying fortunes of his neighbors; no one knew better than he the uncertainties of a miner's prospects, and yet the inevitable hopefulness that buoyed him up. He tossed it aside impatiently, when his eye caught a strip of paper he had overlooked lying upon the blanket near the envelope. It contained a few lines in an unformed boyish hand addressed to “my brother,” and evidently slipped into the letter after it was written. By the uncertain candlelight Daddy read as follows:—
Dear Brother, Rite to me and Cissy rite off. Why aint you done it? It's so long since you rote any. Mister Recketts ses you dont care any more. Wen you rite send your fotograff. Folks here ses I aint got no big bruther any way, as I disremember his looks, and cant say wots like him. Cissy's kryin' all along of it. I've got a hedake. William Walker make it ake by a blo. So no more at present from your loving little bruther Jim.
The quick, hysteric laugh with which Daddy read this was quite consistent with his responsive, emotional nature; so, too, were the ready tears that sprang to his eyes. He put the candle down unsteadily, with a casual glance at the sick man. It was notable, however, that this look contained less sympathy for the ailing “big brother” than his emotion might have suggested. For Daddy was carried quite away by his own mental picture of the helpless children, and eager only to relate his impressions of the incident. He cast another glance at the invalid, thrust the papers into his pocket, and clapping on his hat slipped from the cabin and ran to the house of festivity. Yet it was characteristic of the man, and so engrossed was he by his one idea, that to the usual inquiries regarding his patient he answered, “he's all right,” and plunged at once into the incident of the dunning letter, reserving—with the instinct of an emotional artist—the child's missive until the last. As he expected, the money demand was received with indignant criticisms of the writer.
“That's just like 'em in the States,” said Captain Fletcher; “darned if they don't believe we've only got to bore a hole in the ground and snake out a hundred dollars. Why, there's my wife—with a heap of hoss sense in everything else—is allus wonderin' why I can't rake in a cool fifty betwixt one steamer day and another.”
“That's nothin' to my old dad,” interrupted Gus Houston, the “infant” of the camp, a bright-eyed young fellow of twenty; “why, he wrote to me yesterday that if I'd only pick up a single piece of gold every day and just put it aside, sayin' 'That's for popper and mommer,' and not fool it away—it would be all they'd ask of me.”
“That's so,” added another; “these ignorant relations is just the ruin o' the mining industry. Bob Falloner hez bin lucky in his strike to-day, but he's a darned sight luckier in being without kith or kin that he knows of.”
Daddy waited until the momentary irritation had subsided, and then drew the other letter from his pocket. “That ain't all, boys,” he began in a faltering voice, but gradually working himself up to a pitch of pathos; “just as I was thinking all them very things, I kinder noticed this yer poor little bit o' paper lyin' thar lonesome like and forgotten, and I—read it—and well—gentlemen—it just choked me right up!” He stopped, and his voice faltered.
“Go slow, Daddy, go slow!” said an auditor smilingly. It was evident that Daddy's sympathetic weakness was well known.
Daddy read the child's letter. But, unfortunately, what with his real emotion and the intoxication of an audience, he read it extravagantly, and interpolated a child's lisp (on no authority whatever), and a simulated infantile delivery, which, I fear, at first provoked the smiles rather than the tears of his audience. Nevertheless, at its conclusion the little note was handed round the party, and then there was a moment of thoughtful silence.
“Tell you what it is, boys,” said Fletcher, looking around the table, “we ought to be doin' suthin' for them kids right off! Did you,” turning to Daddy, “say anythin' about this to Dick?”
“Nary—why, he's clean off his head with fever—don't understand a word—and just babbles,” returned Daddy, forgetful of his roseate diagnosis a moment ago, “and hasn't got a cent.”
“We must make up what we can amongst us afore the mail goes to-night,” said the “infant,” feeling hurriedly in his pockets. “Come, ante up, gentlemen,” he added, laying the contents of his buckskin purse upon the table.
“Hold on, boys,” said a quiet voice. It was their host Falloner, who had just risen and was slipping on his oilskin coat. “You've got enough to do, I reckon, to look after your own folks. I've none! Let this be my affair. I've got to go to the Express Office anyhow to see about my passage home, and I'll just get a draft for a hundred dollars for that old skeesicks—what's his blamed name? Oh, Ricketts”—he made a memorandum from the letter—“and I'll send it by express. Meantime, you fellows sit down there and write something—you know what—saying that Dick's hurt his hand and can't write—you know; but asked you to send a draft, which you're doing. Sabe? That's all! I'll skip over to the express now and get the draft off, and you can mail the letter an hour later. So put your dust back in your pockets and help yourselves to the whiskey while I'm gone.” He clapped his hat on his head and disappeared.
“There goes a white man, you bet!” said Fletcher admiringly, as the door closed behind their host. “Now, boys,” he added, drawing a chair to the table, “let's get this yer letter off, and then go back to our game.”
Pens and ink were produced, and an animated discussion ensued as to the matter to be conveyed. Daddy's plea for an extended explanatory and sympathetic communication was overruled, and the letter was written to Ricketts on the simple lines suggested by Falloner.
“But what about poor little Jim's letter? That ought to be answered,” said Daddy pathetically.
“If Dick hurt his hand so he can't write to Ricketts, how in thunder is he goin' to write to Jim?” was the reply.
“But suthin' oughter be said to the poor kid,” urged Daddy piteously.
“Well, write it yourself—you and Gus Houston make up somethin' together. I'm going to win some money,” retorted Fletcher, returning to the card-table, where he was presently followed by all but Daddy and Houston.
“Ye can't write it in Dick's name, because that little brother knows Dick's handwriting, even if he don't remember his face. See?” suggested Houston.
“That's so,” said Daddy dubiously; “but,” he added, with elastic cheerfulness, “we can write that Dick 'says.' See?”
“Your head's level, old man! Just you wade in on that.”
Daddy seized the pen and “waded in.” Into somewhat deep and difficult water, I fancy, for some of it splashed into his eyes, and he sniffled once or twice as he wrote. “Suthin' like this,” he said, after a pause:—
DEAR LITTLE JIMMIE—Your big brother havin' hurt his hand, wants me to tell you that otherways he is all hunky and A1. He says he don't forget you and little Cissy, you bet! and he's sendin' money to old Ricketts straight off. He says don't you and Cissy mind whether school keeps or not as long as big Brother Dick holds the lines. He says he'd have written before, but he's bin follerin' up a lead mighty close, and expects to strike it rich in a few days.
“You ain't got no sabe about kids,” said Daddy imperturbably; “they've got to be humored like sick folks. And they want everythin' big—they don't take no stock in things ez they are—even ef they hev 'em worse than they are. 'So,'” continued Daddy, reading to prevent
