Selected Stories of Bret Harte

“I don’t care about my quail on toast being underdone for breakfast,” said Stacy, with a yawn; “and you needn’t serve with red wine. I’m not feeling very peckish this morning.”

“And I reckon you can knock off the fried oysters after the Spanish mackerel for ME,” said Demorest gravely. “The fact is, that last bottle of Veuve Clicquot we had for supper wasn’t as dry as I am this morning.”

Accustomed to these regular Barmecide suggestions, Barker made no direct reply. Presently, looking up from the fire, he said, “There’s no more saleratus, so you mustn’t blame me if the biscuit is extra heavy. I told you we had none when you went to the grocery yesterday.”

“And I told you we hadn’t a red cent to buy any with,” said Stacy, who was also treasurer. “Put these two negatives together and you make the affirmative—saleratus. Mix freely and bake in a hot oven.”

Nevertheless, after a toilet as primitive as Barker’s they sat down to what he had prepared with the keen appetite begotten of the mountain air and the regretful fastidiousness born of the recollection of better things. Jerked beef, frizzled with salt pork in a frying-pan, boiled potatoes, biscuit, and coffee composed the repast. The biscuits, however, proving remarkably heavy after the first mouthful, were used as missiles, thrown through the open door at an empty bottle which had previously served as a mark for revolver practice, and a few moments later pipes were lit to counteract the effects of the meal and take the taste out of their mouths. Suddenly they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs, saw the quick passage of a rider in the open space before the cabin, and felt the smart impact upon the table of some small object thrown by him. It was the regular morning delivery of the county newspaper!

“He’s getting to be a mighty sure shot,” said Demorest approvingly, looking at his upset can of coffee as he picked up the paper, rolled into a cylindrical wad as tightly as a cartridge, and began to straighten it out. This was no easy matter, as the sheet had evidently been rolled while yet damp from the press; but Demorest eventually opened it and ensconced himself behind it.

“Nary news?” asked Stacy.

“No. There never is any,” said Demorest scornfully. “We ought to stop the paper.”

“You mean the paper man ought to. WE don’t pay him,” said Barker gently.

“Well, that’s the same thing, smarty. No news, no pay. Hallo!” he continued, his eyes suddenly riveted on the paper. Then, after the fashion of ordinary humanity, he stopped short and read the interesting item to himself. When he had finished he brought his fist and the paper, together, violently down upon the table. “Now look at this! Talk of luck, will you? Just think of it. Here are WE—hard-working men with lots of sabe, too—grubbin’ away on this hillside like niggers, glad to get enough at the end of the day to pay for our soggy biscuits and horse-bean coffee, and just look what falls into the lap of some lazy sneakin’ greenhorn who never did a stoke of work in his life! Here are WE, with no foolishness, no airs nor graces, and yet men who would do credit to twice that amount of luck—and seem born to it, too—and we’re set aside for some long, lank, pen-wiping scrub who just knows enough to sit down on his office stool and hold on to a bit of paper.”

“What’s up now?” asked Stacy, with the carelessness begotten of familiarity with his partner’s extravagance.

“Listen,” said Demorest, reading. “Another unprecedented rise has taken place in the shares of the ‘Yellow Hammer First Extension Mine’ since the sinking of the new shaft. It was quoted yesterday at ten thousand dollars a foot. When it is remembered that scarcely two years ago the original shares, issued at fifty dollars per share, had dropped to only fifty cents a share, it will be seen that those who were able to hold on have got a good thing.”

“What mine did you say?” asked Barker, looking up meditatively from the dishes he was already washing.

“The Yellow Hammer First Extension,” returned Demorest shortly.

“I used to have some shares in that, and I think I have them still,” said Barker musingly.

“Yes,” said Demorest promptly; “the paper speaks of it here. ‘We understand,’” he continued, reading aloud, “‘that our eminent fellow citizen, George Barker, otherwise known as “Get Left Barker” and “Chucklehead,” is one of these fortunate individuals.’”

“No,” said Barker, with a slight flush of innocent pleasure, “it can’t say that. How could it know?”

Stacy laughed, but Demorest coolly continued: “You didn’t hear all. Listen! ‘We say WAS one of them; but having already sold his apparently useless certificates to our popular druggist, Jones, for corn plasters, at a reduced rate, he is unable to realize.’”

“You may laugh, boys,” said Barker, with simple seriousness; “but I really believe I have got ‘em yet. Just wait. I’ll see!” He rose and began to drag out a well-worn valise from under his bunk. “You see,” he continued, “they were given to me by an old chap in return—”

“For saving his life by delaying the Stockton boat that afterward blew up,” returned Demorest briefly. “We know it all! His hair was white, and his hand trembled slightly as he laid these shares in yours, saying, and you never forgot the words, ‘Take ‘em, young man—and’—”

“For lending him two thousand dollars, then,” continued Barker with a simple ignoring of the interruption, as he quietly brought out the valise.

“TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!” repeated Stacy. “When did YOU have two thousand dollars?”

“When I first left Sacramento—three years ago,” said Barker, unstrapping the valise.

“How long did you have it?” said Demorest incredulously.

“At least two days, I think,” returned Barker quietly. “Then I met that man. He was hard-up, and I lent him my pile and took those shares. He died afterward.”

“Of course he did,” said Demorest severely. “They always do. Nothing kills a man more quickly than an action of that kind.” Nevertheless the two partners regarded Barker rummaging among some loose clothes and papers with a kind of paternal toleration. “If you can’t find them, bring out your government bonds,” suggested Stacy. But the next moment, flushed and triumphant, Barker rose from his knees, and came toward them carrying some papers in his hands. Demorest seized them from him, opened them, spread them on the table, examined hurriedly the date, signatures, and transfers, glanced again quickly at the newspaper paragraph, looked wildly at Stacy and then at Barker, and gasped:

“By the living hookey! it is SO!”

“B’gosh! he HAS got ‘em!” echoed Stacy.

“Twenty shares,” continued Demorest breathlessly, “at ten thousand dollars a share—even if it’s only a foot—is two hundred thousand dollars! Jerusalem!”

“Tell me, fair sir,” said Stacy, with sparkling eyes, “hast still left in yonder casket any rare jewels, rubies, sarcenet, or links of fine gold? Peradventure a pearl or two may have been overlooked!”

“No—that’s all,” returned Barker simply.

“You hear him! Rothschild says ‘that’s all.’ Prince Esterhazy says he hasn’t another red cent—only two hundred thousand dollars.”

“What ought I to do, boys?” asked Barker, timidly glancing from one to the other. Yet he remembered with delight all that day, and for many a year afterward, that he saw in their faces only unselfish joy and affection at that supreme moment.

“Do?” said Demorest promptly. “Stand on your head and yell! No! stop! Come here!” He seized both Barker and Stacy by the hand, and ran out into the open air. Here they danced violently with clasped hands around a small buckeye, in perfect silence, and then returned to the cabin, grave but perspiring.

“Of course,” said Barker, wiping his forehead, “we’ll just get some money on these certificates and buy up that next claim which belongs to old Carter—where you know we thought we saw the indication.”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Demorest decidedly. “WE ain’t in it. That money is yours, old chap—every cent of it—property acquired before marriage, you know; and the only thing we’ll do is to be damned before we’ll see you drop a dime of it into this Godforsaken hole. No!”

“But we’re partners,” gasped Barker.

“Not in THIS! The utmost we can do for you, opulent sir—though it ill becomes us horny-handed sons of toil to rub shoulders with Dives—is perchance to dine with you, to take a pasty and a glass of Malvoisie, at some restaurant in Sacramento—when you’ve got things fixed, in honor of your return to affluence. But more would ill become us!”

“But what are YOU going to do?” said Barker, with a half-hysteric, half-frightened smile.

“We have not yet looked through our luggage,” said Demorest with invincible gravity, “and there’s a secret recess—a double FOND—to my portmanteau, known only to a trusty page, which has not been disturbed since I left my ancestral home in Faginia. There may be a few First Debentures of Erie or what not still there.”

“I felt some strange, disklike protuberances in my dress suit the other day, but belike they are but poker chips,” said Stacy thoughtfully.

An uneasy feeling crept over Barker. The color which had left his fresh cheek returned to it quickly, and he turned his eyes away. Yet he had seen nothing in his companions’ eyes but affection—with even a certain kind of tender commiseration that deepened his uneasiness. “I suppose,” he said desperately, after a pause, “I ought to go over to Boomville and make some inquiries.”

“At the bank, old chap; at the bank!” said Demorest emphatically. “Take my advice and don’t go ANYWHERE ELSE. Don’t breathe a word of your luck to anybody. And don’t, whatever you do, be tempted to sell just now; you don’t know how high that stock’s going to jump yet.”

“I thought,” stammered Barker, “that you boys might like to go over with me.”

“We can’t afford to take another holiday on grub wages, and we’re only two to work today,” said Demorest, with a slight increase of color and the faintest tremor in his voice. “And it won’t do, old chap, for us to be seen bumming round with you on the heels of your good fortune. For everybody knows we’re poor, and sooner or later everybody’ll know you WERE rich even when you first came to us.”

“Nonsense!” said Barker indignantly.

“Gospel, my boy!” said Demorest shortly.

“The frozen truth, old man!” said Stacy.

Barker took up his hat with some stiffness and moved toward the door. Here he stopped irresolutely, an irresolution that seemed to communicate itself to his partners. There was a moment’s awkward silence. Then Demorest suddenly seized him by the shoulders with a grip that was half a caress, and walked him rapidly to the door. “And now don’t stand foolin’ with us, Barker boy; but just trot off like a little man, and get your grip on that fortune; and when you’ve got your hooks in it hang on like grim death. You’ll”—he hesitated for an instant only, possibly to find the laugh that should have accompanied his speech—“you’re sure to find US here when you get back.”

Hurt to the quick, but restraining his feelings, Barker clapped his hat on his head and walked quickly away. The two partners stood watching him in silence until his figure was lost in the underbrush. Then they spoke.