Once in
a while he would shut off the water to examine the rich amalgam at each
cleat across the trough, removing that which was saturated with gold and
replacing it with fresh mercury. This clean-up was going to be
especially good, and he was glad to be alone.
Treasure like this would tempt his lawless neighbors. He wanted no such
rogues round as they had at Angels Camp, Calaveras County, where,
according to his last copy of "The California Democrat," the post-office
had been robbed of a thousand dollars, including one hundred dollars'
worth of postage stamps. Postage stamps! He laughed to think to what
straits thieves had come in Calaveras County.
Then he thought of his own hard-earned treasures, safely locked up in
the Hibernia Bank of San Francisco and with D. O. Mills of Sacramento.
Some day kindred back in Connecticut would have cause to praise his
frugality and self-denial. Sometimes he thought of his blasted romance
and of the poor woman in San Francisco who scrubbed floors for an honest
living. Ah, well, life is hard. His own years of toil were nearly over,
as he knew by unmistakable signs. Perhaps this rich clean-up would be
his last.
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