Selected Stories of Bret Harte, Bret Harte [read aloud books .TXT] 📗

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.