o run the aforesaid mill. So he made
a contract with us to do the sawing at two cents a board, we to "find"
ourselves in food and cooking utensils. Bill sent for his family; Amos
and I occupied a small room in the mill for a living apartment, where we
were to keep bachelors' hall. Our stock of provisions was furnished on
credit from the employer's store. Wheat flour was worth eight cents a
pound, but wheat was worth only fifty cents a bushel. This seeming
profit was used up in sending the wheat to Valparaiso for grinding and
then having it shipped back as flour, as no railroads were there then.

The mill was a most primitive affair; the amount of labour was
astounding, the results of our toil much more so; a hundred boards was
our largest day's work, and I will guarantee that not any two of them
were of equal thickness at the end. Some days we would have no logs to
saw; other days there would be no water in the dam. Bill had one cent as
foreman, Amos and I each half a cent a board. Our average was about
twenty cents a day each.

We found ourselves gradually getting into debt for provisions and
clothing. After talking over our financial affairs one evening, we came
to the conclusion that our prospects looked gloomy. About bedtime Amos
put on his hat and coat and invited me to do the same. He was always
sullen, so I never asked him any questions. When we were outside the
room he informed me that in future he would live a ---- sight cheaper
and better than he had been doing in the past. All I could say was,
"Amen, brother!" My friend proved to be a good forager; before morning
we had a nicely dressed sheep hanging up in our room, also a big supply
of potatoes under the bed. That was the only time in my life that I was
guilty of sheep-stealing. We lived high on roast mutton and potatoes;
but, alas! we were found out. They blamed Amos for the whole business;
but, on attempting to arrest him, they made a mistake, as he pulled out
a big knife, and coolly walked away from that part of the country.
Afterward he stole a horse; that was the last we heard about him in
Chile.

Every one called me "Bueno muchacho" (good boy), while Amos was
designated "Muy picaro" (great rascal). Don Fernando Andrade was over
sixty years of age; he had a fine-looking wife and quite a number of
children--the oldest one twenty-six years, and the youngest six months
old. He took quite an interest in me, as I was always very quiet,
polite, and strictl