"I've been blowin' glass, Sweeny," replied the sniffling voice of Phineas
Glover.

"Blowin' glass! Och, yees was always powerful at blowin'. But I niver
heerd ye blow glass. It was big lies mostly whin I was a listing."

"Yes, blowin' glass," returned the Fair Havener in a tone of agreeable
reminiscence, as if it had been a not unprofitable occupation. "Found
there wasn't a glass-blower in all Californy. Bought 'n old machine, put
up to the mines with it, blew all sorts 'f jigmarigs 'n' thingumbobs, 'n'
sold 'em to the miners 'n' Injuns. Them critters is jest like sailors
ashore; they'll buy anything they set eyes on. Besides, I sounded my horn;
advertised big, so to speak; got up a sensation. Used to mount a stump 'n'
make a speech; told 'em I'd blow Yankee Doodle in glass, any color they
wanted; give 'em that sort 'f gospel, ye know."

"An' could ye do it?" inquired the Paddy, confounded by the idea of
blowing a glass tune.

"Lord, Sweeny! you're greener 'n the miners. When ye swaller things that
way, don't laugh 'r ye'll choke yerself to death, like the elephant did
when he read the comic almanac at breakfast."

"I don't belave that nuther," asseverated Sweeny, anxious to clear himself
from the charge of credulity.

"Don't believe that!" exclaimed Glover. "He did it twice."

"Och, go way wid ye. He couldn't choke himself afther he was dead. I
wouldn't belave it, not if I see him turn black in the face. It's
yerself'll get choked some day if yees don't quit blatherin'. But what did
ye get for yer blowin'? Any more'n the clothes ye're got to yer back?"

For answer Glover dipped into his pockets, took out two handfuls of gold
pieces and chinked them under the Irishman's nose.

"Blazes! ye're lousy wid money," commented Sweeny. "Ye want somebody to
scratch yees."

"Twenty thousan' dollars in bank," added Glover. "All by blowin' 'n'
tradin'. Goin' hum in the next steamer. Anythin' I can do for ye, old
messmate? Say how much."

"It's the liftinant is takin' care av me. He's made a betther livin' nor
yees, a thousand times over, by jist marryin' the right leddy. An' he's
going to put me in charrge av a farrum that they call the hayshindy, where
I'll sell the cattle for myself, wid half to him, an' make slathers o'
money."

"Thunder, Sweeny! You'll end by ridin' in a coach. What'll ye take for yer
chances? Wal, I'm glad to hear ye're doin' so well. I am so, for old
times' sake."

"Come in, Captain Glover," a