em.

James Gillis's imagination sometimes led him into difficulties. Once a
feeble old squaw came along selling some fruit that looked like green
plums. Stoker, who knew the fruit well enough, carelessly ventured the
remark that it might be all right, but he had never heard of anybody
eating it, which set Gillis off into eloquent praises of its delights,
all of which he knew to be purely imaginary; whereupon Stoker told him
if he liked the fruit so well, to buy some of it. There was no escape
after that; Jim had to buy some of those plums, whose acid was of the
hair-lifting aqua-fortis variety, and all the rest of the day he stewed
them, adding sugar, trying to make them palatable, tasting them now and
then, boasting meanwhile of their nectar-like deliciousness. He gave the
others a taste by and by--a withering, corroding sup--and they derided
him and rode him down. But Jim never weakened. He ate that fearful brew,
and though for days his mouth was like fire he still referred to the
luscious health-giving joys of the "Californian plums."

Jackass Hill was not altogether a solitude; here and there were
neighbors. Another pocket-miner; named Carrington, had a cabin not
far away, and a mile or two distant lived an old couple with a pair of
pretty daughters, so plump and trim and innocent, that they were called
the "Chapparal Quails." Young men from far and near paid court to them,
and on Sunday afternoons so many horses would be tied to their front
fence as to suggest an afternoon service there. Young "Billy" Gillis
knew them, and one Sunday morning took his brother's friend, Sam
Clemens, over for a call. They went early, with forethought, and
promptly took the girls for a walk. They took a long walk, and went
wandering over the hills, toward Sandy Bar and the Stanislaus--through
that reposeful land which Bret Harte would one day light with idyllic
romance--and toward evening found themselves a long way from home. They
must return by the nearest way to arrive before dark. One of the young
ladies suggested a short cut through the Chemisal, and they started. But
they were lost, presently, and it was late, very late, when at last they
reached the ranch. The mother of the "Quails" was sitting up for them,
and she had something to say. She let go a perfect storm of general
denunciation, then narrowed the attack to Samuel Clemens as the oldest
of the party. He remained mildly serene.

"It wasn't my fault," he ventured at last;