declared the
indications promising, and if they could only have good weather to work
it, they were sure of rich returns. For himself, he would have been
willing to work, rain or shine. Clemens, however, had different views
on the subject. His part was carrying water for washing out the pans of
dirt, and carrying pails of water through the cold rain and mud was not
very fascinating work. Dick Stoker came over before long to help. Things
went a little better then; but most of their days were spent in the
bar-room of the dilapidated tavern at Angel's Camp, enjoying the
company of a former Illinois River pilot, Ben Coon,--[This name has been
variously given as "Ros Coon," "Coon Drayton," etc. It is given here as
set down in Mark Twain's notes, made on the spot. Coon was not (as
has been stated) the proprietor of the hotel (which was kept by a
Frenchman), but a frequenter of it.]--a solemn, fat-witted person,
who dozed by the stove, or old slow, endless stories, without point or
application. Listeners were a boon to him, for few came and not many
would stay. To Mark Twain and Jim Gillis, however, Ben Coon was a
delight. It was soothing and comfortable to listen to his endless
narratives, told in that solemn way, with no suspicion of humor. Even
when his yarns had point, he did not recognize it. One dreary afternoon,
in his slow, monotonous fashion, he told them about a frog--a frog that
had belonged to a man named Coleman, who trained it to jump, but
that failed to win a wager because the owner of a rival frog had
surreptitiously loaded the trained jumper with shot. The story had
circulated among the camps, and a well-known journalist, named Samuel
Seabough, had already made a squib of it, but neither Clemens nor Gillis
had ever happened to hear it before. They thought the tale in itself
amusing, and the "spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through
such a queer yarn without ever smiling was exquisitely absurd." When
Coon had talked himself out, his hearers played billiards on the frowsy
table, and now and then one would remark to the other:

"I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other
frog," and perhaps the other would answer:

"I ain't got no frog, but if I had a frog I'd bet you."

Out on the claim, between pails of water, Clemens, as he watched Jim
Gillis or Dick Stoker "washing," would be apt to say, "I don't see
no p'ints about that pan o' dirt that's any better'n any other pan o'
dir