the camp that this
was an occasion which it would be improper to pass over without a
thorough and practical acknowledgment of its importance in the shape of
a regular celebration. The gold was weighed and divided, all sitting in
a circle in the middle of the cabin floor, while Old Platte officiated
at the scales with all the gravity and dignity which the responsible
position called for.

Mr. McNab's grocery and post-office at Blue Bar was the scene of much
excitement and noisy revelry that evening and all the next day while the
gold lasted. Miners who had heard of the Chihuahua "streak" flocked up
to Blue Bar to get the particulars, and naturally joined in the general
feeling of exultation and hilarity that seemed to pervade that
community. Old Platte got terribly drunk, and Thompson and Jones
developed the strangest eccentricities of gait, manner and speech, and
finally subsided into a deep slumber in the dust and sand of the main
thoroughfare of the Bar. Gentleman Dick's absence from the festivities
was not noticed that evening, but the next day Thompson, who seemed to
feel aggrieved on the subject, announced his intention of going up to
Chihuahua to fetch him down. He left Mr. McNab's on his charitable
mission armed with a bottle of rum, and proceeded up the creek in a
condition of moderate intoxication. That he was somewhat sobered on his
arrival at the cabin was perhaps due to the fact that the cork was fixed
very firmly in the neck of his bottle: at any rate, he did not ask his
friend to drink when he found him.

Gentleman Dick had just directed and sealed a letter, and was about to
start for the settlement of Gold Dirt, when Thompson loomed up
unsteadily in the doorway, surveyed him inquiringly for a moment and
asked undecidedly and apologetically, "Wass' up? W'ere you goin'?"

Gentleman Dick, apparently overlooking his somewhat dubious condition,
told him he had been writing a letter to some one who lived in the
States: he was going to Gold Dirt to mail it, and a ring of Blue Creek
gold was to accompany it to its destination. Thompson said no more, but
stood there in the doorway with McNab's rum under his arm. He did not
stir, nor did he seem to notice the "good-bye" that came down the
winding trail through the pines, but remained there stolid and
immovable, gazing vacantly at the writing-paper on the rough table.
Suddenly he straightened himself up to his full height, and taking the
bottle from under his arm