And then he took the fever.

There are seven kinds of fever down there, you know; and, as his blood was out of order by reason of loss of sleep and general wear and tear of mind, he failed to cure the first fever, and then somehow he got the other six.
He is not a kind of man that enjoys fevers, though he is well meaning and always does what he thinks is right, and so he was a good deal annoyed when it appeared he was going to die.
But he worried through, and got well and started a farm.

He fenced it in, and the next day that great storm came on and washed the most of it over to Gibraltar, or around there somewhere.

He only said, in his patient way, that it was gone, and he wouldn't bother about trying to find out where it went to, though it was his opinion it went to Gibraltar.
Then he invested in a mountain, and started a farm up there, so as to be out of the way when the sea came ashore again.

It was a good mountain, and a good farm, but it wasn't any use; an earthquake came the next night and shook it all down.