But when I found how tight money was in this city, and a man like Douglas B.Longhurst--a forty-niner, the man that stood at bay in a corn patch for five hours against the San Diablo squatters--weakening on the operation, I tell you, Loudon, I began to despair; and--I may have made mistakes, no doubt there are thousands who could have done better--but I give you a loyal hand on it, I did my best." "My poor Jim," said I, "as if I ever doubted you! as if I didn't know you had done wonders! All day I've been admiring your energy and resource.

And as for that affair----" "No, Loudon, no more, not a word more! I don't want to hear," cried Jim.
"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't want to tell you," said I; "for it's a thing I'm ashamed of." "Ashamed, Loudon?
O, don't say that; don't use such an expression even in jest!" protested Pinkerton.
"Do you never do anything you're ashamed of ?" I inquired.
"No," says he, rolling his eyes.

"Why?
I'm sometimes sorry afterwards, when it pans out different from what I figured.

But I can't see what I would want to be ashamed for." I sat a while considering with admiration the simplicity of my friend's character.

Then I sighed.