Clarence began to feel uneasy.
"I'll give," said one, taking out his pipe and grimly eying Clarence, "a hundred dollars for him as he stands." "And seein' as he's got that bran-new rig-out o' tools," said another, "I'll give a hundred and fifty--and the drinks.

I've been," he added apologetically, "wantin' sunthin' like this a long time." "Well, gen'lemen," said the man who had first spoken to him, "lookin' at him by and large; takin' in, so to speak, the gin'ral gait of him in single harness; bearin' in mind the perfect freshness of him, and the coolness and size of his cheek--the easy downyness, previousness, and utter don't-care-a-damnativeness of his coming yer, I think two hundred ain't too much for him, and we'll call it a bargain." Clarence's previous experience of this grim, smileless Californian chaff was not calculated to restore his confidence.

He drew away from the cabin, and repeated doggedly, "I asked you if this was the way to the mines." "It ARE the mines, and these yere are the miners," said the first speaker gravely.

"Permit me to interdoose 'em.

This yere's Shasta Jim, this yere's Shotcard Billy, this is Nasty Bob, and this Slumgullion Dick.