Pete, the cook; came in and the head of the house turned me over to him, and returned to his duties behind the bar.  From the noise of the uproar going on, his presence was doubtless needed.  Pete set before me a large roasted wild-goose, not badly cooked, with bread, milk, and the inevitable cucumber pickles.  The knives and forks were not very bright —­in fact, they had been subjected to influences promotive of oxidation; and the dishes were not free from signs of former use.  Nothing could be said against the tablecloth—­there was no tablecloth there.  But the goose was fat, brown, and tender; and a hungry man defers his criticisms until he is done eating.  That is what I did.  Pete evidently regarded me with curiosity.  He was about fifty years of age, and had the look of a man who had come down in the world.  His face bore the marks of the effects of strong drink, but it was not a bad face; it was more weak than wicked.

“Are you a preacher?” he asked.

“I thought so,” he added, after getting my answer to his question.  “Of what persuasion are you?”! he further inquired.

When I told him I was a Methodist, he said quickly and with some warmth: 

“I was sure of it.  This is a rough place for a man of your calling.  Would you like some eggs? we’ve plenty on hand.  And may be you would like a cup of coffee,” he added, with, increasing hospitality.

I took the eggs, but declined the coffee, not liking the looks of the cups and saucers, and not caring to wait.

“I used to be a Methodist myself,” said Pete, with a sort of choking in his throat, “but bad luck and bad company have brought me down to this.  I have a family in Iowa, a wife and four children.  I guess they think I’m dead, and sometimes I wish I was.”

Pete stood by my chair, actually crying.  The sight of a Methodist preacher brought up old times.  He told me his story.  He had come to California hoping to make a fortune in a hurry, but had only ill luck from the start.  His prospectings were always failures, his partners cheated him, his health broke down, his courage gave way, and—­he faltered a little, and then spoke it out—­he took to whisky, and then the worst came.

“I have come down to this—­cooking for a lot of roughs at five dollars a week, and all the whisky I want.  It would have been better for me if I had died when I was in the hospital at San Andreas.”

Poor Pete! he had indeed touched bottom.  But he had a heart and a conscience still, and my own heart warmed toward my poor backslidden brother.

“You are not a lost man yet.  You are worth a thousand dead men.  You can get out of this, and you must.  You must act the part of a brave man, and not be any longer a coward.  Bad luck and lack of success are a disgrace to no man.  There is where you went wrong.  It was cowardly to give up and not write to your family, and then take to whisky.”

“I know all that, Elder.  There is no better little woman on earth than my wife”—­Pete choked up again.