The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with objection.  It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that “they didn’t want any more of the other kind.”  This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,—­the first symptom of the camp’s regeneration.  Stumpy advanced nothing.  Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible successor in office.  But when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and “Jinny”—­the mammal before alluded to—­could manage to rear the child.  There was something original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleased the camp.  Stumpy was retained.  Certain articles were sent for to Sacramento.  “Mind,” said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold-dust into the expressman’s hand, “the best that can be got,—­lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills,—­damn the cost!”

Strange to say, the child thrived.  Perhaps the invigorating climate of the mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies.  Nature took the foundling to her broader breast.  In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foothills,—­that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,—­he may have found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass’s milk to lime and phosphorus.  Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good nursing.  “Me and that ass,” he would say, “has been father and mother to him!  Don’t you,” he would add, apostrophizing the helpless bundle before him, “never go back on us.”

By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name became apparent.  He had generally been known as “The Kid,” “Stumpy’s Boy,” “The Coyote” (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck’s endearing diminutive of “The damned little cuss.”  But these were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed under another influence.  Gamblers and adventurers are generally superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought “the luck” to Roaring Camp.  It was certain that of late they had been successful.  “Luck” was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for greater convenience.  No allusion was made to the mother, and the father was unknown.  “It’s better,” said the philosophical Oakhurst, “to take a fresh deal all round.  Call him Luck, and start him fair.”  A day was accordingly set apart for the christening.  What was meant by this ceremony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp.  The master of ceremonies was one “Boston,” a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetiousness.  This ingenious satirist had spent two days in preparing a burlesque of the Church service, with pointed local allusions.  The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand godfather.  But after