“Ain’t got no chum,” suggested Bozen, an ex-sailor, one day, after the crowd had done considerable staring at this unpleasant object; “ain’t got no chum, and’s lonesome—­needs cheerin’ up.”  So Bozen philanthropically staked a new claim near the stranger, apart from the main party.  The next morning found him back on his old claim, and volunteering to every one the information that “stranger’s a grump—­a reg’lar grump.”  From that time forth “Grump” was the only name by which the man was known.

Time rolled on, and in the course of a month Painter Bar was mentioned as an old camp.  It had its mining rules, its saloon, blacksmith-shop, and faro-bank, like the proudest camp on the Run, and one could find there colonels, judges, doctors, and squires by the dozen, besides one deacon and a dominie or two.

Still, the old inhabitants kept an open eye for newcomers, and displayed an open-hearted friendliness from whose example certain Eastern cities might profit.

But on one particular afternoon, the estimable reception committee were put to their wit’s end.  They were enjoying their otium cum dignitale on a rude bench in front of the saloon, when some one called attention to an unfamiliar form which leaned against a stunted tree a few rods off.

It was of a short, loose-jointed young man, who seemed so thin and lean, that Black Tom ventured the opinion that “that feller had better hold tight to the groun’, ter keep from fallen’ upards.”  His eyes were colorless, his nose was enormous, his mouth hung wide open and then shut with a twitch, as if its owner were eating flies, his chin seemed to have been entirely forgotten, and his thin hair was in color somewhere between sand and mud.

As he leaned against the tree he afforded a fine opportunity for the study of acute and obtuse angles.  His neck, shoulders, elbows, wrists, back, knees and feet all described angles, and even the toes of his shocking boots deflected from the horizontal in a most decided manner.

“Somebody ort to go say somethin’ to him,” said the colonel, who was recognized as leader by the miners.

“Fact, colonel,” replied one of the men; “but what’s a feller to say to sich a meanderin’ bone-yard ez that?  Might ask him, fur perliteness sake, to take fust pick uv lots in a new buryin’ ground; but then Perkins died last week, yur know.”

“Say somethin’, somebody,” commanded the colonel, and as he spoke his eyes alighted on Slim Sam, who obediently stepped out to greet the newcomer.

“Mister,” said Sam, producing a plug of tobacco, “hev a chaw?”

“I don’t use tobacco,” languidly replied the man, and his answer was so unexpected that Sam precipitately retired.

Then Black Tom advanced, and pleasantly asked: 

“What’s yer fav’rit game, stranger?”

“Blind man’s buff,” replied the stranger.

“What’s that?” inquired Tom, blushing with shame at being compelled to display ignorance about games; “anything like going it blind at poker?”