“Somethin’ ‘stonishin’ ’bout what comes of it, though,” resumed the deacon. “‘Twas only yestiddy thet Bill was kerryin’ a bucket of dirt to the crick, an’ jest ez he got there his foot slipped in, an’ he went kerslosh.  Knowin’ Bill’s language on sech occasions ain’t what a church-member ort to hear, I was makin’ it convenient to leave, when along come her, an’ he choked off ez suddin ez a feller on the gallers.”

Day by day the boys dug dirt, and carried it to the creek, and washed out the precious gold; day by day the denizens of Tough Case worked as many hours and as industriously as men anywhere.  But no Tough Caseite was so wicked as to work on Sunday.

Sunday at Tough Case commenced at sunset on Saturday, after the good old Puritan fashion, and lasted through until working-time on Monday morning.  But beyond this matter of time the Puritan parallel could not be pursued, for on Sunday was transacted all the irregular business of the week; on Sunday was done all the hard drinking and heavy gambling; and on Sunday were settled such personal difficulties as were superior to the limited time and low liquor-pressure of the week.

The evening sun of the first Saturday of Mrs. Blizzer’s residence at Tough Case considered his day’s work done, and retired under the snowy coverlets the Sierras lent him.  The tired miners gladly dropped pick, shovel, and pan, but bedclothing was an article which at that moment they scorned to consider; there was important business and entertainment, which would postpone sleep for many hours.

The express would be along in the morning, and no prudent man could sleep peaceably until he had deposited his gold dust in the company’s strong box.  Then there were two or three old feuds which might come to a head—­they always did on Sunday.  And above all, Redwing, a man with enormous red whiskers, had been threatening all week to have back the money Flipp had won from him on the preceding Sunday, and Redwing had been very lucky in his claim all week, and the two men were very nearly matched, and were magnificent players, so the game promised to last many hours, and afford handsome opportunities for outside betting.

Sim Ripson understood his business.  By sunset he had all his bottles freshly filled, and all his empty boxes distributed about the room for seats, and twice as many candles lighted as usual, and the card-tables reinforced by some upturned barrels.  He also had a neat little woodpile under the bar to serve as a barricade against stray shots.

The boys dropped in pleasantly, two or three at a time, and drank merrily with each other; and the two or three who were not drinking men sauntered in to compare notes with the others.

There were no aristocrats or paupers at Tough Case, nor any cliques; whatever the men were at home, here they were equal, and Sim Ripson’s was the general gathering-place for everybody.