It was at that time that he became a member of the Western Federation of Miners—­an historical fact which inimical capitalists later endeavored to make use of from time to time to do him harm.  How I loved to listen by the hour to the stories of those grilling days—­up at four in the pitch-dark and snow, to crawl to his job, with the blessing of a dear old Scotch landlady and a “pastie”!  He would tell our sons of tamping in the sticks of dynamite, till their eyes bulged.  The hundreds of times these last six months I’ve wished I had in writing the stories of those days—­of all his days, from early Vacaville times on!  Sometimes it would be an old Vacaville crony who would appear, and stories would fly of those boy times—­of the exploits up Putah Creek with Pee Wee Allen; of the prayer-meeting when Carl bet he could out-pray the minister’s son, and won; of the tediously thought-out assaults upon an ancient hired man on the place, that would fill a book and delight the heart of Tom Sawyer himself; and how his mother used to sigh and add to it all, “If only he had ever come home on time to his meals!” (And he has one son just like him.  Carl’s brothers tell me:  “Just give up trying to get Jim home on time.  Mamma tried every scheme a human could devise to make Carl prompt for his meals, but nothing ever had the slightest effect.  Half an hour past dinner-time he’d still be five miles from home.”)

One article that recently appeared in a New York paper began:—­

“They say of him that when he was a small boy he displayed the same tendencies that later on made him great in his chosen field.  His family possessed a distinct tendency toward conformity and respectability, but Carl was a companion of every ‘alley-bum’ in Vacaville.  His respectable friends never won him away from his insatiable interest in the under-dog.  They now know it makes valid his claim to achievement.”

After the British Columbia mining days, he took what money he had saved, and left for Idaho, where he was to meet his chum, Hal Bradley, for his first Idaho trip—­a dream of theirs for years.  The Idaho stories he could tell—­oh, why can I not remember them word for word?  I have seen him hold a roomful of students in Berlin absolutely spellbound over those adventures—­with a bit of Parker coloring, to be sure, which no one ever objected to.  I have seen him with a group of staid faculty folk sitting breathless at his Clearwater yarns; and how he loved to tell those tales!  Three and a half months he and Hal were in—­hunting, fishing, jerking meat, trailing after lost horses, having his dreams of Idaho come true. (If our sons fail to have those dreams!)