“Well, gen’lemen,” said the man who had first spoken to him, “lookin’ at him by and large; takin’ in, so to speak, the gin’ral gait of him in single harness; bearin’ in mind the perfect freshness of him, and the coolness and size of his cheek—­the easy downyness, previousness, and utter don’t-care-a-damnativeness of his coming yer, I think two hundred ain’t too much for him, and we’ll call it a bargain.”

Clarence’s previous experience of this grim, smileless Californian chaff was not calculated to restore his confidence.  He drew away from the cabin, and repeated doggedly, “I asked you if this was the way to the mines.”

“It are the mines, and these yere are the miners,” said the first speaker gravely.  “Permit me to interdoose ’em.  This yere’s Shasta Jim, this yere’s Shotcard Billy, this is Nasty Bob, and this Slumgullion Dick.  This yere’s the Dook o’ Chatham Street, the Livin’ Skeleton, and me!”

“May we ask, fair young sir,” said the Living Skeleton, who, however, seemed in fairly robust condition, “whence came ye on the wings of the morning, and whose Marble Halls ye hev left desolate?”

“I came across the plains, and got into Stockton two days ago on Mr. Peyton’s train,” said Clarence, indignantly, seeing no reason now to conceal anything.  “I came to Sacramento to find my cousin, who isn’t living there any more.  I don’t see anything funny in that!  I came here to the mines to dig gold—­because—–­because Mr. Silsbee, the man who was to bring me here and might have found my cousin for me, was killed by Indians.”

“Hold up, sonny.  Let me help ye,” said the first speaker, rising to his feet.  “You didn’t get killed by Injins because you got lost out of a train with Silsbee’s infant darter.  Peyton picked you up while you was takin’ care of her, and two days arter you kem up to the broken-down Silsbee wagons, with all the folks lyin’ there slartered.”

“Yes, sir,” said Clarence, breathlessly with astonishment.

“And,” continued the man, putting his hand gravely to his head as if to assist his memory, “when you was all alone on the plains with that little child you saw one of those redskins, as near to you as I be, watchin’ the train, and you didn’t breathe or move while he was there?”

“Yes, sir,” said Clarence eagerly.

“And you was shot at by Peyton, he thinkin’ you was an Injun in the mesquite grass?  And you once shot a buffalo that had been pitched with you down a gully—­all by yourself?”

“Yes,” said Clarence, crimson with wonder and pleasure.  “You know me, then?”

“Well, ye-e-es,” said the man gravely, parting his mustache with his fingers.  “You see, you’ve been here before.”

“Before!  Me?” repeated the astounded Clarence.

“Yes, before.  Last night.  You was taller then, and hadn’t cut your hair.  You cursed a good deal more than you do now.  You drank a man’s share of whiskey, and you borrowed fifty dollars to get to Sacramento with.  I reckon you haven’t got it about you now, eh?”