In this singleness of purpose he made very few and no entangling acquaintances, nor did he impart to any one the secret of his fortune, loyally reserving it for his partner’s first knowledge.  To a man of his natural frankness and simplicity this was a great trial, and was, perhaps, a crucial test of his devotion.  When he gave up his rooms at the Oriental—­as not necessary after his partner’s absence—­he sent a letter, with his humble address, to the mysterious lock-box of his partner without fear or false shame.  He would explain it all when they met.  But he sometimes treated unlucky and returning miners to a dinner and a visit to the gallery of some theatre.  Yet while he had an active sympathy with and understanding of the humblest, Uncle Billy, who for many years had done his own and his partner’s washing, scrubbing, mending, and cooking, and saw no degradation in it, was somewhat inconsistently irritated by menial functions in men, and although he gave extravagantly to waiters, and threw a dollar to the crossing-sweeper, there was always a certain shy avoidance of them in his manner.  Coming from the theatre one night Uncle Billy was, however, seriously concerned by one of these crossing-sweepers turning hastily before them and being knocked down by a passing carriage.  The man rose and limped hurriedly away; but Uncle Billy was amazed and still more irritated to hear from his companion that this kind of menial occupation was often profitable, and that at some of the principal crossings the sweepers were already rich men.

But a few days later brought a more notable event to Uncle Billy.  One afternoon in Montgomery Street he recognized in one of its smartly dressed frequenters a man who had a few years before been a member of Cedar Camp.  Uncle Billy’s childish delight at this meeting, which seemed to bridge over his old partner’s absence, was, however, only half responded to by the ex-miner, and then somewhat satirically.  In the fullness of his emotion, Uncle Billy confided to him that he was seeking his old partner, Jim Foster, and, reticent of his own good fortune, spoke glowingly of his partner’s brilliant expectations, but deplored his inability to find him.  And just now he was away on important business.  “I reckon he’s got back,” said the man dryly.  “I didn’t know he had a lock-box at the post-office, but I can give you his other address.  He lives at the Presidio, at Washerwoman’s Bay.”  He stopped and looked with a satirical smile at Uncle Billy.  But the latter, familiar with Californian mining-camp nomenclature, saw nothing strange in it, and merely repeated his companion’s words.

“You’ll find him there!  Good-by!  So long!  Sorry I’m in a hurry,” said the ex-miner, and hurried away.

Uncle Billy was too delighted with the prospect of a speedy meeting with Uncle Jim to resent his former associate’s supercilious haste, or even to wonder why Uncle Jim had not informed him that he had returned.  It was not the first time that he had felt how wide was the gulf between himself and these others, and the thought drew him closer to his old partner, as well as his old idea, as it was now possible to surprise him with the draft.  But as he was going to surprise him in his own boarding-house—­probably a handsome one—­Uncle Billy reflected that he would do so in a certain style.