“Seems to me you’re kinder stuck on this fren’,” grunted Uncle Jim.

Uncle Billy’s heart bounded at his partner’s jealousy.  “No—­but I must, you know,” he returned, with a faint laugh.

“I say—­it ain’t a her, is it?” said Uncle Jim.

Uncle Billy achieved a diabolical wink and a creditable blush at his lie.

“Billy?”

“Jim!”

And under cover of this festive gallantry Uncle Billy escaped.  He ran through the gathering darkness, and toiled up the shifting sands to the top of the hill, where he found the carriage waiting.

“Wot,” said Uncle Billy in a low confidential tone to the coachman, “wot do you ’Frisco fellers allow to be the best, biggest, and riskiest gamblin’-saloon here?  Suthin’ high-toned, you know?”

The negro grinned.  It was the usual case of the extravagant spendthrift miner, though perhaps he had expected a different question and order.

“Dey is de ‘Polka,’ de ‘El Dorado,’ and de ‘Arcade’ saloon, boss,” he said, flicking his whip meditatively.  “Most gents from de mines prefer de ‘Polka,’ for dey is dancing wid de gals frown in.  But de real prima facie place for gents who go for buckin’ agin de tiger and straight-out gamblin’ is de ‘Arcade.’”

“Drive there like thunder!” said Uncle Billy, leaping into the carriage.

*****

True to his word, Uncle Billy was at his partner’s shanty early the next morning.  He looked a little tired, but happy, and had brought a draft with him for five hundred and seventy-five dollars, which he explained was the total of his capital.  Uncle Jim was overjoyed.  They would start for Napa that very day, and conclude the purchase of the ranch; Uncle Jim’s sprained foot was a sufficient reason for his giving up his present vocation, which he could also sell at a small profit.  His domestic arrangements were very simple; there was nothing to take with him—­there was everything to leave behind.  And that afternoon, at sunset, the two reunited partners were seated on the deck of the Napa boat as she swung into the stream.

Uncle Billy was gazing over the railing with a look of abstracted relief towards the Golden Gate, where the sinking sun seemed to be drawing towards him in the ocean a golden stream that was forever pouring from the Bay and the three-hilled city beside it.  What Uncle Billy was thinking of, or what the picture suggested to him, did not transpire; for Uncle Jim, who, emboldened by his holiday, was luxuriating in an evening paper, suddenly uttered a long-drawn whistle, and moved closer to his abstracted partner.  “Look yer,” he said, pointing to a paragraph he had evidently just read, “just you listen to this, and see if we ain’t lucky, you and me, to be jest wot we air—­trustin’ to our own hard work—­and not thinkin’ o’ ‘strikes’ and ‘fortins.’  Jest unbutton yer ears, Billy, while I reel off this yer thing I’ve jest struck in the paper, and see what d—­d fools some men kin make o’ themselves.  And that theer reporter wot wrote it—­must hev seed it reely!”