What did it matter to him?  He had no world outside of the cabin and the hills, no affairs; he would live and die there; his affairs all had ended long ago.  A number of the stories used in Mark Twain’s books were first told by Jim Gillis, standing with his hands crossed behind him, back to the fire, in the cabin on jackass Hill.  The story of Dick Baker’s cat was one of these; the jaybird and Acorn story of ‘A Tramp Abroad’ was another; also the story of the “Burning Shame,” and there are others.  Mark Twain had little to add to these stories; in fact, he never could get them to sound as well, he said, as when Jim Gillis had told them.

James Gillis’s imagination sometimes led him into difficulties.  Once a feeble old squaw came along selling some fruit that looked like green plums.  Stoker, who knew the fruit well enough, carelessly ventured the remark that it might be all right, but he had never heard of anybody eating it, which set Gillis off into eloquent praises of its delights, all of which he knew to be purely imaginary; whereupon Stoker told him if he liked the fruit so well, to buy some of it.  There was no escape after that; Jim had to buy some of those plums, whose acid was of the hair-lifting aqua-fortis variety, and all the rest of the day he stewed them, adding sugar, trying to make them palatable, tasting them now and then, boasting meanwhile of their nectar-like deliciousness.  He gave the others a taste by and by—­a withering, corroding sup—­and they derided him and rode him down.  But Jim never weakened.  He ate that fearful brew, and though for days his mouth was like fire he still referred to the luscious health-giving joys of the “Californian plums.”

Jackass Hill was not altogether a solitude; here and there were neighbors.  Another pocket-miner; named Carrington, had a cabin not far away, and a mile or two distant lived an old couple with a pair of pretty daughters, so plump and trim and innocent, that they were called the “Chapparal Quails.”  Young men from far and near paid court to them, and on Sunday afternoons so many horses would be tied to their front fence as to suggest an afternoon service there.  Young “Billy” Gillis knew them, and one Sunday morning took his brother’s friend, Sam Clemens, over for a call.  They went early, with forethought, and promptly took the girls for a walk.  They took a long walk, and went wandering over the hills, toward Sandy Bar and the Stanislaus—­through that reposeful land which Bret Harte would one day light with idyllic romance—­and toward evening found themselves a long way from home.  They must return by the nearest way to arrive before dark.  One of the young ladies suggested a short cut through the Chemisal, and they started.  But they were lost, presently, and it was late, very late, when at last they reached the ranch.  The mother of the “Quails” was sitting up for them, and she had something to say.  She let go a perfect storm of general denunciation, then narrowed the attack to Samuel Clemens as the oldest of the party.  He remained mildly serene.