They had what they believed to be a good claim.  Jim Gillis declared the indications promising, and if they could only have good weather to work it, they were sure of rich returns.  For himself, he would have been willing to work, rain or shine.  Clemens, however, had different views on the subject.  His part was carrying water for washing out the pans of dirt, and carrying pails of water through the cold rain and mud was not very fascinating work.  Dick Stoker came over before long to help.  Things went a little better then; but most of their days were spent in the bar-room of the dilapidated tavern at Angel’s Camp, enjoying the company of a former Illinois River pilot, Ben Coon,—­[This name has been variously given as “Ros Coon,” “Coon Drayton,” etc.  It is given here as set down in Mark Twain’s notes, made on the spot.  Coon was not (as has been stated) the proprietor of the hotel (which was kept by a Frenchman), but a frequenter of it.]—­a solemn, fat-witted person, who dozed by the stove, or old slow, endless stories, without point or application.  Listeners were a boon to him, for few came and not many would stay.  To Mark Twain and Jim Gillis, however, Ben Coon was a delight.  It was soothing and comfortable to listen to his endless narratives, told in that solemn way, with no suspicion of humor.  Even when his yarns had point, he did not recognize it.  One dreary afternoon, in his slow, monotonous fashion, he told them about a frog—­a frog that had belonged to a man named Coleman, who trained it to jump, but that failed to win a wager because the owner of a rival frog had surreptitiously loaded the trained jumper with shot.  The story had circulated among the camps, and a well-known journalist, named Samuel Seabough, had already made a squib of it, but neither Clemens nor Gillis had ever happened to hear it before.  They thought the tale in itself amusing, and the “spectacle of a man drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without ever smiling was exquisitely absurd.”  When Coon had talked himself out, his hearers played billiards on the frowsy table, and now and then one would remark to the other: 

“I don’t see no p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other frog,” and perhaps the other would answer: 

“I ain’t got no frog, but if I had a frog I’d bet you.”

Out on the claim, between pails of water, Clemens, as he watched Jim Gillis or Dick Stoker “washing,” would be apt to say, “I don’t see no p’ints about that pan o’ dirt that’s any better’n any other pan o’ dirt,” and so they kept it up.

Then the rain would come again and interfere with their work.  One afternoon, when Clemens and Gillis were following certain tiny-sprayed specks of gold that were leading them to pocket—­somewhere up the long slope, the chill downpour set in.  Gillis, as usual, was washing, and Clemens carrying water.  The “color” was getting better with every pan, and Jim Gillis believed that now, after their long waiting, they were to be rewarded.  Possessed with the miner’s passion, he would have gone on washing and climbing toward the precious pocket, regardless of everything.  Clemens, however, shivering and disgusted, swore that each pail of water was his last.  His teeth were chattering and he was wet through.  Finally he said, in his deliberate way: