But I will tell you a few things which you wouldn’t have found out if I hadn’t got myself into this scrape.  I expect to return to St. Louis in July—­per steamer.  I don’t say that I will return then, or that I shall be able to do it—­but I expect to—­you bet.  I came down here from Humboldt, in order to look after our Esmeralda interests, and my sore-backed horse and the bad roads have prevented me from making the journey.  Yesterday one of my old Esmeralda friends, Bob Howland, arrived here, and I have had a talk with him.  He owns with me in the “Horatio and Derby” ledge.  He says our tunnel is in 52 feet, and a small stream of water has been struck, which bids fair to become a “big thing” by the time the ledge is reached—­sufficient to supply a mill.  Now, if you knew anything of the value of water, here; you would perceive, at a glance that if the water should amount to 50 or 100 inches, we wouldn’t care whether school kept or not.  If the ledge should prove to be worthless, we’d sell the water for money enough to give us quite a lift.  But you see, the ledge will not prove to be worthless.  We have located, near by, a fine site for a mill; and when we strike the ledge, you know, we’ll have a mill-site, water power, and pay-rock, all handy.  Then we shan’t care whether we have capital or not.  Mill-folks will build us a mill, and wait for their pay.  If nothing goes wrong, we’ll strike the ledge in June—­and if we do, I’ll be home in July, you know.

Pamela, don’t you know that undemonstrated human calculations won’t do to bet on?  Don’t you know that I have only talked, as yet, but proved nothing?  Don’t you know that I have expended money in this country but have made none myself?  Don’t you know that I have never held in my hands a gold or silver bar that belonged to me?  Don’t you know that it’s all talk and no cider so far?  Don’t you know that people who always feel jolly, no matter where they are or what happens to them—­who have the organ of hope preposterously developed—­who are endowed with an uncongealable sanguine temperament—­who never feel concerned about the price of corn—­and who cannot, by any possibility, discover any but the bright side of a picture—­are very apt to go to extremes, and exaggerate with 40-horse microscopic power?  Of course I never tried to raise these suspicions in your mind, but then your knowledge of the fact that some people’s poor frail human nature is a sort of crazy institution anyhow, ought to have suggested them to you.  Now, if I hadn’t thoughtlessly got you into the notion of coming out here, and thereby got myself into a scrape, I wouldn’t have given you that highly-colored paragraph about the mill, etc., because, you know, if that pretty little picture should fail, and wash out, and go the Devil generally, it wouldn’t cost me the loss of an hour’s sleep, but you fellows would be so much distressed on my account as I could possibly be if “circumstances beyond my control” were to prevent my being present at my own funeral.  But—­but—­