Going out of Mill City next morning I lose the way, and find myself up near a small mining camp among the mountains south of the railroad.  Thinking to regain the road quickly by going across country through the sage-brush, I get into a place where that enterprising shrub is go thick and high that I have to hold the bicycle up overhead to get through.

At three o’clock in the afternoon I come to a railroad section-house.  At the Chinese bunk-house I find a lone Celestial who, for some reason, is staying at home.  Having had nothing to eat or drink since six o’clock this morning, I present the Chinaman with a smile that is intended to win his heathen heart over to any gastronomic scheme I may propose; but smiles are thrown away on John Chinaman.

" John, can you fix me up something to eat. " " No; Chinaman no savvy whi’ man eatee; bossee ow on thlack.  Chinaman eatee nothing bu’ licee [rice]; no licee cookee.”  This sounds pretty conclusive; nevertheless I don’t intend to be thus put off so easily.  There is nothing particularly beautiful about a silver half-dollar, but in the almond-shaped eyes of the Chinaman scenes of paradisiacal loveliness are nothing compared to the dull surface of a twenty-year-old fifty-cent piece; and the jingle of the silver coins contains more melody for Chin Chin’s unromantic ear than a whole musical festival.

" John, I’ll give you a couple of two-bit pieces if you’ll get me a bite of something,” I persist.  John’s small, black eyes twinkle at the suggestion of two-bit pieces, and his expressive countenance assumes a commerical air as, with a ludicrous change of front, he replies: 

" Wha’.  You gib me flore bittee, me gib you bitee eatee. " “That’s what I said, John; and please be as lively as possible about it.”

" All li; you gib me flore bittee me fly you Melican plan-cae.” " Yes, pancakes will do.  Go ahead!”

Visions of pancakes and molasses flit before my hunger-distorted vision as I sit outside until he gets them ready.  In ten minutes John calls me in.  On a tin plate, that looks as if it has just been rescued from a barrel of soap-grease, reposes a shapeless mass of substance resembling putty-it is the " Melican plan-cae; " and the Celestial triumphantly sets an empty box in front of it for me to sit on and extends his greasy palm for the stipulated price.  May the reader never be ravenously hungry and have to choose between a " Melican plan-cae " and nothing.  It is simply a chunk of tenacious dough, made of flour and water only, and soaked for a few minutes in warm grease.  I call for molasses; he doesn’t know what it is.  I inquire for syrup, thinking he may recognize my want by that name.  He brings a jar of thin Chinese catsup, that tastes something like Limburger cheese smells.  I immediately beg of him to take it where its presumably benign influence will fail to reach me.  He produces some excellent cold tea, however, by the aid of which I manage to “bolt” a portion of the “plan-cae.”  One doesn’t look for a very elegant spread for fifty cents in the Sage-brush State; but this “Melican plan-cae” is the worst fifty-cent meal I ever heard of.