1.18. An Honest Living.

I was on my way from the mines to San Francisco, with a light puss and a hevy hart. You’d scacely hav recognized my fair form, so kiverd was I with dust. Bimeby I met Old Poodles, the all-firdist gambler in the country. He was afoot and in his shirt-sleeves, and was in a wuss larther nor any race hoss I ever saw. ("All-fired," enormous, excessive, a low Americanism, not improbably a puritanical corruption of "hell-fired," designed to have the virtue of an oath without offending polite ears.)

"Whither goist thow, sweet nimp?" sez I, in a play-actin tone.

"To the mines, Sir," he unto me did say, "to the mines, TO EARN AN HONEST LIVIN."

Thinks I that air aint very cool, I guess, and druv on.