to a blacksmith named Allison, who did all of our work, and asked him to
cut it off about a foot from the breech end, so that I could use it as a
cannon. He put it in his forge, and pulled away upon his bellows with
his left hand. He held the muzzle end of the rifle barrel in his right
hand, and poked at the coals with it so as to get it properly covered.
He intended to heat it and then cut it off. All at once, Bang! and that
horrid old thing went off. The bullet went through Allison's clothing
and slightly cut the skin on his side. He was the worst scared man in
all California. When he felt the sting of the bullet he threw up his
hands and fell on his back, yelling lustily. I was almost as badly
panic-stricken, thinking surely he was killed. I began to see visions of
the gallows and the hangman's rope. He recovered his self-possession,
and when he found he was not hurt, his fear turned to anger. He threw
the rifle barrel out into the street, and then drove me out of the shop.
When I got outside and my fear had left me, I sat down on an old wagon
tongue and laughed until I was entirely out of breath. Allison came out,
and my laughter must have been contagious. He leaned up against a post
and laughed until he cried. His anger had left him, and we were soon
fast friends again. At the proper time I ventured the opinion that the
rifle could not go off again, and that it would be well enough to finish
the cutting process. He consented and soon had the barrel cut off. I
took the breech end home with me, and endangered my life with it many
years. I generally loaded it with blasting powder, for the reason that
it was usually on hand and cost me nothing, and so loaded, the cannon
made more noise than had I used gunpowder.

During the campaign in which Gen. George B. McClellan ran for the
Presidency against Abraham Lincoln, the Democrats of Northern California
had a great celebration which lasted two or three days. Among other
things was a barbecue at the race track, two or three miles out of town.