"Are you a preacher?" he asked.

"I thought so," he added, after getting my answer to his question. "Of
what persuasion are you?"! he further inquired.

When I told him I was a Methodist, he said quickly and with some warmth:

"I was sure of it. This is a rough place for a man of your calling.
Would you like some eggs? we've plenty on hand. And may be you would
like a cup of coffee," he added, with, increasing hospitality.

I took the eggs, but declined the coffee, not liking the looks of the
cups and saucers, and not caring to wait.

"I used to be a Methodist myself," said Pete, with a sort of choking in
his throat, "but bad luck and bad company have brought me down to this.
I have a family in Iowa, a wife and four children. I guess they think
I'm dead, and sometimes I wish I was."

Pete stood by my chair, actually crying. The sight of a Methodist
preacher brought up old times. He told me his story. He had come to
California hoping to make a fortune in a hurry, but had only ill luck
from the start. His prospectings were always failures, his partners
cheated him, his health broke down, his courage gave way, and--he
faltered a little, and then spoke it out--he took to whisky, and then
the worst came.

"I have come down to this--cooking for a lot of roughs at five dollars
a week, and all the whisky I want. It would have been better for me if I