the sticks of dynamite, till their eyes bulged. The hundreds of times
these last six months I've wished I had in writing the stories of those
days--of all his days, from early Vacaville times on! Sometimes it would
be an old Vacaville crony who would appear, and stories would fly of
those boy times--of the exploits up Putah Creek with Pee Wee Allen; of
the prayer-meeting when Carl bet he could out-pray the minister's son,
and won; of the tediously thought-out assaults upon an ancient hired man
on the place, that would fill a book and delight the heart of Tom Sawyer
himself; and how his mother used to sigh and add to it all, "If only he
had _ever_ come home on time to his meals!" (And he has one son just
like him. Carl's brothers tell me: "Just give up trying to get Jim home
on time. Mamma tried every scheme a human could devise to make Carl
prompt for his meals, but nothing ever had the slightest effect. Half an
hour past dinner-time he'd still be five miles from home.")

One article that recently appeared in a New York paper began:--

"They say of him that when he was a small boy he displayed the same
tendencies that later on made him great in his chosen field. His family
possessed a distinct tendency toward conformity and respectability, but
Carl was a companion of every 'alley-bum' in Vacaville. His respectable
friends never won him away from his insatiable interest in the
under-dog. They now know it makes valid his claim to achievement."

After the British Columbia mining days, he took what money he had saved,
and left for Idaho, where he was to meet his chum, Hal Bradley, for his
first Idaho trip--a dream of theirs for years. The Idaho stories he
could tell--oh, why can I not remember them word for word? I have seen
him hold a roomful of students in Berlin absolutely spellbound over
those adventures--with a bit of Parker coloring, to be sure, which no