got an idea of the variety of the proprietor's functions. The "hotel,"
however, was more directly under the charge of Mrs. Roscommon, a lady of
thirty years, strong, truculent, and good-hearted.

Mr. Roscommon had early adopted the theory that most of his customers
were insane, and were to be alternately bullied or placated, as the case
might be. Nothing that occurred, no extravagance of speech nor act,
ever ruffled his equilibrium, which was as dogged and stubborn as it was
outwardly calm. When not serving liquor, or in the interval while it was
being drank, he was always wiping his counter with an exceedingly dirty
towel,--or indeed anything that came handy. Miners, noticing this
purely perfunctory habit, occasionally supplied him slily with articles
inconsistent with their service,--fragments of their shirts and
underclothing, flour sacking, tow, and once with a flannel petticoat
of his wife's, stolen from the line in the back-yard. Roscommon would
continue his wiping without looking up, but yet conscious of the
presence of each customer. "And it's not another dhrop ye'll git, Jack
Brown, until ye've wiped out the black score that stands agin ye."
"And it's there ye are, darlint, and it's here's the bottle that's been
lukin' for ye sins Saturday." "And fwhot hev you done with the last
I sent ye, ye divil of a McCorkle, and here's me back that's bruk
entoirely wid dipping intil the pork barl to giv ye the best sides, and
ye spending yur last cint on a tare into Gilroy. Whist! and if it's
fer foighting ye are, boys, there's an illigant bit of sod beyant the
corral, and it may be meself'll come out with a shtick and be sociable."

On this particular day, however, Mr. Roscommon was not in his usual
spirits, and when the clatter of horses' hoofs before the door announced
the approach of strangers, he absolutely ceased wiping his counter and
looked up as Dr. Guild, the President, and Secretary of the new Company