with the balm of bay and resinous gum; to him the tall redwoods nodded
familiarly and sleepily, the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a
slumberous accompaniment.

Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were "flush times,"
and the luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously. The
camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on
strangers. No encouragement was given to immigration, and, to make
their seclusion more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain
wall that surrounded the camp they duly preempted. This, and a
reputation for singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the
reserve of Roaring Camp inviolate. The expressman--their only
connecting link with the surrounding world--sometimes told wonderful
stories of the camp. He would say, "They've a street up there in
'Roaring' that would lay over any street in Red Dog. They've got vines
and flowers round their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day.
But they're mighty rough on strangers, and they worship an Ingin
baby."

With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further improvement.
It was proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to
invite one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The
Luck, who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice
that this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely
skeptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be
accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But
the resolve could not be carried into effect for three months, and the
minority meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to
prevent it. And it did.