"Do you think that every lump of gold ever discovered has got into
the newspapers and encyclopedias?"

"Well," I replied judicially, "if there's one that hasn't, I don't
see how we're to know about it. If a really big nugget, or nugget-
finder, elects to blush unseen--"

"But it didn't," he broke in quickly. "I saw it with my own eyes,
and, besides, I'm too tanned to blush anyway. I'm a railroad man
and I've been in the tropics a lot. Why, I used to be the colour
of mahogany--real old mahogany, and have been taken for a blue-eyed
Spaniard more than once--"

It was my turn to interrupt, and I did.

"Was that nugget bigger than those in there, Mr.--er--?"

"Jones, Julian Jones is my name."

He dug into an inner pocket and produced an envelope addressed to
such a person, care of General Delivery, San Francisco; and I, in
turn, presented him with my card.

"Pleased to know you, sir," he said, extending his hand, his voice
booming as if accustomed to loud noises or wide spaces. "Of course
I've heard of you, seen your picture in the papers, and all that,
and, though I say it that shouldn't, I want to say that I didn't
care a rap about those articles you wrote on Mexico. You're wrong,
all wrong. You make the mistake of all Gringos in thinking a
Mexican is a white man. He ain't. None of them ain't--Greasers,