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    Chapter LIX

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    Chapter 63
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    For a time I wrote literary screeds for the Golden Era. C. H. Webb had
    established a very excellent literary weekly called the Californian, but
    high merit was no guaranty of success; it languished, and he sold out to
    three printers, and Bret Harte became editor at $20 a week, and I was
    employed to contribute an article a week at $12. But the journal still
    languished, and the printers sold out to Captain Ogden, a rich man and a
    pleasant gentleman who chose to amuse himself with such an expensive
    luxury without much caring about the cost of it. When he grew tired of
    the novelty, he re-sold to the printers, the paper presently died a
    peaceful death, and I was out of work again. I would not mention these
    things but for the fact that they so aptly illustrate the ups and downs
    that characterize life on the Pacific coast. A man could hardly stumble
    into such a variety of queer vicissitudes in any other country.

    For two months my sole occupation was avoiding acquaintances; for during
    that time I did not earn a penny, or buy an article of any kind, or pay
    my board. I became a very adept at "slinking." I slunk from back street
    to back street, I slunk away from approaching faces that looked familiar,
    I slunk to my meals, ate them humbly and with a mute apology for every
    mouthful I robbed my generous landlady of, and at midnight, after
    wanderings that were but slinkings away from cheerfulness and light, I
    slunk to my bed. I felt meaner, and lowlier and more despicable than the
    worms. During all this time I had but one piece of money--a silver ten
    cent piece--and I held to it and would not spend it on any account, lest
    the consciousness coming strong upon me that I was entirely penniless,
    might suggest suicide. I had pawned every thing but the clothes I had
    on; so I clung to my dime desperately, till it was smooth with handling.

    However, I am forgetting. I did have one other occupation beside that of
    "slinking." It was the entertaining of a collector (and being
    entertained by him,) who had in his hands the Virginia banker's bill for
    forty-six dollars which I had loaned my schoolmate, the "Prodigal." This
    man used to call regularly once a week and dun me, and sometimes oftener.
    He did it from sheer force of habit, for he knew he could get nothing.
    He would get out his bill, calculate the interest for me, at five per
    cent a month, and show me clearly that there was no attempt at fraud in
    it and no mistakes; and then plead, and argue and dun with all his might
    for any sum--any little trifle--even a dollar--even half a dollar, on
    account. Then his duty was accomplished and his conscience free. He
    immediately dropped the subject there always; got out a couple of cigars
    and divided, put his feet in the window, and then we would have a long,
    luxurious talk about everything and everybody, and he would furnish me a
    world of curious dunning adventures out of the ample store in his memory.
    By and by he would clap his hat on his head, shake hands and say briskly:

    "Well, business is business--can't stay with you always!"--and was off in
    a second.

    The idea of pining for a dun! And yet I used to long for him to come,
    and would get as uneasy as any mother if the day went by without his
    visit, when I was expecting him. But he never collected that bill, at
    last nor any part of it. I lived to pay it to the banker myself.

    Misery loves company. Now and then at night, in out-of-the way, dimly
    lighted places, I found myself happening on another child of misfortune.
    He looked so seedy and forlorn, so homeless and friendless and forsaken,
    that I yearned toward him as a brother. I wanted to claim kinship with
    him and go about and enjoy our wretchedness together. The drawing toward
    each other must have been mutual; at any rate we got to falling together
    oftener, though still seemingly by accident; and although we did not
    speak or evince any recognition, I think the dull anxiety passed out of
    both of us when we saw each other, and then for several hours we would
    idle along contentedly, wide apart, and glancing furtively in at home
    lights and fireside gatherings, out of the night shadows, and very much
    enjoying our dumb companionship.

    Finally we spoke, and were inseparable after that. For our woes were
    identical, almost. He had been a reporter too, and lost his berth, and
    this was his experience, as nearly as I can recollect it. After losing
    his berth he had gone down, down, down, with never a halt: from a
    boarding house on Russian Hill to a boarding house in Kearney street;
    from thence to Dupont; from thence to a low sailor den; and from thence
    to lodgings in goods boxes and empty hogsheads near the wharves. Then;
    for a while, he had gained a meagre living by sewing up bursted sacks of
    grain on the piers; when that failed he had found food here and there as
    chance threw it in his way. He had ceased to show his face in daylight,
    now, for a reporter knows everybody, rich and poor, high and low, and
    cannot well avoid familiar faces in the broad light of day.

    This mendicant Blucher--I call him that for convenience--was a splendid
    creature. He was full of hope, pluck and philosophy; he was well read
    and a man of cultivated taste; he had a bright wit and was a master of
    satire; his kindliness and his generous spirit made him royal in my eyes
    and changed his curb-stone seat to a throne and his damaged hat to a

    He had an adventure, once, which sticks fast in my memory as the most
    pleasantly grotesque that ever touched my sympathies. He had been
    without a penny for two months. He had shirked about obscure streets,
    among friendly dim lights, till the thing had become second nature to
    him. But at last he was driven abroad in daylight. The cause was
    sufficient; he had not tasted food for forty-eight hours, and he could
    not endure the misery of his hunger in idle hiding. He came along a back
    street, glowering at the loaves in bake-shop windows, and feeling that he
    could trade his life away for a morsel to eat. The sight of the bread
    doubled his hunger; but it was good to look at it, any how, and imagine
    what one might do if one only had it.

    Presently, in the middle of the street he saw a shining spot--looked
    again--did not, and could not, believe his eyes--turned away, to try
    them, then looked again. It was a verity--no vain, hunger-inspired
    delusion--it was a silver dime!

    He snatched it--gloated over it; doubted it--bit it--found it genuine--
    choked his heart down, and smothered a halleluiah. Then he looked
    around--saw that nobody was looking at him--threw the dime down where it
    was before--walked away a few steps, and approached again, pretending he
    did not know it was there, so that he could re-enjoy the luxury of
    finding it. He walked around it, viewing it from different points; then
    sauntered about with his hands in his pockets, looking up at the signs
    and now and then glancing at it and feeling the old thrill again.
    Finally he took it up, and went away, fondling it in his pocket. He
    idled through unfrequented streets, stopping in doorways and corners to
    take it out and look at it. By and by he went home to his lodgings--an
    empty queens-ware hogshead,--and employed himself till night trying to
    make up his mind what to buy with it. But it was hard to do. To get the
    most for it was the idea. He knew that at the Miner's Restaurant he
    could get a plate of beans and a piece of bread for ten cents; or a fish-
    ball and some few trifles, but they gave "no bread with one fish-ball"
    there. At French Pete's he could get a veal cutlet, plain, and some
    radishes and bread, for ten cents; or a cup of coffee--a pint at least--
    and a slice of bread; but the slice was not thick enough by the eighth of
    an inch, and sometimes they were still more criminal than that in the
    cutting of it. At seven o'clock his hunger was wolfish; and still his
    mind was not made up. He turned out and went up Merchant street, still
    ciphering; and chewing a bit of stick, as is the way of starving men.

    He passed before the lights of Martin's restaurant, the most aristocratic
    in the city, and stopped. It was a place where he had often dined, in
    better days, and Martin knew him well. Standing aside, just out of the
    range of the light, he worshiped the quails and steaks in the show
    window, and imagined that may be the fairy times were not gone yet and
    some prince in disguise would come along presently and tell him to go in
    there and take whatever he wanted. He chewed his stick with a hungry
    interest as he warmed to his subject. Just at this juncture he was
    conscious of some one at his side, sure enough; and then a finger touched
    his arm. He looked up, over his shoulder, and saw an apparition--a very
    allegory of Hunger! It was a man six feet high, gaunt, unshaven, hung
    with rags; with a haggard face and sunken cheeks, and eyes that pleaded
    piteously. This phantom said:

    "Come with me--please."

    He locked his arm in Blucher's and walked up the street to where the
    passengers were few and the light not strong, and then facing about, put
    out his hands in a beseeching way, and said:

    "Friend--stranger--look at me! Life is easy to you--you go about, placid
    and content, as I did once, in my day--you have been in there, and eaten
    your sumptuous supper, and picked your teeth, and hummed your tune, and
    thought your pleasant thoughts, and said to yourself it is a good world--
    but you've never suffered! You don't know what trouble is--you don't
    know what misery is--nor hunger! Look at me! Stranger have pity on a
    poor friendless, homeless dog! As God is my judge, I have not tasted
    food for eight and forty hours!--look in my eyes and see if I lie! Give
    me the least trifle in the world to keep me from starving--anything--
    twenty-five cents! Do it, stranger--do it, please. It will be nothing
    to you, but life to me. Do it, and I will go down on my knees and lick
    the dust before you! I will kiss your footprints--I will worship the
    very ground you walk on! Only twenty-five cents! I am famishing--
    perishing--starving by inches! For God's sake don't desert me!"

    Blucher was bewildered--and touched, too--stirred to the depths. He
    reflected. Thought again. Then an idea struck him, and he said:

    "Come with me."

    He took the outcast's arm, walked him down to Martin's restaurant, seated
    him at a marble table, placed the bill of fare before him, and said:

    "Order what you want, friend. Charge it to me, Mr. Martin."

    "All right, Mr. Blucher," said Martin.

    Then Blucher stepped back and leaned against the counter and watched the
    man stow away cargo after cargo of buckwheat cakes at seventy-five cents
    a plate; cup after cup of coffee, and porter house steaks worth two
    dollars apiece; and when six dollars and a half's worth of destruction
    had been accomplished, and the stranger's hunger appeased, Blucher went
    down to French Pete's, bought a veal cutlet plain, a slice of bread, and
    three radishes, with his dime, and set to and feasted like a king!

    Take the episode all around, it was as odd as any that can be culled from
    the myriad curiosities of Californian life, perhaps.
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    Chapter 63
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