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The discovery of gold had made all the miners at Skinner Valley restless, and Hustler Joe was among the first to take his wages and start for the promised bonanza.
Hustler Joe of the coal mines was still “Hustler Joe” of the gold mines. The same ceaseless, untiring energy spurred the man on to constant labor. The claim he staked out proved to be the richest in the place and wealth sought him out and knocked at his cabin door.
Strange to say, Hustler Joe was surprised. He had come to the mines simply because they promised excitement and change. He had thought, too, that possibly they harbored the peace and forgetfulness for which he so longed.
But peace had fled at his approach and wealth had come unasked. Man-like, he regarded the unsought with indifference and gazed only at the unattainable; whereupon wealth rustled her golden garments to charm his ears and flashed her bright beauty to dazzle his eyes. Still failing to win his heart, she whispered that she—even she—was peace in disguise, and that he had but to embrace her to find what he sought.
It was then that Hustler Joe yielded. In a year he had sold half his claim for a fabulous sum. The other half he retained, and leaving it to be developed under the charge of expert engineers, he left for Skinner Valley.
Hustler Joe had never forgotten the little hunchback pedler, nor the debt of gratitude he owed him. Many a time in the old days at the coal mines he had tried to pay this debt, but always, in his own estimation, he had failed. So it was of Pedler Jim that he first thought when this new power of wealth came into his hands.
The news of Hustler Joe’s good luck had not reached Skinner Valley, and the man was in the same rough miner’s garb when he pushed open the familiar door of the “Emporium” in search of Pedler Jim.
“Well, if it ain’t Hustler Joe!” exclaimed the hunchback delightedly. “You’re a sight good fur sore eyes. Come back ter stay?”
“Well, awhile, maybe. How’s the world using you these days, Jim?”
“Oh, fair—fair; ’tain’t quite ’s good as I’d like—but I ain’t complainin’.”
“I wonder if anything would make you complain—I never heard you,” remarked Joe, helping himself to a seat on the counter.
“Well, now that ye mention it, mebbe I don’t much—I hain’t no need to. My appetite’s good an’ my conscience is clear; an’ a clear conscience is——”
“Jim,” interrupted the miner sharply, “did you ever hear of Aladdin and his lamp?”
“Huh? Oh, the feller that rubbed it an’ got what he wanted?”
“That’s the chap.”
“Well—s’posin’ I have?”
“Oh, I only wondered what you’d ask for if you had one to rub.”
“Gorry—I wish’t I had!”
“Well, what would you?” persisted Joe, his face alight.
“What would I? Well, I’ll tell ye. I’d buy the big house on the hill——”
“What—Barrington’s?” interrupted Joe.
“Gee whiz, no! I mean the empty one that Rotalick lived in; an’ I’d make it over into a hospital, an’ I’d add to it as I was able.”
“A hospital? Why, there is one.”
“Yes, I know—the company’s; but the boys always have ter quit there long ’fore they’re able. They can’t work, an’ if they laze ’round home it takes furever to git well—what with the noise an’ the children an’ all. They crawl down here to the store, an’ my heart jest aches fur ’em, they’re so peaked-lookin’. I’d have it all fixed up with trees an’ posies an’ places ter set, ye know, where they could take some comfort while they was gittin’ well.”
A moisture came into Joe’s eyes.
“But how about yourself?” he asked. “You haven’t rubbed out anything for yourself, Jim.”
“Fur me? Gorry—if I jest had that lamp, you’d see me rubbin’ out somethin’ fur me, all right. I’ve been wantin’ ter send home a box ter the old folks—’way back in Maine, ye know. Jiminy Christmas, man, there’d be no end ter the black silk dresses and gold-headed canes an’ fixin’s an’ fur-belows that I’d rub out an’ send to ’em!”
Hustler Joe laughed; then something came into his throat and choked the laugh back.
“But all this isn’t for you, Jim,” he remonstrated.
“Huh? Not fur me? Fur heaven’s sake, man, who is it fur, then?”
The miner laughed again and slid off the counter.
“You’ve got quite a store, Jim. Ever wish you had more room?” he asked abruptly.
Pedler Jim not only nibbled at the bait, but swallowed it.
“Well, ye see, I’m goin’ ter have the place next door when I git money enough and then I’ll jine ’em together. That’ll be somethin’ worth while,” he continued.
Hustler Joe easily kept him talking on this fascinating theme a full ten minutes, then he prepared to take his leave.
“Let’s see,” he mused aloud, “you came from Maine, you say. About where—the town, I mean?”
Jim named it.
“You say the old folks are living there yet?”
Jim nodded.
“Name is Powers, I suppose, same as yours; maybe you were named for your father, eh?”
“No; father’s name was Ebenezer, an’ mother objected—so it’s ‘Jim’ I am. Why? Goin’ ter dig up my family tree by the roots?” asked the little man whimsically.
“Not a bit of it!” laughed the miner, looking strangely embarrassed as he hurried out the door.
“Monte Cristo” had been Hustler Joe’s favorite tale in his boyhood days. He thought of it now, as he left the “Emporium,” and the thought brought a smile to his lips.
A few days later Pedler Jim was dumfounded to receive a call from a Westmont lawyer.
“Well, my friend,” the man began, “I have a few little documents here that demand your attention.”
Pedler Jim eyed the formidable-looking papers with some apprehension.
“Now see here, sir,” he demurred, “my conscience is perfectly clear. I don’t want nothin’ to do with sech devilish-lookin’ things as that!”—his eyes on the big red seal. “I hain’t never harmed no one—’tain’t an arres’, is it?” he added, his voice suddenly failing him.
“Well, hardly!” returned the lawyer, chuckling to himself. “This, my friend, is the deed, filled out in your name, to the Rotalick property on the hill back here; and this,” he continued, taking up another paper and paying no attention to the little hunchback, who had dropped in limp stupefaction on to a packing-box, “this is the deed—also made out in your name—to the building adjoining this store on the south. Mr. Balch, the present occupant, has a lease which expires in two months. After that the property is at your disposal.”
“But where in thunder did I git it?” demanded Pedler Jim.
“That is not my business, sir,” said the lawyer, with a bow.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” murmured the hunchback, gingerly picking up one of the deeds and peering at it.
Pedler Jim was still further astounded to find that to his tiny bank account had been added a sum so large that he scarcely believed his eyes. It was entered under the name “Hospital Fund.”
Following close upon all this came a letter from the folks at home:
Dear Jimmie: What a good, good son we have, and how can we ever thank you! (“Dear Jimmie” looked blank.) The black silk, so soft and rich, will make up into such a beautiful gown—much too fine for your old mother, Jimmie, but I shall be proud of it. Father is already quite puffed up with his lovely gold-topped cane. Nellie and Mary and Tom and John have divided up the pretty ribbons and books and sweetmeats to suit themselves, as long as you didn’t single them out by name. (“No—I’m blest if I did!” murmured Jim.) We were proud and pleased to get the box, Jimmie, both because the things were so beautiful and because you thought to send them. (“I’ll be hanged if I did!” muttered the hunchback, scratching his head in his perplexity.) Why don’t you come on East and see us, dear? We wish you would.
Then followed bits of neighborhood gossip and family news, ending with another burst of thanks which left Pedler Jim helpless with bewilderment.
It was that night that Somers was talking in the store.
“Yes, he’s rich—rich as mud, they say, an’ I ain’t sorry, neither. There ain’t anyone I know that I’d as soon would have a streak o’ luck as Hustler Joe.”
Pedler Jim was across the room, but he heard.
“Rich! Hustler Joe rich!” he demanded, springing to his feet.
“That’s what he is!”
“Jiminy Christmas!” shouted the hunchback. “I’ve found him—he was the lamp himself!”