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I go to the mountain towns. The sensational mining days are over, but I find the people jolly and hospitable nevertheless.
At Nevada I am called upon, shortly after my arrival, by an athletic scarlet-faced man, who politely says his name is Blaze.
Years ago Mr. Blaze was an agent of the California Stage Company. There was a formidable and well-organized opposition to the California Stage Company at that time, and Mr. Blaze rendered them such signal service in his capacity of agent that they were very sorry when he tendered his resignation.
"You are some sixteen hundred dollars behind in your accounts, Mr. Blaze," said the President, "but in view of your faithful and efficient services we shall throw off eight hundred dollars off that amount."
Mr. Blaze seemed touched by this generosity. A tear stood in his eye and his bosom throbbed audibly.
"You will throw off eight hundred dollars—you will?" he at last cried, seizing the President's hand and pressing it passionately to his lips.
"I will," returned the President.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Blaze, "I'm a gentleman, I am, you bet! And I won't allow no Stage Company to surpass me in politeness. I'll throw off the other eight hundred, and we'llcall it square! No gratitude, sir—no thanks; it is my duty."
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