On one occasion a rich strike was reported in a leading mine. Every avenue to the lower-levels was closed against the outside world. The superintendent was exceedingly close-mouthed and mysterious; the miners were reticent and unbribable—nothing could be learned in regard to the strike, though strike there was, as all felt convinced. The gatherers of mining news scouted about the surface works, watching everything and making mental notes of all that occurred which appeared to be indicative of a rich body of ore below. Nothing, however, of the slightest value could be bored, pumped, or gouged out of anybody or anything, and finally all the newsgatherers but one drew off and gave it up as a bad job. One man still lingered, day after day, all eyes and ears. The superintendent came and went, and he was none the wiser for having seen him.
At last a bright idea struck him. The superintendent came to the mine, and, as usual, went down into the lower-levels. Our man remained loitering about the works until he came out—lingered until he had seen him take off and throw aside his muddy boots, his clay-besmeared overalls and shirt, and till he had finally taken himself off. Watching his chance, the hungry reporter of mining news darted into the dressing-room, and with his jack-knife scraped from the boots, overalls, felt hat, shirt, and everything, all the mud, clay, and earth sticking to them. Of this and the loose particles of ore found in the pockets of the shirt, he made a large ball, which was composed of a general average of the bottom, top and sides of the drift run into the new deposit; he had a little of everything the superintendent had touched, and this ball he had carefully assayed. By the result obtained he became satisfied that a strike of extraordinary richness had been made. He immediately telegraphed to his employers in San Francisco to buy all of the stock they could get. They bought largely, and made an immense profit, as the stock soon went up from a few dollars to high in the hundreds.
At the time of the big excitement in 1875, a fine, motherly-looking old lady came up to Virginia City from Reno to see about the “big bonanza.” She had in her pocket twenty shares of California stock which she had bought when it was selling at $30. At the time she made her trip to Virginia the stock was selling for over $600 per share. Her son accompanied her on her trip of inspection. Leaving the cars at the depôt, mother and son walked down the railroad-track to a point where could be obtained a good view of the Consolidated Virginia hoisting-works, the big mill of that company and of the Ophir works. Some men of whom they inquired told them that the ground they saw between the Ophir and the Consolidated Virginia, was that of the California Company, and was principally bonanza.
On hearing this, the good old lady wiped her spectacles, placed them astride of her venerable nose, threw back her head, and long and carefully surveyed the lay of the land between the two sets of hoisting-works. This done, she took off and folded up her glasses, put them into their case, and carefully deposited them in her capacious pocket. She then brought forth her reticule, opened it, took out her stock, found it all right, replaced it, and drew the string as tight as her trembling fingers would allow of her doing. She then said to her son: “George, give me your arm. Let us go home—it will go to $1,000.”
Nat Codrington was one of the unlucky speculators. He was always complaining about William Sharon, the great mining millionaire. Whenever things went wrong with Nat, “Uncle Billy”—as Nat affectionately called Mr. Sharon—was at the bottom of the business.[business.] When Nat bought stock it was sure to go down at once, then he would say: “That’s Uncle Billy, he’s turning the crank again!” As soon as Nat sold short on a stock, up it would go, and he would say: “Well, Uncle Billy’s at it again—grindin’ of ’em the other way this time!”
As long as he could, Nat responded to the calls for “mud,” but his pile of filthy lucre was not like the widow’s cruse of oil, and at last it became a thing of the past, and Nat ceased to take even his former feeble interest in “Uncle Billy’s” crank-turning.
The last seen of Nat he was off for California. The iron had entered his soul and he had reached the seventh level of despair. No more mining—no more mud-eating stocks for him. “Yes,” said Nat, “I’m off for the pastoral regions, where the woodbine twineth and the dissolute grasshopper sitteth on the mullin stalk and assiduously raspeth his stridulous fiddle.”
Old Joe Staker is one of a class to be found both along the line of the Comstock and in San Francisco, on those streets where speculators in stocks most do congregate. Old Joe probably never owned the shadow of a share in any mine on the Comstock lode, yet he is always in the thick of every excitement, and claims to have shares in all the big mines.
In 1875, Old Joe was in his element. His is a very sympathetic nature, and when California was booming up toward $1,000 per share, Old Joe was rushing about, ever in the midst of the mélée—was ever with those who were drinking and rejoicing.
Later in the season, when there had been a crash along the whole line—when all stocks, good, bad, and indifferent, “tumbled”—Old Joe was to be found in the midst of the mourners, drowning his sorrows at every opportunity. He did not, however, at all times find those who were losing their thousands each hour by the fall so liberal as had been those who had been winning at the same rate by the rise, nor were they so good-natured, and Old Joe frequently found himself elbowed out altogether.