Tom Long was the owner of one of the drinking-saloons, I have mentioned, as composing the line of street or road which was named Susanville. His residence was on the hill rising from one side of the line of liquor-shanties in which its regular inhabitants made money. One night, old "Zac" was standing beside the spot where Tom was dispensing liquor. He was a favorite of Tom's. For what reason he was so, it would be impossible to say. But Tom employed him to do up odd "chores" for him, and occasionally assisted him in a way which in the East might have been stigmatized as "red-hot" charity. In Susanville, it was not considered so. Old "Zac" was a privileged person. Well, the truth is, Tom was tired with the employment of the day. He wanted to quit business and retire to his home. Turning to "Zac," he pushed out the bottle and a tumbler.
"Take a drink, Zac?"
"You bet—" responded the recipient of Tom's bounty. "I say," he continued, lifting the Old Rye to his lips, "here's long life to you."
"I want to go home."
"Why in thunder don't yu go, then?"
"Zac, I think I will, if you'll 'tend business for me."
"You bet!"
"Thank you, Zac! Here's the key of the door. Mind you lock it in about half an hour, and open it again, to-morrow morning." As Tom concluded, he took a fair dose of Rye himself, to render his skin impervious to the night air. In this he was imitated by old Zac. Then putting on his coat, and taking his hat, he quitted the saloon with a cheery "Good-night, old boy!"
Now, "Zac" had no intention of remaining long after his friend and patron had gone. He had rinsed out the two glasses he and Tom had just emptied, and was on his way to the door, when four of us stepped in.