“I’m much obliged, boys, but I won’t give Whitey the trouble. Doctor’s mistaken—there’s someting broken inside, and I haven’t got many minutes more to live.”
“Do yer best, cap’en,” said the barkeeper, encouragingly. “Promise me you’ll stay alive, and I’ll go straight down to ’Frisco, and get you all the champagne you can drink.”
“You’re very kind,” replied the captain, faintly; “but I’m sent for, and I’ve got to go. I’ve left the East to make my mark, but I didn’t expect to make it in real estate. Whitey, I was a fool for wanting to be chief of Black Hat, and you’ve forgiven me like a gentleman and a Christian. It’s getting dark—I’m thirsty—I’m going—gone!”
The doctor felt the captain’s wrist, and said:
“Fact, gentlemen, he’s panned his last dirt.”
“Do the honors, boys,” said the barkeeper, placing glasses along the bar.
Each man filled his glass, and all looked at Whitey.
“Boys,” said Whitey, solemnly, “ef the cap’en hed struck a nugget, good luck might hev spiled him; ef he’d been chief of Black Hat, or any other place, he might hev got shot. But he’s made his mark, so nobody begrudges him, an’ nobody can rub it out. So here’s to ‘the cap’en’s mark, a dead sure thing.’ Bottoms up.”
The glasses were emptied in silence, and turned bottoms uppermost on the bar.
The boys were slowly dispersing, when one, who was strongly suspected of having been a Church-member, remarked: