"I wouldn't have done it," said Ben's new friend rejoining him; "but it'll help me to forget what a blamed fool I've been to-night. You jest let the drink alone. That's my advice."
"I mean to," said Ben firmly. "Do people drink much out here?"
"Whisky's their nat'ral element," said the miner. "Some of 'em don't drink water once a month. An old friend of mine, Joe Granger, act'lly forgot how it tasted. I gave him a glass once by way of a joke, and he said it was the weakest gin he ever tasted."
"Are there no temperance societies out here?" asked Ben.
The miner laughed.
"It's my belief that a temperance lecturer would be mobbed, or hung to the nearest lamppost," he answered.
It is hardly necessary to say that even in 1856 intemperance was hardly as common in California as the statements of his new friend led Ben to suppose. His informant was sincere, and spoke according to his own observation. It is not remarkable that at the mines, in the absence of the comforts of civilization, those who drink rarely or not at all at home should seek the warmth and excitement of drink.
"What's your name, boy?" asked the miner abruptly.
"Ben Stanton."
"Where were you raised?"