For
a time I wrote
literary
screeds
for
the
Golden
Era. C. H. Webb had
established
a
very
excellent
literary
weekly
called
the
Californian,
but
high
merit
was
no
guaranty
of
success;
it
languished,
and
he
sold
out
to
three
printers,
and
Bret Harte became
editor
at
$20 a week,
and
I
was
employed
to
contribute
an
article
a
week
at
$12.
But
the
journal
still
languished,
and
the
printers
sold
out
to
Captain Ogden, a
rich
man
and
a
pleasant
gentleman
who
chose
to
amuse
himself
with
such
an
expensive
luxury
without
much
caring
about
the
cost
of
it.
When
he
grew
tired
of
the
novelty,
he
re-sold
to
the
printers,
the
paper presently
died
a peaceful death,
and
I
was
out
of
work
again. I
would
not
mention
these
things
but
for
the
fact
that
they
so
aptly
illustrate
the
ups
and
downs
that
characterize
life
on
the
Pacific
coast. A
man
could
hardly
stumble
into
such
a
variety
of
queer
vicissitudes
in
any
other
country.
For
two
months
my
sole
occupation
was
avoiding
acquaintances;
for
during
that
time I
did
not
earn
a penny,
or
buy
an
article
of
any
kind,
or
pay
my board. I became a
very
adept
at
"slinking." I slunk
from
back
street
to
back
street, I slunk
away
from
approaching faces
that
looked
familiar, I slunk
to
my meals, ate
them
humbly
and
with
a mute
apology
for
every
mouthful I
robbed
my
generous
landlady of,
and
at
midnight,
after
wanderings
that
were
but
slinkings
away
from
cheerfulness
and
light, I slunk
to
my bed. I felt meaner,
and
lowlier
and
more
despicable
than
the
worms.
During
all
this
time I had
but
one
piece
of
money—a
silver
ten
cent
piece—and I
held
to
it
and
would
not
spend
it
on
any
account,
lest
the
consciousness coming
strong
upon
me
that
I
was
entirely penniless,
might
suggest
suicide. I had pawned
every
thing
but
the
clothes
I had on;
so
I
clung
to
my
dime
desperately,
till
it
was
smooth
with
handling. However, I
am
forgetting. I
did
have
one
other
occupation
beside
that
of
"slinking."
It
was
the
entertaining
of
a
collector
(and being
entertained
by
him,)
who
had
in
his
hands
the
Virginia
banker's
bill
for
forty-six
dollars
which
I had
loaned
my schoolmate,
the
"Prodigal."
This
man
used
to
call
regularly
once
a
week
and
dun
me,
and
sometimes oftener.
He
did
it
from
sheer
force
of
habit,
for
he
knew
he
could
get
nothing.
He
would
get
out
his
bill,
calculate
the
interest
for
me,
at
five
per
cent
a month,
and
show
me
clearly
that
there
was
no
attempt
at
fraud
in
it
and
no
mistakes;
and
then
plead,
and
argue
and
dun
with
all
his
might
for
any
sum—any
little
trifle—even a dollar—even
half
a dollar,
on
account.
Then
his
duty
was
accomplished
and
his
conscience
free.
He
immediately
dropped
the
subject
there
always; got
out
a
couple
of
cigars
and
divided,
put
his
feet
in
the
window,
and
then
we
would
have
a long,
luxurious
talk
about
everything
and
everybody,
and
he
would
furnish
me
a
world
of
curious
dunning
adventures
out
of
the
ample
store
in
his
memory.
By
and
by
he
would
clap
his
hat
on
his
head,
shake
hands
and
say
briskly: "Well,
business
is
business—can't stay
with
you
always!"—and
was
off
in
a second.
The
idea
of
pining
for
a dun!
And
yet
I used
to
long
for
him
to
come,
and
would
get
as
uneasy
as
any
mother
if
the
day
went
by
without
his
visit,
when
I
was
expecting
him.
But
he
never
collected
that
bill,
at
last
nor
any
part
of
it. I
lived
to
pay
it
to
the
banker
myself.
Misery
loves
company.
Now
and
then
at
night,
in
out-of-the way,
dimly
lighted
places, I found
myself
happening
on
another
child
of
misfortune.
He
looked
so
seedy
and
forlorn,
so
homeless
and
friendless
and
forsaken,
that
I
yearned
toward
him
as
a brother. I wanted
to
claim
kinship
with
him
and
go
about
and
enjoy
our
wretchedness together.
The
drawing
toward
each
other
must
have
been mutual;
at
any
rate
we
got
to
falling
together
oftener,
though
still
seemingly
by
accident;
and
although
we
did
not
speak
or
evince
any
recognition, I
think
the
dull
anxiety
passed
out
of
both
of
us
when
we
saw
each
other,
and
then
for
several
hours
we
would
idle
along
contentedly,
wide
apart,
and
glancing furtively
in
at
home
lights
and
fireside gatherings,
out
of
the
night
shadows,
and
very
much
enjoying
our
dumb
companionship. Finally
we
spoke,
and
were
inseparable
after
that.
For
our
woes
were
identical, almost.
He
had been a
reporter
too,
and
lost
his
berth,
and
this
was
his
experience,
as
nearly
as
I
can
recollect
it.
After
losing
his
berth
he
had gone down, down, down,
with
never
a halt:
from
a boarding
house
on
Russian
Hill
to
a boarding
house
in
Kearney street;
from
thence
to
Dupont;
from
thence
to
a
low
sailor
den;
and
from
thence
to
lodgings
in
goods
boxes
and
empty
hogsheads
near
the
wharves. Then;
for
a while,
he
had
gained
a
meagre
living
by
sewing
up
bursted
sacks
of
grain
on
the
piers;
when
that
failed
he
had found
food
here
and
there
as
chance
threw
it
in
his
way.
He
had
ceased
to
show
his
face
in
daylight, now,
for
a
reporter
knows
everybody,
rich
and
poor, high
and
low,
and
cannot
well
avoid
familiar
faces
in
the
broad
light
of
day.
This
mendicant
Blucher—I
call
him
that
for
convenience—was a
splendid
creature.
He
was
full
of
hope, pluck
and
philosophy;
he
was
well
read
and
a
man
of
cultivated
taste;
he
had a
bright
wit
and
was
a
master
of
satire;
his
kindliness
and
his
generous
spirit
made
him
royal
in
my
eyes
and
changed
his
curb-stone
seat
to
a
throne
and
his
damaged
hat
to
a crown.
He
had
an
adventure, once,
which
sticks
fast
in
my
memory
as
the
most
pleasantly
grotesque
that
ever
touched my sympathies.
He
had been
without
a
penny
for
two
months.
He
had
shirked
about
obscure
streets,
among
friendly
dim
lights,
till
the
thing
had
become
second
nature
to
him.
But
at
last
he
was
driven
abroad
in
daylight.
The
cause
was
sufficient;
he
had
not
tasted
food
for
forty-eight hours,
and
he
could
not
endure
the
misery
of
his
hunger
in
idle hiding.
He
came
along
a
back
street,
glowering
at
the
loaves
in
bake-shop windows,
and
feeling
that
he
could
trade
his
life
away
for
a
morsel
to
eat.
The
sight
of
the
bread
doubled
his
hunger;
but
it
was
good
to
look
at
it,
any
how,
and
imagine
what
one
might
do
if
one
only
had it. Presently,
in
the
middle
of
the
street
he
saw
a
shining
spot—looked again—did not,
and
could
not,
believe
his
eyes—turned away,
to
try
them,
then
looked
again.
It
was
a verity—no vain, hunger-inspired delusion—it
was
a
silver
dime!
He
snatched it—gloated
over
it;
doubted
it—bit it—found
it
genuine—choked
his
heart
down,
and
smothered
a halleluiah.
Then
he
looked
around—saw
that
nobody
was
looking
at
him—threw
the
dime
down
where
it
was
before—walked
away
a
few
steps,
and
approached again, pretending
he
did
not
know
it
was
there,
so
that
he
could
re-enjoy
the
luxury
of
finding
it.
He
walked
around
it, viewing
it
from
different
points;
then
sauntered
about
with
his
hands
in
his
pockets,
looking
up
at
the
signs
and
now
and
then
glancing
at
it
and
feeling
the
old
thrill again. Finally
he
took
it
up,
and
went away, fondling
it
in
his
pocket.
He
idled
through
unfrequented streets, stopping
in
doorways
and
corners
to
take
it
out
and
look
at
it.
By
and
by
he
went
home
to
his
lodgings—an empty queens-ware hogshead,—and
employed
himself
till
night
trying
to
make
up
his
mind
what
to
buy
with
it.
But
it
was
hard
to
do.
To
get
the
most
for
it
was
the
idea.
He
knew
that
at
the
Miner's
Restaurant
he
could
get
a
plate
of
beans
and
a
piece
of
bread
for
ten
cents;
or
a fish-
ball
and
some
few
trifles,
but
they
gave "no bread
with
one
fish-ball" there.
At
French
Pete's
he
could
get
a
veal
cutlet, plain,
and
some
radishes
and
bread,
for
ten
cents;
or
a
cup
of
coffee—a
pint
at
least—and a
slice
of
bread;
but
the
slice
was
not
thick
enough
by
the
eighth
of
an
inch,
and
sometimes
they
were
still
more
criminal
than
that
in
the
cutting
of
it.
At
seven
o'clock
his
hunger
was
wolfish;
and
still
his
mind
was
not
made
up.
He
turned
out
and
went
up
Merchant
street,
still
ciphering;
and
chewing a
bit
of
stick,
as
is
the
way
of
starving
men.
He
passed
before
the
lights
of
Martin's restaurant,
the
most
aristocratic
in
the
city,
and
stopped.
It
was
a
place
where
he
had
often
dined,
in
better
days,
and
Martin
knew
him
well. Standing aside,
just
out
of
the
range
of
the
light,
he
worshiped
the
quails
and
steaks
in
the
show
window,
and
imagined
that
may
be
the
fairy
times
were
not
gone
yet
and
some
prince
in
disguise
would
come
along
presently
and
tell
him
to
go
in
there
and
take
whatever
he
wanted.
He
chewed
his
stick
with
a
hungry
interest
as
he
warmed
to
his
subject.
Just
at
this
juncture
he
was
conscious
of
some
one
at
his
side,
sure
enough;
and
then
a
finger
touched
his
arm.
He
looked
up,
over
his
shoulder,
and
saw
an
apparition—a
very
allegory
of
Hunger!
It
was
a
man
six
feet high, gaunt, unshaven,
hung
with
rags;
with
a
haggard
face
and
sunken cheeks,
and
eyes
that
pleaded
piteously.
This
phantom
said: "Come
with
me—please."
He
locked
his
arm
in
Blucher's
and
walked
up
the
street
to
where
the
passengers
were
few
and
the
light
not
strong,
and
then
facing about,
put
out
his
hands
in
a beseeching way,
and
said: "Friend—stranger—look
at
me!
Life
is
easy
to
you—you
go
about,
placid
and
content,
as
I
did
once,
in
my day—you
have
been
in
there,
and
eaten
your
sumptuous
supper,
and
picked
your
teeth,
and
hummed
your
tune,
and
thought
your
pleasant
thoughts,
and
said
to
yourself
it
is
a
good
world—but you've
never
suffered!
You
don't
know
what
trouble
is—you don't
know
what
misery
is—nor hunger!
Look
at
me!
Stranger
have
pity
on
a
poor
friendless,
homeless
dog!
As
God
is
my judge, I
have
not
tasted
food
for
eight
and
forty
hours!—look
in
my
eyes
and
see
if
I lie!
Give
me
the
least
trifle
in
the
world
to
keep
me
from
starving—anything—twenty-five cents!
Do
it, stranger—do it, please.
It
will
be
nothing
to
you,
but
life
to
me.
Do
it,
and
I
will
go
down
on
my
knees
and
lick
the
dust
before
you! I
will
kiss
your
footprints—I
will
worship
the
very
ground
you
walk on!
Only
twenty-five cents! I
am
famishing—perishing—starving
by
inches!
For
God's sake don't
desert
me!" Blucher
was
bewildered—and touched, too—stirred
to
the
depths.
He
reflected.
Thought
again.
Then
an
idea
struck him,
and
he
said: "Come
with
me."
He
took
the
outcast's arm, walked
him
down
to
Martin's restaurant,
seated
him
at
a marble table,
placed
the
bill
of
fare
before
him,
and
said: "Order
what
you
want, friend.
Charge
it
to
me, Mr. Martin." "All right, Mr. Blucher," said Martin.
Then
Blucher
stepped
back
and
leaned
against
the
counter
and
watched
the
man
stow
away
cargo
after
cargo
of
buckwheat
cakes
at
seventy-five
cents
a plate;
cup
after
cup
of
coffee,
and
porter
house
steaks
worth
two
dollars
apiece;
and
when
six
dollars
and
a half's
worth
of
destruction
had been accomplished,
and
the
stranger's
hunger
appeased, Blucher went
down
to
French
Pete's, bought a
veal
cutlet
plain, a
slice
of
bread,
and
three
radishes,
with
his
dime,
and
set
to
and
feasted
like
a king!
Take
the
episode
all
around,
it
was
as
odd
as
any
that
can
be
culled
from
the
myriad
curiosities
of
Californian life, perhaps.