arriage and flourished like the
celebrated milkweed vine of the foothills, which has been known
to grow--I quote a '49er, now dead, which is perhaps taking an
advantage--12 inches in a day.

The tale is told of a Chinaman crossing a suspension footbridge, high
over a winter torrent, from one part of a mining camp to another. An
Indian ran to meet him. John Chinaman started back as quickly as he
could on the swaying bridge. The faster Indian caught him, and, though
miners on both shores sought to save the unfortunate "Chink" by a rain
of bullets, it was too long range, and the Indian threw him to certain
death in the river.

But the Indians did not always win, and this, then, is the tale of an
encounter between Hop Sing and Digger Dan.

"In a game which held accountin', On an old Sierra mountain--"

* * * * *

"Whassa malla, to-o much nail-o ketchem clo'e (clothes)?" snorted Hop
Sing, coming around to the side verandah with two pins in his hand,
to where Miss Jo Halstead was embroidering an antimacassar in bright
worsteds.

"Oh, Sing, did you hurt your hand?" she cried.

"'Nother boy heap mad."

"Another boy? Aren't you doing the washing?"

"No do. Me--" but Jo had gone to the back yard. She found the tallest
Chinaman she had ever seen, meekly bending to the washing, and quickly
obeying the sharp orders rained upon his queue-circled poll by Hop Sing.

"But--Sing," protested Jo, stifling any sort of smile.

"Him no good! No got place! Me pay one-dollar-hop him stop one month,
Chinee house. He no pay. Me makem work."

"Yes, but--what is that? Those are shots on the stage road over the
hill! Oh, it must be another holdup! And Rand is shotgun messenger on
the stage today. Hark! Hear the horses running! They're coming--fast.
They're trying to make the town!"

"Ketchem, more horse run behind," answered Sing, listening intently, his
slanting eyes glittering.

"Sing, you go and see what--"

"Can do! You get that boy, make 'em wash, alle same. He no good! You
look see?" Joe turned to spy the frightened deputy washerman wriggling
under the verandah. "Bime-by I kill 'um," remarked Sing, composedly. "No
got time now. Missie Jo, wagon come, maybeso better you stop house-o."

Six horses topped the long hill, pulling the huge rockaway stage. They
were coming at full speed, and the near wheeler was dripping with blood.
A dead man hung over the high dashboard, where his feet had caught when
he fell.

Leaning far ou