n he gave up his rooms at
the Oriental--as not necessary after his partner's absence--he sent
a letter, with his humble address, to the mysterious lock-box of his
partner without fear or false shame. He would explain it all when they
met. But he sometimes treated unlucky and returning miners to a dinner
and a visit to the gallery of some theatre. Yet while he had an active
sympathy with and understanding of the humblest, Uncle Billy, who
for many years had done his own and his partner's washing, scrubbing,
mending, and cooking, and saw no degradation in it, was somewhat
inconsistently irritated by menial functions in men, and although
he gave extravagantly to waiters, and threw a dollar to the
crossing-sweeper, there was always a certain shy avoidance of them in
his manner. Coming from the theatre one night Uncle Billy was, however,
seriously concerned by one of these crossing-sweepers turning hastily
before them and being knocked down by a passing carriage. The man rose
and limped hurriedly away; but Uncle Billy was amazed and still more
irritated to hear from his companion that this kind of menial occupation
was often profitable, and that at some of the principal crossings the
sweepers were already rich men.

But a few days later brought a more notable event to Uncle Billy. One
afternoon in Montgomery Street he recognized in one of its smartly
dressed frequenters a man who had a few years before been a member of
Cedar Camp. Uncle Billy's childish delight at this meeting, which
seemed to bridge over his old partner's absence, was, however, only
half responded to by the ex-miner, and then somewhat satirically. In the
fullness of his emotion, Uncle Billy confided to him that he was seeking
his old partner, Jim Foster, and, reticent of his own good fortune,
spoke glowingly of his partner's brilliant expectations, but deplored
his inability to find him. And just now he was away on important
business. "I reckon he's got back," said the man dryly. "I didn't know
he had a lock-box at the post-office, but I can give you his other
address. He lives at the Presidio, at Washerwoman's Bay." He stopped and
looked with a satirical smile at Uncle Billy. But the latter, familiar
with Californian mining-camp nomenclature, saw nothing strange in it,
and merely repeated his companion's words.

"You'll find him there! Good-by! So long! Sorry I'm in a hurry," said
the ex-miner, and hurried away.

Uncle Billy was too delighted with the p