reek was an asset of incalculable value. The boxes of his
wagons could boast of nothing up to date, that was not possessed by the
wheels; and in many cases the tongues and whiffletrees and neck-yokes
had been substituted by raw maples or birch secured on the ranch. His
unwritten law was to buy nothing that would cost money, and to import
nothing that could be produced on the farm even if it was only a poor
makeshift substitute. No part was ever replaced until it had gone
hopelessly on strike, and necessity was his only motive power when it
came to repairs. The general conditions were suggestive of the obsolete.

In the midst of all this ruin and decay, however, there was sunshine,
and the heart of Hard Times Hance was warm and buoyant, cheerful and
hopeful, and even if he did live upon the husks which the swine did eat,
he derived from his life a great deal more pleasure than the world gave
him credit for. He had his future to live for. He had his life all
mapped out, and that was more than a great many could boast of. For
breakfast he had mush, for dinner he had beans and bacon, and for supper
he had bacon and beans and Y.S. tea. And he was just as happy eating
this fare with his knife as the Lieutenant-Governor of the Province of
British Columbia could be with his cereal, consomme, lobster salad,
charlotte russe, blanc mange, cafe noir, or any other dainty and
delicate importation. Bananas, oranges and artichokes had no place on
his bill-of-fare. Besides, after he had eaten a meal he had no space for
such delicacies. And he could always wash his meal down with the famous
Y.S. tea stand-by; and, on top of this, a few long draws at his
kin-i-kin-nick (sort of Indian tobacco) pipe. And then there were no
restrictions upon his mode of feeding his face. He could eat with his
knife with impunity. There was no etiquette-mad society digging him in
the ribs, and jerking on the reins in protestation at every one of his
natural inclinations; and he could use his own knife to butter his
sourdough bread. For a man who expected to emerge into the sunshine of
society, he was giving himself very inadequate training. He was as near
the aboriginal as it was possible for a white man to approach. He was a
Siwash (male Indian) with one exception--his love of the coin. But then,
he had an object in this ambition; and a fault, if it is a means to a
worthy end, must be commended. He had this propensity developed to the
most pronounced degree.