e table--two feet
by sixteen inches--was in all respects worthy of the chairs. At one end
of the hut there was a bed-place, big enough for two; it was variously
termed a crib, a shelf, a tumble-in, and a bunk. Its owner called it a
"snoosery." This was a model of plainness and comfort. It was a mere
shell about two and a half feet broad, projecting from the wall, to
which it was attached on one side, the other side being supported by two
wooden legs a foot high. A plank at the side, and another at the foot,
in conjunction with the walls of the cottage, converted the shelf into
an oblong box. But the mattress of this rude couch was formed of
buffalo-skins, covered with thick, long luxurious hair; above which were
spread two large green mackinaw blankets of the thickest description;
and the canvas pillow-case was stuffed with the softest down, purchased
from the wild-fowl of California with leaden coin, transmitted through
the Yankee's unerring rifle.

There was a fishing-rod in one corner, a rifle in another, a cupboard in
a third; poles and spears, several unfinished axe-handles, and a small
fishing-net lay upon the rafters overhead; while various miscellaneous
articles of clothing, and implements for mining hung on pegs from the
walls, or lay scattered about everywhere; but in the midst of apparent
confusion comfort reigned supreme, for nothing was placed so as to come
in one's way; everything was cleverly arranged, so as to _lie close_ and
_fit in_; no article or implement was superfluous; no necessary of a
miner's life was wanting; an air of thorough completeness invested the
hut and everything about it; and in the midst of all sat the presiding
genius of the place, with his long legs comfortably crossed, the tobacco
wreaths circling round his lantern jaws, the broad-brimmed straw hat
cocked jauntily on one side, his arms akimbo, and his rather languid
black eyes gazing at Ned Sinton with an expression of comfortable
self-satisfaction and assurance that was quite comforting to behold.

"Wall, mister, if you're ready, I guess ye'd better fire away."

"One second more and I shall commence," replied Ned; "I beg pardon, may
I ask your name?"

"Jefferson--Abel Jefferson to command," answered the Yankee, relighting
the large clay pipe which he had just filled, and stuffing down the
glowing tobacco with the end of his little finger as slowly and
deliberately as though that member were a salamander. "What's yourn!"