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 prospect of a speedy meeting
with Uncle Jim to resent his former associate's supercilious haste, or
even to wonder why Uncle Jim had not informed him that he had returned.
It was not the first time that he had felt how wide was the gulf
between himself and these others, and the thought drew him closer to
his old partner, as well as his old idea, as it was now possible to
surprise him with the draft. But as he was going to surprise him in
his own boarding-house--probably a handsome one--Uncle Billy reflected
that he would do so in a certain style.

He accordingly went to a livery stable and ordered a landau and pair,
with a negro coachman. Seated in it, in his best and most ill-fitting
clothes, he asked the coachman to take him to the Presidio, and leaned
back in the cushions as they drove through the streets with such an
expression of beaming gratification on his good-humored face that the
passers-by smiled at the equipage and its extravagant occupant. To
them it seemed the not unusual sight of the successful miner "on a
spree." To the unsophisticated Uncle Billy their smiling seemed only a
natural and kindly recognition of his happiness, and he nodded and
smiled back to them with unsuspecting candor and innocent playfulness.
"These yer 'Frisco fellers ain't _all_ slouches, you bet," he added to
himself half aloud, at the back of the grinning coachman.

Their way led through well-built streets to the outskirts, or rather to
that portion of the city which seemed to have been overwhelmed by
shifting sand-dunes, from which half-submerged fences and even low
houses barely marked the foe of highway. The resistless trade-winds
which had marked this change blew keenly in his face and slightly
chilled his ardor. At a turn in the road the sea came im sight, and
sloping towards it the great Cemetery of Lone Mountain, with white
shafts and marbles that glittered in the sunlight like the sails of
ships waiting to be launched down that slope into the Eternal Oc