His informant was sincere, and spoke according
to his own observation. It is not remarkable that at the mines, in
the absence of the comforts of civilization, those who drink rarely
or not at all at home should seek the warmth and excitement of
drink.
"What's your name, boy?" asked the miner abruptly.
"Ben Stanton."
"Where were you raised?"
Though the term was a new one to Ben, he could not fail to
understand it.
"In the State of Connecticut."
"That's where they make wooden nutmegs," said the miner, "isn't it?"
"I never saw any made there," answered Ben, smiling.
"I reckon you've come out here to make your fortin?"
"I should like to," answered Ben; "but I shall be satisfied if I
make a living, and a little more."
"You'll do it. You look the right sort, you do. No bad habits, and
willin' to work hard, and go twenty-four hours hungry when you can't
help it."
"Yes."
"Where'll you go first?-to the mines, I reckon." "Yes," answered
Ben, reflecting that he would be most likely to find Richard Dewey
at some mining-settlement.
"Ef I hadn't been a fool, and lost all my money, I'd go along with
you."
"I should like the company of some one who had already been at the
mines," said Ben.
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