 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
A LONESOME MAN.
In Denver, years ago — when
Denver was made up of a population
of robbers and gamblers
and adventurers—there used to
be a miners' bank—a bank where
miners deposited bags of gold
dust, or sold it for currency. In
the bank, before the teller's window, there sat, one day,
a forlorn, dejected, woe-begone looking old miner—a
seedy old forty-niner. He wore an old faded slouch
hat, about the color of his tangled, sun-browned beard.
He never spoke as the other miners came in and exchanged
their dust for coin, and no one spoke to him.
He was a personified funeral—a sad, broken-hearted
man. As this sad miner sat there, one day, smoking
his pipe, and seemingly oblivious to anything, a young
man entered and jauntily handed in his bag of dust.
“It weighs six hundred and eighty dollars, Mr. Johnson,”
said the teller, taking it from the scales.
“All right; give me credit on the books,” said the
young man, moving towards the door. But, turning
on his heel in the doorway, he paused a moment, put
his hand thoughtfully across his brow, and said:
“I beg your pardon, sir; but it seems to me you
you?”
“No, sir, we never err, sir; and if we did, sir, it's
too late to correct it now. You should have spoken
about it at the time,” replied the teller, coolly.
“But, sir, I'm positive that you paid me ninety dollars
too much. Suppose you weigh the last week's
bag again,” urged the young man.
“Oh, if the mistake was that way, perhaps we did,”
replied the teller, putting the bag of gold dust on the
scales again. “Godness! I did make a mistake. Just
ninety dollars and —”
“Here's your money,” interrupted the young man,
throwing down the amount in coin.
“I'm very much obliged,” said the teller; “for the
mistake would have come out of my wages when we
came to balance. I cannot thank you too much.”
The only man watching the transaction was the old
slouch-hatted miner. He arose, fastened his eyes on
the young man, then came and watched
him pay the money back. Surprise filled
his countenance. His eyes opened wide,
and his lips fell apart with astonishment.
Then, looking the honest young man
straight in the face, he exclaimed:
“Stranger, don't you feel mighty lonesome
'round here?”
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |