The Baffled Asian.
One day in '49 an honest miner up in Calaveras
county, California, bit himself with a small snake
of the garter variety, and either as a possible antidote,
or with a determination to enjoy the brief
remnant of a wasted life, applied a brimming jug
of whisky to his lips, and kept it there until, like a
repleted leech, it fell off.
The man fell off likewise.
The next day, while the body lay in state upon
a pine slab, and the bereaved partner of the
deceased was unbending in a game of seven-up
with a friendly Chinaman, the game was interrupted
by a familiar voice which seemed to proceed from
the jaws of the corpse: “I say—Jim!”
Bereaved partner played the king of spades,
claimed “high,” and then, looking over his
shoulder at the melancholy remains, replied, “Well,
what is it, Dave? I'm busy.”
“I say—Jim!” repeated the corpse in the same
measured tone.
With a look of intense annoyance, and muttering
something about “people that could never stop
dead more'n a minute,” the bereaved partner rose
and stood over the body with his cards in his hand.
“Jim,” continued the mighty dead, “how fur's
this thing gone?”
“I've paid the Chinaman two-and-a-half to dig
the grave,” responded the bereaved.
“Did he strike anything?”
The Chinaman looked up: “Me strikee pay
dirt; me no bury dead 'Melican in 'em grave. Me
keep 'em claim.”
The corpse sat up erect: “Jim, git my revolver
and chase that pig-tail off. Jump his dam
sepulchre, and tax his camp five dollars each fer
prospectin' on the public domain. These Mungolyun
hordes hez got to be got under. And—I say
—Jim! 'f any more serpents come foolin' round
here drive 'em off. 'T'aint right to be bitin' a
feller when whisky's two dollars a gallon. Dern
all foreigners, anyhow!”
And the mortal part pulled on its boots.
