1 82 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



but stir the heap to its depths and you will find 

 terrines and glass jars; the empty flesh-pots of 

 Egypt, — relics of those happy days when Jim — 

 many remittance men are called Jim, — had hope 

 in his heart and cash at his bankers. In this 

 heap, too, are many bottles: from the aristocratic 

 flask of maraschino to the plebeian pint of stout. 

 Jim will inform you with honest pride that he 

 knows how to do himself well. Inside his house, 

 a three room board-and-batten shanty, is a dismal 

 collection of household effects, and if you are easily 

 shocked, it would be prudent not to enter the 

 kitchen. For Jim never washes up unless he is 

 expecting company, and you have caught him nap- 

 ping, for he is never so happy as when asleep. 

 He will be sure to ask you to have a drink out 

 of the demijohn that stands in the corner of the 

 sitting-room, and, warmed by whisky, he may re- 

 late some of his misadventures. He planted out 

 an orchard of Bartlett pears, but the jack-rabbits 

 barked and destroyed his trees; he then planted 

 alfalfa, which the gophers ate; then he bought 

 some Jersey cows, and that year his pasture was 

 accidentally fired and all the feed burnt up. You 

 will note that Jim, and the gentlemen like Jim, 

 generally begin with some enterprise that exacts 

 special knowledge (which they don't possess), 

 patience, and hard work. They try to run before 

 they can crawl. It is a kindness to turn the talk 

 into the domain of sport, for Jim cleans his gun, 

 if he cleans nothing else, and he generally owns 

 a handy dog who lies at his master's feet and is 

 the best company that Jim keeps. Jim's eye 



