SOME OT OUR NEIGHBOURS. 121 



practically all day long, scouring the lake on a frail 

 and clumsy raft of his own construction, hunting 

 logs. If I looked out of a morning, say shortly before 

 six o'clock, very often the first thing that met my 

 gaze was this singular figure of the crazy Chinaman 

 on his equally crazy craft on the sunlit waters of the 

 lake. Several times I have been compelled to stand 

 and watch him when one of the big ships has 

 been approaching, steaming at eighteen knots an 

 hour. How he contrives to keep his balance when 

 the weaves caused by the steamer begin to rock his 

 precarious " tug-boat " is always a wonder. 



On the north side of the lake, immediately opposite 

 to the City of Nelson, there lives another singular 

 being. He is a white man, and is known as Coal-Oil 

 Jimmie. His domicile is a log cabin half-way up the 

 mountain side. And when his solitary light twinkles 

 out across the lake in the darkness, it invariably 

 arrests the stranger's attention, and leads to question 

 and answer. 



" What is that light up there? " 



" That's Coal-Oil Jimmie." 



"Coal-Oil Jimmie! What's he doing up there, 

 anyway ? ' ' 



" Working a claim." 



" What sort of a claim — gold? " 



"Sure." 



" And is it any good? " 



" I don't know. Jimmie's been pegging awav at 

 it for the last eighteen years or more." 



" Well, w-ell. But why do you call him Coal-Oil 

 Jimmie? " 



"Oh! that's because, when he wants money to 



