TO WARNER'S SPRINGS . " 225 



no clue too frail, to gain the belief of men in other 

 respects judicious enough. The "old Indians" who, 

 when dying, have spoken of some wondrous cafion 

 in the Humbug Range; the prospectors found at 

 "poison springs" who at the last gasp have babbled 

 of glittering ledges or placers, abandoned by them 

 under stress of famine ; the others who in this or that 

 county hospital have whispered to some attendant 

 the "sure thing" secret of the long-lost Blue Dog, 

 or Holy Smoke; to say nothing of the variegated 

 legends of the Peg-Leg — these must run into hun- 

 dreds, and their devotees into a veritable host. Mc- 

 Sandy was but one of a long list that I myself could 

 call to mind, to whose credulity no absurdity is an ob- 

 stacle if their will-o'-the-wisp has the glitter of gold. 



But McSandy proved to have other erratic ideas. 

 Before we had talked half an hour he boldly an- 

 nounced to me that he was a poet. Nothing odd 

 about that, of course; in these days of vers lihre we 

 are all poets if we care to say so : but in sounding for 

 his depth I dropped the names of Wordsworth and 

 Byron. "Ah," said McSandy, kindling, ''they could 

 make poetry. Why, d' you know, I can't put up any 

 better stuff myself than what those fellows did, 

 durned if I can. No, sir." 



I looked at him carefully, but, no, there was no 

 sign of humorous intent; candor, regret, perhaps a 

 touch of surprise, no more. I hastily changed the 

 subject, which, luckily, was easy to do, for he had 

 wrongs to relate and adventures to recount that 

 would fill fat volumes. He was amazed, even incred- 

 ulous, that his name and exploits as a detective in 



