My "Pardner" and I
“I say, Vance,” saidhe, “it’s getting to be a pretty pass when a fellow has to rummage all over the city for a few crumbs of accidental deaths, street brawls and shooting affairs.”
Before Vance had time to reply, the religious editor commenced swearing about the uninteresting sermons he was compelled to write of late.
The dramatic critic observed that lie presumed writing sermons was a rather stupid business, but if the reading public could endure them, the religious editor ought to be able to, at $60 a week.
The religious editor said, “by Gad! old boy, you’re about right,” and begged a cigarette of the dramatic critic, declaring that he did not know with whom he would rather smoke than a representative of the footlights. He then slapped Vance on the shoulder in a jocular way, and asked him what made him so quiet.
“Scoops are scarce,” replied Vance, without lifting his eyes from the copy he was revising.
“Scarce!” chimed in the city editor, “I should say so. We have not had such a thing as a ‘scoop’ about the office for six months.”
“Journalism,” observed the dramatic critic, “is, without question, the king of professions. Here we see life in its every phase.”
“I am beginning to think,” said Vance, “that journalism is a drudgery without hope or reward.”
“You astonish me,” replied the religious editor. “Why, Vance,” he continued, knocking the ashes from his cigarette, “a fellow with as bright a future in the profession as you have, making such a remark as that, causes me to think you are growing cynical. Think of the opportunities which journalism affords.”
“What opportunities,” replied Vance, “have I, or you, or any other members of the staff, excepting those we have no right to take advantage of? I freely admit that there is a fascination about the profession of journalism; an influence, if you please, that holds us in the rut, much the same as the current of a mighty river – always drawing everything into the center where the current is swiftest – but the individuality of the most talented among us is completely lost in the great octopus that we are daily and nightly striving with our best efforts of brawn and brain to keep supplied with news.”
“Bravo!” shouted the police reporter. “There is not an ordinary prize-fighter in the land but has more individual reputation than any of us. Vance is about right in his position.”
At this juncture of their conversation, a note was handed to Vance. It was a polite request to report at the chief’s private room at ten o’clock the next morning. After hastily glancing over it, Vance read it aloud.
“I say, Vance, old boy, that’s a little rough; and still,” continued the religious editor, between vigorous puffs of his cigarette, “it may be a step up.”
It was an open question with members of the force whether a formal summons into the presence of the chief, without any intimation of the nature of the interview, was a good omen or otherwise.
“Possibly,” responded Vance, “but I rather surmise it is a step out.”
“The evil is sufficient unto the day thereof,” observed the dramatic critic. “It is twelve o’clock, boys; let us adjourn to the ‘realm of pie,’ and there we will discuss the unlooked-for summons.”
A half dozen as jolly young fellows as could be found anywhere, were soon seated in a private room at Thompson’s cafe, partaking of the reporter’s stereotyped lunch. As a result of their deliberations, there were many hopeful expressions made for the benefit of Vance. There was an under-current, however, of unmistakable belief, which Vance was not slow to perceive and share, that his interview with the chief would not result satisfactorily.
The dramatic critic soon drifted to the leeward of the question, and with almost forced vivaciousness recounted the latest hit of a jolly little soubrette dancer at Madison Square Gardens. His description was not only interesting, but a welcome diversion from the somber subject that might mean a separation of Vance from the staff. The religious editor took up the cue where the dramatic critic let go, and commenced swearing in newspaper parlance about the unsatisfactory work he was doing in his department.
The police reporter came in for a description of a “knock-out” he had witnessed in the Bowery, and for the edification of his associates, explained the difference between a “shoulder-strike” and an “undercut.”
On returning to their respective posts of duty, there was but little said, but it was noticeable that Vance was bid good night with more consideration than usual.
As Vance hurried along toward the elevated road, his thoughts were again filled with that demure little Louise, a product of the great mountains of the west. With her had come a hope – perhaps only a visionary one – stimulated by the enthusiasm of the old miner. He did not pause to analyze the sustaining hope which he experienced; he only knew that it took off the keen edge of anxiety which otherwise he would have felt concerning his coming interview with the chief.
CHAPTER IV – A SUPPER PARTY
AT TEN O’.LOCK the following morning, Vance sent in his card to the chief, and was immediately admitted to his presence. “Good morning, Mr. Gilder.”
“Good morning, sir,” was Vance’s prompt reply.
“I sent for you,” said the chief, as he industriously looked over a bundle of papers on his desk, “To discuss a matter I have had in mind for some time.”
“Yes, sir,” was Vance’s laconic reply.
The chief having found the paper he evidently had been searching for, motioned Vance to be seated, and turning to him, asked:
“Have you ever traveled much in the west?”
“Have never been west of Buffalo.”
“Your work,” observed the chief, “has been very satisfactory – I may say, especially so – and it is the policy of the Banner not only to reward those who have talent, but also to keep pace with the times, and give its readers reliable information upon all questions of moment and importance. The great Northwest has been opening up for the last half century. There have been booms and counter-booms out in that country, spasmodically, for many years, and a great many fortunes have been lost by ill advised investors, but I am not personally familiar with anyone who has bettered his condition in western speculations. Just at the present time the northwest is attracting, as you are doubtless aware, considerable attention, and the effort to popularize it by the western press, seems unabating. Our eastern people, even some of the oldest families of New York, are becoming poisoned with the virus of western investments. My private opinion is that instead of receiving dividends on these holdings, they will lose principal and all.
“We want,” said he, “a level-headed correspondent in that western country. Mark, I say level-headed, for the reason that not infrequently an eastern man, especially if he is unacquainted with the wonderland of the west, loses his head, figuratively speaking, and becomes won over by the fairy tales of prospective wealth, as told by the average real estate boomer.
“You, Mr. Gilder,” said the chief, eying Vance with great directness, “have been selected for this important position of trust. I might,” he continued, as if it were an afterthought, “modify my remarks by saying there are some places in the west worthy of credence, possessing real merit; but in nine cases out of ten, the new towns that are ringing up throughout the north western portion of the United States are, in my judgment, intangible as moonshine. In short, there is entirely too much capital flowing from the east into those wildcat western speculations, and we desire to give a series of letters descriptive of that country to the readers of the Banner, containing the facts stripped of all allurement, and dissuade them from such unstable investments as are daily being made.
"I deem,” continued the chief, “these few suggestions necessary for your good in governing the character of your correspondence from that western country to the columns of the Banner. I shall expect you to be ready tomorrow evening, and start on the six o’clock train. As you will probably be away for some time, it would be well for you to arrange your private affairs accordingly.
Call tomorrow at eleven o’clock, and I will have ready the necessary credentials, transports and instructions.”
Vance bowed his acquiescence and turned to go, when the chief said, “By the way, instead of $40 a week, your present salary, you will receive $60 and expenses, which doubtless will be satisfactory.”
Vance attempted to express his appreciation of the confidence that had been reposed in him, of so important an undertaking; but the chief waved him to silence and muttered something about “time being money,” and at once turned to other affairs that were awaiting his attention.
That afternoon Vance was not found among the staff, and a new man occupied his chair. He called on Thomas Patten, Esq., the attorney who had represented the Gilder family for many years, and named in his father’s will as trustee, and explained to him his promotion, telling him he would start for the west the next evening.
His old associates at the Banner were asking questions of one another as to what had transpired between Vance and the chief, but no one seemed to know anything about it, except that a new man was on duty and Vance absent.
At half past eleven o’clock that night the dramatic critic hurried in from the street and passed word around among the coterie that a surprise was waiting for them over at Thompson’s cafe. Thompson’s is, and has been for many years, a favorite resort for newspaper men. Vance Gilder was well known to the manager as a member of the Banner staff, and when that afternoon he requested that a lunch something better than the ordinary be prepared, he was assured that everything would be in readiness.
The dramatic critic ushered his associates into a private room precisely at twelve o’clock. Vance was in waiting, and a warm greeting was exchanged. The religious editor declared that he believed a conspiracy of gigantic proportions had been laid to entrap the meek and lowly, but, nevertheless, he took his place with alacrity at the table to enjoy the modest but excellent feast prepared for the occasion.
A few bottles of rare old wine added interest to the surprise which Vance had so cleverly arranged. After the glasses had been tilled and drained, the political editor moved that an explanation was in order.
“My friends,” said Vance, “the most important disclosure I have to make is that my salary has been raised to $60 a week.”
The religious editor said, “By Gad,” and fell from his chair, declaring that his nerves were so unstrung that it would require another glass of wine to restore them. After Vance had carefully narrated his interview with the chief, he received the hearty congratulations of his associates. Each vied with the others in wishing him unbounded success as a western correspondent for the Banner. "I understand,” said the political editor, after clearing his throat with a glass of wine, “that the west is teeming with opportunities in a political way; and I would not be surprised,” he added, “if the Honorable Vance Gilder would be the next thing we hear of, as mayor of some municipality in the Rocky Mountain region, or possibly as a member of Congress from the Third District.”
“Or still better,” observed the religious editor, “president of one of those bonanza gold mines that advertise themselves as being the greatest dividend paying properties in the world.”
“What’s the matter,” said the police reporter, “of being moderate in your expectations? Suppose Vance secures the position of judge of the police court in one of those western towns, where from a dozen to twenty drunks and brawls occur every twenty-four hours – ye gods! what a country for rich morsels of crime!”
It was conceded by all that Vance would have abundant opportunity for making investments here and there in the growing west that would materially increase his financial prospects.
“Sixty dollars,” said the dramatic critic, as he finished his third glass of wine, “is quite a step up, but evidently a mere bagatelle to the ‘pick-ups’ on the side, in a new country that is just developing like the west is at the present time.”
That Vance was one of the luckiest fellows living was the verdict of all his associates. After the lunch had been disposed of and a good-night glass of wine drunk to Vance’s success, he bade his companions good-night, and was soon being driven rapidly up Eighth Avenue to Central Park, west.
On reaching his room he began to feel more than ever that he had awakened to find himself famous, and that a great honor had been thrust upon him.
His gratitude to his chief was unbounded, but like the young and ambitious everywhere, his own personal advancement in a financial sense was a consideration not to be overlooked. While he knew personally very little about the Western country, the many allusions of his companions to the rare opportunities which awaited him in the new world he was about to visit filled him with a vague, indescribable sense of importance.
As he retired for the night, he assured himself that Gold Bluff, Idaho, would be one of his objective points, and hoped he would be there when the shaft reached the 300 foot level. He was beginning to share the old miner’s enthusiasm and confidence in Gray Rocks.
He drifted away into a restful sleep, while visions of a lovely girl in early womanhood, with beautiful blue eyes, “gentle grace and sovereign sweetness,” rose in a mist before him, and he dreamed he was at Gold Bluff.
CHAPTER V. – AN ODD CHARACTER
A TRIP from New York to the inter-mountain country of the west, with the present railroad facilities of palatial Pullmans and dining cars, is now an every-day affair. The traveler is surrounded by every comfort. Vance Gilder was more than ever in love with the change, as the cars rumbled on through dell and forest, across broad stretches of beautiful valley country, and ever and anon rushing over an iron bridge that spanned some beautiful stream of water, some of them calm and peaceful, and others rushing madly along, breaking into white spray over rocky ripples, and then hurrying on again as if they were running a race with time.
As he approached the Rocky Mountain country, and for the first time in his life gazed upon that mighty range of Nature’s towering masonry, he was almost intoxicated with the new sights to be seen on the “crown of the continent.”
Notwithstanding his enjoyment of the new and varied scenery, he was glad enough to abandon the cars at Butte City, after four days and nights of continuous riding.
Butte City is said to be, not only the greatest mining camp in Montana, but the greatest in the world. They boast of the many millions that are brought to the light of day by the magic wand of the miner’s pick. Vance found lodging at the Mercury Hotel, and early the next morning, after breakfasting heartily, started for a walk.
The town is built on a side-hill, gently rising from the depot grounds westward to a very considerable elevation. He paused now and then to inspect the architecture of some of the buildings, and then looked away toward the smelter districts, at the black clouds of smoke which the chimneys were belching forth, and falling over the city like a veil of mourning.
Presently he was accosted by an individual of grizzly beard and good-matured countenance, who said: “Hello, pard; how d’ye do? Sizin’ up these diggins’ be ye?”
As Vance eyed his questioner rather critically and acknowledged the salutation, the fellow reached him a card which bore the name “Hank Casey.” While Vance was glancing at the card, his new acquaintance said:
“I reckon you be from down east? I come from thar a long time ago. You’ll notice from my card that I’m in the real estate business; also have some fine minin’ propositions.”
“Yes,” replied Vance, “I am from the east, but do not know as I care to make any investments.”
“Well, now, look’ee? here, stranger. I ‘spect I might give you a pinter or two that may not come amiss. This ‘ere town is chuck up full of dead beats and black legs, who make it their business to run every new feller in that comes from down east. Now Hank Casey do a straight-for’ard, legitimate business – that’s me,” said he, as he tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and straightened himself to his fullest height.
Vance was amused by this odd character, and determined to learn from him what he could concerning Butte City and the claims made for it. He therefore asked, “What population have you and what are your resources?”
“Over fifty thousand people, above an’ below. You see, thar’s several thousand of us in this town below ground, workin’ away with shovel an’ pick. I reckon as how you’ll see a fair sample of our miners if you’re on the streets tonight. As for resources – why, pardner, thar’s no end to ‘em. We took out mighty near forty million dollars from our mines last year, an’ thar’s ore enough in sight to keep on minin’ at the same rate for a hundred years to come. What d’ye think o’ that?”
Vance replied that it certainly was a most extraordinary statement.
“What other towns have you in this state,” asked Vance.
“None to speak of,” was the prompt reply. “Butte City is the pertest town in any o’ these western diggings. Thar’s not another town in Montana as can tech one side of us, for money, marbles, or chalk. To be sure,” he went on, in a condescending tone, “we have lots o’ towns in this ‘ere state, sech as they be; lots o’ minin’ camps, but they are merely blacksmith-shops-on-the-crossroads,’ compared with Butte City. D’ye see that Corner lot over thar’. Five years ago I owned the ground whar’ that buildin’ stands. I bought it for $300, held it just thirteen months, and sold it for $4,000 spot cash.”
“Why that was an immense profit,” said Vance, with more interest than he had yet manifested in Hank Casey’s description of Butte City. Hank Casey smiled contentedly and expectorated an accumulation of tobacco juice with a resounding “pit-tew” on the side walk, and said: “You call that a good profit? Why, pardner, I bought stock in the Blackbird mine at twelve cents a share when the company was fust organized, and now its worth $300 a share and payin’ an immense dividend monthly. That’s what I call a good investment; but as fer that speck,” said he, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the corner lot, “that don’t amount to nothin’.”
“Do you know where Gold Bluff, Idaho, is?” asked Vance.
“I reckon I ought to know,” replied the boomer; “me an’ Steve Gibbons were the fust prospectors in that ‘neck o’ the woods.’ Steve an’ I claim to own the Peacock, but old Rufus Grim, the biggest scoundrel in Idaho yes, the biggest in this whole minin’ country claims to own it, and has got possession, and I’ve learned, in this western country ‘specially, that possession is not only nine points of the law, but mighty near ten. Of course, a gold mine like the Peacock is a mighty handy thing to have in the family, but as a general rule, they’re mighty unsartin. Give me a silver or copper mine every time.”
Vance assured his new-found acquaintance that he was under many obligations for the information received, and said he hoped to meet him again. Hank Casey, however, was not to be disposed of in this way, and walked along with Vance. Presently he called his attention to some vacant lots across the street.
“D’ye see them lots over thar? I can sell you one o’ them fifty-foot lots at $3,500. an I’ll bet diamonds against peanuts it’ll be a rich buy at $10,000 before two years. By the way, stranger, what’s the matter with you takin a leetle ‘flyer’ in Butte City dirt? Buy a few lots, stop here with us for six months, sell ‘em out agin for 100 per cent, profit, an’ that’ll pay all the expenses of your western trip. See? said he, touching Vance gently in the ribs with his elbow.
“Yes; I see,” said Vance, “I see very clearly, or would, were it not for the smoke. It smells like sulphur. Does it come from some of your mills or smelters?”
“Now, look’ee here, pard, you’re just like every other down-easter. They’re always kickin’ ‘bout this smoke.
Now, let me tell you; if we didn’t have that ‘ar smoke we wouldn’t have any Butte City, and besides, it kills the bacteria, molecules, an’ all that sort o thing. It’s mighty healthy here, I can tell you, an’ a mighty pert town into the bargain.”
Vance coughed immoderately, but Hank Casey who was acclimated, assured him that he was at that moment breathing the healthiest air that ever his lungs were filled with.
In the course of their walk, the boomer kept up a constant conversation, explaining different points of interest, pointing out the different mining properties in sight and telling their names, until Vance felt that he had been very fortunate in falling in with one so conversant with Butte City. At parting, Vance bade his new-found friend good day, and promised to call at his office before leaving the city.
When he returned to the hotel, he commenced his first letter to the Banner, but it was not finished until late that night. When it appeared in the great New York journal it surprised, in point of brilliancy and interest, even his warmest friends. His descriptions were so vivid and lifelike, and his characters so droll, and withal teeming with information, that a score of letters came to the managing editor, assuring him of the great pleasure and profit they had experienced in its perusal. Of course, Vance knew nothing of this at the time, but devoted himself with unceasing diligence in searching out reliable information, and then training it into weekly letters.
Butte City began to impress him as a place of more importance than he had at first thought. He learned that almost one million of dollars was paid out monthly to the miners alone, and they, as a class, are “hail fellows well met,” who believe in the doctrine of keeping money in constant circulation.
He noticed in many of the mercantile houses that when the day clerks went off duty at six o’clock in the evening, another set of clerks came on, and the shops and stores, by the aid of brilliant electric lights, continued business twenty-four hours out of the day the year around.
Vance frequently thought of his conversation with the managing editor, and what he had said about western towns and the over-enthusiastic town boomer. In Hank Casey he felt he had found a typical character that fully came up to all the managing editor had inferred, and had frequently used him as an inspiration, but was becoming more and more convinced that Butte City was one of those solid, substantial places which the managing editor had classed as exceptions to the rule.
CHAPTER VI – THE TOWN BOOMER
ABOUT TWO WEEKS after Vance Gilder arrived in Butte City, he noticed one morning that everybody was talking about a new town, and each was asking the others what they thought about it. Glancing at the hotel register, he saw the name, Homer Winthrop, of Waterville, Idaho.
In looking over the Butte City Miner and the Inter-Mountain Blade, both healthy dailies and well edited, he was somewhat astonished to find a full-page advertisement in each of the papers, setting forth in blazing splendor the great Thief River Valley, and signed by Homer Winthrop as agent, announcing that he would be at the Mercury Hotel for a short time, and inviting those who were interested in investing a little money in a purely agricultural city, to come early and “get in on the ground floor.”
The advertisement represented Waterville as being in the midst of the great Thief River Valley, with the largest water power in the country, surrounded by an agricultural district of two million acres of the richest land the sun ever shone down upon. He termed the new town of Waterville the “City of Destiny,” and said the price of town lots would quadruple in a few years’ time.
Vance was at once interested. “Here,” said he to himself, “is a genuine town boomer, and as the fellow is stopping at this hotel, it will be an easy matter to learn just how this boom business is operated. It will make an excellent article for the Banner.”
Accordingly, about eleven o’clock that forenoon he called to see the irrepressible town boomer and hear what sort of a marvelous story he had to tell about Waterville.