On inquiry I was informed that a man had been lynched on one
of its boughs the night before last. A piece of the rope was
still hanging from the tree. When I got back to the 'hotel'
- a place not much better than the shed at Yuba Forks - I
found a newspaper with an account of the affair. Drawing a
chair up to the stove, I was deep in the story, when a huge
rowdy-looking fellow in digger-costume interrupted me with:
'Say, stranger, let's have a look at that paper, will ye?'
'When I've done with it,' said I, and continued reading. He
lent over the back of my chair, put one hand on my shoulder,
and with the other raised the paper so that he could read.
'Caint see rightly. Ah, reckon you're readen 'baout Jim,
ain't yer?'
'Who's Jim?'
'Him as they sus-spended yesterday mornin'. Jim was a
purticler friend o' mine, and I help'd to hang him.'
'A friendly act! What was he hanged for?'
'When did you come to Sacramenty City?'
'Day before yesterday.'
'Wal, I'll tell yer haow't was then. Yer see, Jim was a
Britisher, he come from a place they call Botany Bay, which
belongs to Victoria, but ain't 'xactly in the Old Country.
