You're bound to die; and
ef they didn't hang yer I'd shoot yer myself."
'"Well then," says he, "gi' me hold of the rope, and I'll
show you how little I keer for death." He snatches the cord
out o' my hands, pulls hisself out o' reach o' the crowd, and
sat cross-legged on the bough. Half a dozen shooters was
raised to fetch him down, but he tied a noose in the rope,
put it round his neck, slipped it puty tight, and stood up on
the bough and made 'em a speech. What he mostly said was as
he hated 'em all. He cussed the man he shot, then he cussed
the world, then he cussed hisself, and with a terr'ble oath
he jumped off the bough, and swung back'ards and for'ards
with his neck broke.'
'An Englishman,' I reflected aloud.
He nodded. 'You're a Britisher, I reckon, ain't yer?'
'Yes; why?'
'Wal, you've a puty strong accent.'
'Think so?'
'Wal, I could jest tie a knot in it.'
This is a vulgar and repulsive story. But it is not fiction;
and any picture of Californian life in 1850, without some
such faithful touch of its local colour, would be inadequate
and misleading.
CHAPTER XXXII
A STEAMER took us down to Acapulco. It is probably a
thriving port now.
