The mining-camp of Tough Case, though small, had its excitements, as well as did many camps of half a dozen saloon-power; and on the first day of November, 1850, it was convulsed by the crisis of by far the greatest excitement it had ever enjoyed.

It was not a lucky "find," for some of the largest nuggets in the State had been taken out at Tough Case. It was not a grand spree, for all sprees at Tough Case were grand, and they took place every Sunday. It was not a fight, for when the average of fully-developed fights fell below one a fortnight, some patriotic citizen would improvise one, that the honor of his village should not suffer.

No; all these promoters of delicious and refreshing Tumult were as nothing to the agitation which, commencing three months before, had increased and taken firmer hold of all hearts at Tough Case, until to-day it had reached its culmination.

Blizzer\'s wife had come out, and was to reach camp by that day\'s boat.

Since Blizzer had first announced his expectation, every man in camp had been secretly preparing for the event; but to-day all secrecy was at an end, and white shirts, standing collars, new pants, black hats, polished boots, combs, brushes and razors, and even hair-oil and white handkerchiefs, so transformed the tremulous miners, that a smart detective would have been puzzled in looking for any particular citizen of Tough Case.

Even old Hatchetjaw, whose nickname correctly indicated the moral import of his countenance, sheepishly gave Moosoo, the old Frenchman, an ounce of gold-dust for an hour\'s labor bestowed on Hatchetjaw\'s self-asserting red hair.

Bets as to what she looked like were numerous; and, as no one had the slightest knowledge on the subject, experienced bettists made handsome fortunes in betting against every description which was backed by money. For each man had so long pondered over the subject, that his ideal portrait seemed to him absolutely correct; and an amateur phrenologist, who had carefully studied Blizzer\'s cranium and the usually accepted laws of affinity, consistently bet his last ounce, his pistol, hut, frying-pan, blankets, and even a pack of cards in a tolerable state of preservation.

Sailors, collegemen, Pikes, farmers, clerks, loafers, and sentimentalists, stood in front of Sim Ripson\'s store, and stared their eyes into watery redness in vain attempts to hurry the boat.

A bet of drinks for the crowd, lost by the non-arrival of the boat on time, was just being paid, when Sim Ripson, whose bar-window commanded the river, exclaimed:

"She\'s comin\'!"

Many were the heeltaps left in glasses as the crowd hurried to the door; numerous were the stealthy glances bestowed on shirt-cuffs and finger-nails and boot-legs. Crosstree, a dandyish young sailor, hung back to regard himself in a small fragment of looking-glass he carried in his pocket, but was rebuked for his vanity by stumbling over the door-sill—an operation which finally resulted in his nose being laid up in ordinary.

The little steamer neared the landing, whistled shrilly, snorted defiantly, buried her nose in the muddy bank in front of the store, and shoved out a plank.

Several red-shirted strangers got off, but no one noticed them; at any other time, so large an addition to the population of Tough Case would have justified an extra spree.

Sundry barrels were rolled out, but not even old Guzzle inspected the brand; barrels and bags of onions and potatoes were stacked on the bank, but though the camp was sadly in need of vegetables, no one expressed becoming exultation.

All eyes were fixed on the steamer-end of the gang-plank, and every heart beat wildly as Blizzer appeared, leading a figure displaying only the top of a big bonnet and a blanket-shawl hanging on one arm.

They stepped on the gang-plank, they reached the shore, and then the figure raised its head and dropped the shawl.

"Thunder!" ejaculated Fourteenth Street, and immediately retired and drank himself into a deplorable condition.

The remaining observers dispersed respectfully; but the reckless manner in which they wandered through mud-puddles and climbed over barrels and potato-sacks, indicated plainly that their disappointment had been severe.

After another liquid bet had been paid, and while sleeves but lately tenderly protected were carelessly drying damp mustaches, an old miner remarked:

"Reckon that\'s why he left the States;" and the emphatic "You bet!" which followed his words showed that the Tough Caseites were unanimous on the subject of Mrs. Blizzer.

For she was short and fat, and had a pug nose, and a cast in one eye; her forehead was low and square, and her hair was of a color which seemed "fugitive," as the paper-makers say. Her hands were large and pudgy, her feet afforded broad foundations for the structure above them, and her gait was not suggestive of any popular style. Besides, she seemed ten years older than her husband, who was not yet thirty.

For several days boots were allowed to grow rusty and chins unshaven, as the boys gradually drank and worked themselves into a dumb forgetfulness of their lately cherished ideals.

But one evening, during a temporary lull in the conversation at Sim Ripson\'s, old Uncle Ben, ex-deacon of a New Hampshire church, lifted up his voice, and remarked:

"\'Pears to me Blizzer\'s beginnin\' to look scrumptious. He used to be the shabbiest man in camp."

Through the open door the boys saw Blizzer carrying a pail of water; and though water-carrying in the American manner is not an especially graceful performance, Blizzer certainly looked unusually neat.

Palette, who had spoiled many canvases and paintbrushes in the East, attentively studied Blizzer in detail, and found his hair was combed, his shirt buttoned at the collar, and his trowsers lacking the California soil which always adorns the seat and knees of orthodox mining pantaloons.

"It\'s her as did it," said Pat Fadden; "an\' \'tain\'t all she\'s done. Fhat d\'ye tink she did dhis mornin\'? I was a-fixin\' me pork, jist as ivery other bye in camp allers does it, an\' jist then who should come along but hersilf. I tuk off me pork, and comminced me breakfast, when sez she to me, sez she, \'Ye don\'t ate it widout gravy, do ye?\' \'Gravy, is it?\' sez I. \'Nobody iver heard of gravy here,\' sez I. \'Thin it\'s toime,\' sez she, an\' she poured off the fat, an\' crumbled a bit of cracker in the pan, an\' put in some wather, an\' whin I thought the ould thing \'ud blow up for the shteam it made, she poured the gravy on me plate—yes, she did."

There were but a few men at Tough Case who were not willing to have their daily fare improved, and as Mrs. Blizzer did not make a tour of instruction, the boys made it convenient to stand near Mrs. Blizzer\'s own fire, and see the mysteries of cooking.

As a natural consequence, Sim Ripson began to have inquiries for articles which he had never heard of, much less sold, and he found a hurried trip to \'Frisco was an actual business necessity.

As several miners took their departure, after one of these culinary lessons, Arkansas Bill, with a mysterious air, took Fourteenth Street aside.

"Forty," said he, in a most appealing tone, "ken you see what \'twas about? She kep\' a-lookin\' at my left han\' all the time, ez ef she thort there wuz somethin\' the matter with it. Mebbe she thort I was tuckin\' biscuits up my sleeves, like keerds in a live game. Ken you see any thin\' the matter with that paw?"

The aristocratic young reprobate gave the hand a critical glance, and replied:

"Perhaps she thought you didn\'t know what buttons and buttonholes were made for."

"Thunder!" exclaimed the miner, with an expression of countenance which Archimedes might have worn when he made his famous discovery.

From that day forward the gentleman from Arkansas instituted a rigid buttonhole inspection before venturing from his hut, besides purchasing a share in a new clothesbroom.

"\'Pears to me I don\'t see Blizzer playin\' keerds with you fellers ez much ez he wuz," remarked Uncle Ben one evening at the store.

"No," said Flipp, the champion euchre-player, with a sad face and a strong oath. "He used to lose his ounces like a man. But t\'other night I knocked at his door, and asked him to come down an\' hev a han\'. He didn\'t say nothin\', but she up an\' sed he\'d stopped playin\'. I reely tuk it to be my duty to argy with her, an\' show her how tough it wuz to cut off a feller\'s enjoyment; but she sed \'twas too high-priced fur the fun it fetched."

"That ain\'t the wust, nuther," said Topjack Flipp\'s usual partner. "There wuz Arkansas Bill an\' Jerry Miller, thet used to be ez fond of ther little game ez anybody. Now, ev\'ry night they go up thar to Blizzer\'s, an\' jest do nothin\' but sit aroun\' an\' talk. It\'s enough to make a marble statoo cuss to see good men spiled that way."

"Somethin\' \'stonishin\' \'bout what comes of it, though," resumed the deacon. "\'Twas only yestiddy thet Bill was kerryin\' a bucket of dirt to the crick, an\' jest ez he got there his foot slipped in, an\' he went kerslosh. Knowin\' Bill\'s language on sech occasions ain\'t what a church-member ort to hear, I was makin\' it convenient to leave, when along come her, an\' he choked off ez suddin ez a feller on the gallers."

Day by day the boys dug dirt, and carried it to the creek, and washed out the precious gold; day by day the denizens of Tough Case worked as many hours and as industriously as men anywhere. But no Tough Caseite was so wicked as to work on Sunday.

Sunday at Tough Case commenced at sunset on Saturday, after the good old Puritan fashion, and lasted through until working-time on Monday morning. But beyond this matter of time the Puritan parallel could not be pursued, for on Sunday was transacted all the irregular business of the week; on Sunday was done all the hard drinking and heavy gambling; and on Sunday were settled such personal difficulties as were superior to the limited time and low liquor-pressure of the week.

The evening sun of the first Saturday of Mrs. Blizzer\'s residence at Tough Case considered his day\'s work done, and retired under the snowy coverlets the Sierras lent him. The tired miners gladly dropped pick, shovel, and pan, but bedclothing was an article which at that moment they scorned to consider; there was important business and entertainment, which would postpone sleep for many hours.

The express would be along in the morning, and no prudent man could sleep peaceably until he had deposited his gold dust in the company\'s strong box. Then there were two or three old feuds which might come to a head—they always did on Sunday. And above all, Redwing, a man with enormous red whiskers, had been threatening all week to have back the money Flipp had won from him on the preceding Sunday, and Redwing had been very lucky in his claim all week, and the two men were very nearly matched, and were magnificent players, so the game promised to last many hours, and afford handsome opportunities for outside betting.

Sim Ripson understood his business. By sunset he had all his bottles freshly filled, and all his empty boxes distributed about the room for seats, and twice as many candles lighted as usual, and the card-tables reinforced by some upturned barrels. He also had a neat little woodpile under the bar to serve as a barricade against stray shots.

The boys dropped in pleasantly, two or three at a time, and drank merrily with each other; and the two or three who were not drinking men sauntered in to compare notes with the others.

There were no aristocrats or paupers at Tough Case, nor any cliques; whatever the men were at home, here they were equal, and Sim Ripson\'s was the general gathering-place for everybody.

But in the course of two or three hours there was a perceptible change of the general tone at Sim Ripson\'s—it was so every Saturday night, or Sunday morning. Old Hatchetjaw said it was because Sim Ripson\'s liquor wasn\'t good; Moosoo, the Frenchman, maintained it was due to the absence of chivalrous spirit; Crosstree, the sailor, said it was always so with landsmen; Fourteenth Street privately confided to several that \'twas because there was no good blood in camp; the amateur phrenologist ascribed it to an undue cerebral circulation; and Uncle Ben, the deacon, insisted upon it that the fiend, personally, was the disturbing element.

Probably all of them were right, for it seemed impossible that the Sunday excitements at Sim Ripson\'s could proceed from any single cause—their proportions were too magnificent.

Drinking, singing, swearing, gambling, and fighting, the Tough Caseites made night so hideous that Uncle Ben spent half the night in earnest prayer for these misguided men, and the remainder of it in trying to make up his mind to start for home.

But by far the greater number of the boys, on that particular night, surrounded the table at which sat Redwing and Flip. Both were playing their best, and as honestly as each was compel............