The Goldfield news. [volume] (Goldfield, Nev.) 1904-1911, 1905-09-15

quently seen in the company of old
prospectors who pour into their greedy
ears fabulous tales of rich leads they
once uncovered; they could prove the
truth of their assertions, too, elf old
Bill Jones wuz alive" The lamsnta-
bic demise of Jones making it impossi-
BILE to secure his affidavit they seek
consolation in deep and frequent
potations at the expense of their audit
ors. There is also a ~coterie of hale
and hearty old fellows, r%elicts of the
breezy, bullion days of Comstock;
sturdy veterans these who nave played
the game for years and who risk their
all on the turn of a card or the result
of a round of shots with equal sang
froid, and speak of retrieving their
fortunes with the same buoyancy and
hope as they did in the days before
the hand of time had frosted their
locks. The grim old reaper has been
very gentle with them and despite the
lapse of years since first they went
forth unto the solitary places of the
earth in search for gold they still have
a chance with the other fellow.
Another familiar sight on the streets
is the man in khaki, and in this in
stance the insight of the keenest OBJ
server may be at fault in forming an
estimate of the wearer. Khaki is as
complete a disguise of a persons per-
s%onality as any of those ever worn
by that marvellous detective "Old
Sleuth," the ubiquitous gentleman who
figured SO prominently in ones dime
novel days. The person SO attiredl
may be a millionaire or, a busted pros
pector, a professional man or a miner,
a gambler or a clergyman, a pioneer
or a tenderfoot, or neither one of the
category; but it is a pretty safe bet
that he is a live one and that he will
make good at the first opportunity.
Down in the tenderloin, that section
where beauty is always more or less
adorned and where they burn the can
die at both ends, the popping of corks
nightly punctuates the music of the
orchestra, and the bloom on the cock
tail is perennial. Bacchus has many
devotees in the Red Light district and
worship at his shrine is frequent and
sincere. Many a cold bot and hot bird
are sacrificed at his altar, and as the
night wakes old the pace becomes more
furious. There all sorts of games for
the delectation OF visitors with the
price; dance halls where bevys of frail
damsels ~scantily attired as to length
of skirt and height of corsage, stand
ready to join patrons in the %riotous
measures of waltz and two-step, or to
render efficient service in separating
them from their coin; variety theaters
where one may drink his fill of beer
the while he listens to the mellifiuous
notes of the "silver voiced TENOR i'm
ported from Tonopah by the manage
ment at "great expense or become
IlduttlluSJ sentimental do INC Dcli
like" tones of Mile Soprano, rendering
that sad but somewhat passe ballad
entitled, "Stlck to. Your Mother,
Tom," float upon the clouds of tobac-
co smoke. Then there is the Concholo-
gist, that urbane gentleman wearing a
diamond stud in his shirt front, who
m~anipulates the three shells and the
little ball so successfully, and who
gathers in your shekels with such an
engaging smile and air of candor that
it really is a pleasure to lose to him
sometimes.
"Crack 'em down, boys; it's the old
army game; twenty can play as we'll
las one." Visions of the "big top"
and the circus ring are conjured up
at the familiar cry and the pungent
odor of the animals is breathed afresh
into the nostrils. In fancy one is again
Following the circuit, writing fiamboy-
ant circus advertisements for country
newspapers and extending the courte-
sizes to the members of the profess. -
The commingled reek of stale peanuts,
lpop corn balls and acetic lemonade is
lin the air and ears are pricksd expect
to hear the entrance of the clown
with his fatuous cry, "well, here we
are again, boys These are some
of the many scenes which add the spice
-
of variety to life in a mining camp
and which compensate for comforts
left behind when one follows the yros-
pectors' cratic trail.