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The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Stories

Brown Of Calaveras
A subdued tone of conversation, and the absence of cigar smoke and boot heels at the
windows of the Wingdam stagecoach, made it evident that one of the inside passengers
was a woman. A disposition on the part of loungers at the stations to congregate before
the window, and some concern in regard to the appearance of coats, hats, and collars,
further indicated that she was lovely. All of which Mr. Jack Hamlin, on the box seat,
noted with the smile of cynical philosophy. Not that he depreciated the sex, but that he
recognized therein a deceitful element, the pursuit of which sometimes drew mankind
away from the equally uncertain blandishments of poker--of which it may be remarked
that Mr. Hamlin was a professional exponent.
So that when he placed his narrow boot on the wheel and leaped down, he did not even
glance at the window from which a green veil was fluttering, but lounged up and down
with that listless and grave indifference of his class, which was, perhaps, the next thing to
good breeding. With his closely buttoned figure and self- contained air he was a marked
contrast to the other passengers, with their feverish restlessness and boisterous emotion;
and even Bill Masters, a graduate of Harvard, with his slovenly dress, his overflowing
vitality, his intense appreciation of lawlessness and barbarism, and his mouth filled with
crackers and cheese, I fear cut but an unromantic figure beside this lonely calculator of
chances, with his pale Greek face and Homeric gravity.
The driver called "All aboard!" and Mr. Hamlin returned to the coach. His foot was upon
the wheel, and his face raised to the level of the open window, when, at the same
moment, what appeared to him to be the finest eyes in the world suddenly met his. He
quietly dropped down again, addressed a few words to one of the inside passengers,
effected an exchange of seats, and as quietly took his place inside. Mr. Hamlin never
allowed his philosophy to interfere with decisive and prompt action.
I fear that this irruption of Jack cast some restraint upon the other passengers--
particularly those who were making themselves most agreeable to the lady. One of them
leaned forward, and apparently conveyed to her information regarding Mr. Hamlin's
profession in a single epithet. Whether Mr. Hamlin heard it, or whether he recognized in
the informant a distinguished jurist from whom, but a few evenings before, he had won
several thousand dollars, I cannot say. His colorless face betrayed no sign; his black eyes,
quietly observant, glanced indifferently past the legal gentleman, and rested on the much
more pleasing features of his neighbor. An Indian stoicism--said to be an inheritance
from his maternal ancestor--stood him in good service, until the rolling wheels rattled
upon the river gravel at Scott's Ferry, and the stage drew up at the International Hotel for
dinner. The legal gentleman and a member of Congress leaped out, and stood ready to
assist the descending goddess, while Colonel Starbottle, of Siskiyou, took charge of her
parasol and shawl. In this multiplicity of attention there was a momentary confusion and
delay. Jack Hamlin quietly opened the OPPOSITE door of the coach, took the lady's
hand--with that decision and positiveness which a hesitating and undecided sex know
how to admire--and in an instant had dexterously and gracefully swung her to the ground,
 
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