Westwood High School - Chipmunk Yearbook (Westwood, CA)

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THE CHIPMUNK [31] I hits the trail for here to find out how this ore is. If it’s worth a tinker’s durn I’m goin’ to register my claim before it gets jumped. That’s all I’m sayin’ now, but I reckon as how you’d better run that test and let me mosey along.” “All right,” I replied, “I’ll get to work pronto and see if I can make a good test on it.” In about half an hour I handed a report slip to the stranger. It read: Gold...................... 32.40 per ton. Silver.................... 10.00 per ton. Copper...................Eight per cent. “Ye gods and little codfish!” was the first thing the stranger said. “Give me that slip, I’m leaving for that claim. Pay you later. So-long!” He hurriedly grabbed his hat as he ran for the door. “So-long—see you later,” he flung over his shoulder as he made a flying leap on his horse. “Well, if that don’t beat me!” my brother said. “What do you make of it?” “It looks as if he’s either made a lucky hit or else he’s trying to slip one over on us. Listen!” After a little pause we heard what seemed to be fire horses coming down the road. “Guess it’s the gang he told us about. Give them the steer,” I whispered cautiously; “Kill all the time possible. The door was suddenly opened and in hurried a man of about five foot six in height. Did I say a man? At least he passed for one. He was slight of build and had a quick, nervous manner. His hair was a sandy yellow; his eyes were covered with large glasses and his face was long and slim. He must have weighed about 130 pounds. “Are you the assayer, my good man?” he asked in a shrill voice. “If so, do me the favor of testing this bit of stone that I think might contain mineral.” “Quit ‘good manning’ me, and let’s see your ore,” I said fiercely—that is, as fiercely as I could. After looking at the ore carefully for about five minutes, I replied as slowly as I could speak: “Well, it may contain mineral, but I don’t think so.” “You will test the ore, will you not?” he inquired.

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[30] TIIE CHIPMUNK WHEN IT PAID TO MAKE A FRIEND It was about eight o’clock one morning as my brother and I were sitting by the stove in the back room of the small building that we had fitted up as an Assay office. We were discussing the different ores we had assayed that day and were trying to guess from what localities they had come. The talk finally drifted to the subject of how rich we were going to get at the business. “Let’s see,” my brother said thoughtfully, “it was July n, 1890, that we put all our savings into this assay office, wasn’t it?” “Yes,” I responded, “you have the date O. K. We surely are not making much money at this business, but I guess that we will be able to make quite a bit if we stay at it long enough. I guess—”. At this point we heard a horse gallop- ing madly towards the office. As we ran out the door, we met a very old man. “Fur the love of six-bits, boys, test this ore and test it quick!” he said, look- ing nervously over his shoulder into the darkness from which he had come. “I know it’s after hours, but I can’t help it. I gotta have this tested mighty sudden like, u see, it’s this away. I’ve been prospecting since I was a young- ster your age. Never struck a thing till day before yesterday. Then I struck a goodly sized vein of this kind of ore. I could’a taken me time in coming, but that crazy hick sheep-herder that camps near my diggin’ had to go shoot his face off to a bunch of city fellers what’s up my way studying geology. That is, they say that s what they’re doin’. They’re all ruff-necks except one who is a dude. He—” “ es, yes, I know all about it,” I said, breaking into his lengthy talk, “I know all about it.” I supposed that it was just a common case of “bats in the belfry,” due to his long period of solitude in the mountains. “Listen here, young man, I’m no nut. I’m as sane as you are. Test that ore and then talk afterwards.” Controlling my anger as best I could, I went into the office and started the blast furnace. Going back to the stranger, I apologized for my hasty judgment and begged to hear more. “This here young man, the dudish fella I told you about, looks like an angel, but he ain’t. His looks are skin deep. He’s so crooked he could sleep on a cork screw with comfort. Why he’s so mean he’d cheat his mother out of a nickel. Somehow this fool sheep-herder, who knew of my find, tells the dude about it. I saw the feller snoopin’ about my shaft and took a shot at him, but missed. Then

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[32] T II E (' II I I M V N K During my careful study of the ore I easily recognized it as the same as that I had just tested. “Oh, I say,” I said, turning to my brother, “Better water these gentlemen’s horses!” With this I went into the assay office and commenced to run the test. It, needless to say it, was a fizzle. After about thirty minutes I reported that there was “nothing doing.” “Very sorry to bother you, you know,” said the dudish imitation of a man. “Oh, that’s all right!” I shouted as they wfent out the door. As I turned I noticed that our young friend was slipping a scale weight in his pocket as he w'ent out. He must have taken it for gold. I paid no attention to it but turning to him I said, “Allow me to show you some red ore.” As I reached for the ore, w'hich was on the table on which the dude sat, I accidentally (?) tipped over a small bottle of parting acid. About nine-tenths of it poured on the part where he w-as sitting. It took about thirty seconds for our young friend to grow real angry and say things not fit to print here. After neutralizing the acid with sodium bicarbonate, I bade my guests good night. Going to the door I saw the dude start to make a flying mount. As he caught one foot in a stirrup, the strap broke. At the same instant the cinch must have slipped, for he and the saddle hit the ground pretty hard at the same time. He arose dizzily and produced a gun and demonstrated how dangerous it is to let children handle firearms. He hit saddle, trees, rocks and bushes, but failed to hit the horse, on w'hom he laid all the blame for his misfortune. My brother and I assisted him to catch his horse and we mended his cinch. He remarked as he was leaving how' evenly the cinch had broken, but my brother and I looked so innocent and expressed our deepest regrets, and he said no more. Strange, wasn’t it, how that bottle of acid tipped over and how that cinch broke? About four months later we received a check for $25.00 “for services ren- dered,” as the note said. We did not recognize the sender’s name, but it was drawn on the account of Michael London, our “batty” old friend. Does it pay to help out an old guy whom you think is batty? If you don’t think so, just ask my brother and me. We know. -K. W, ’23.