There was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smily, in the winter of ’49—or maybe it was the spring
of ’50—I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is
because I remember the big flume wasn’t finished when he first come to the camp; but anyway, he was
the curiosest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody
to bet on the other side, and if he couldn’t he’d change sides—any way that suited the other man would
suit him—any way just so’s he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still, he was lucky—uncommon lucky; he
most always come out winner. He was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn’t be no
solitary thing mentioned but what that feller’d offer to bet on it—and take any side you please, as I was
just telling you; if there was a horse race, you’d find him flush or you’d find him busted at the end of it;
if there was a dog-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight,
he’d bet on it; why if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly
first—or if there was a camp-meeting he would be there reglar to bet on parson Walker, which he judged
to be the best exhorter about here, and so he was, too, and a good man; if he even see a straddle-bug start
to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get wherever he was going to, and if