A CALIFORNIAN ROMANCE.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume XI, Issue 188, 1 August 1876, Page 4

A CALIFORNIAN ROMANCE.

Dennis McNabb was the porter in a Mining Company's office in Californitstreef. Dennis swept out and dusted thingp, kfcpt the desks in blotting pads, and in winter made that fire which is totally unnecessary in our wonderful climate, but which everybody insists upon having about four months in the year juat to remind them of the States. Dennis felt very humble and lowly indeed, as his salary was only ten dollarß a week, and when the Secretary —who got four hundred a month for putting his feet on the desk and writing notes from the " Poodle Dog " scowled and wanted to know where in the bottomless pit the Stock Report wap, Denuis felt very much overpowered and downtrodden indeed. But Dennis had heard of Wittington, and Franklin, and John McCnllough, and other great men, and so he worked patiently on, washing the spittoons, taking round assessment notices, listening at the Board-room key- holes,' and biding his time generally. Patience and frugality is its own reward, and one day Dennis heard the President read a telegram from the Superintendent up on the Lede, They had struck pay rock at last. That night Dennis drifted round and conferred awhile with McCarthy, who kept the saloon at the corner. Then he had a whisper or two with floolihan, who had made a few dollars running the hack stand. McNabb had also something to say to O'Flynn, the stevedore, of a confidential nature. The next morning the Secretary of tke Yellow Cat G. and S,M, Co. found McNabb's brogans in the front of his inkstand, end the spittoons being cleaned by a Monogolian. Before the official could recover his breath, a small Fenian proceasion filed in. There had been a corner in Yellow Cat thatmorniag, and: in less that ten minutes the old Board was voted out and the meek McNabb elected President, and was busily signing notices of a five dollar assessment on the "outsiders." And now Mr Dennis McNabb rides languidly down to the office in hie coupe, and in the evening he cits on a satin sofa up nt the ex-President's house, with his French boots on the Steinway Grand, and a four-bit cigar in his mouth, while the ex-P's daughter sings "Lannigan'a Ball " in Italian-— smacks him with her fan— -and nnys, "You Irish are such naughty, fickle mci). but bo nice."