His
pedigree does not trouble him; he is more concerned about getting
something to eat. It is not because he is an agriculturist that he is
called a Digger, but because he grabbles for wild roots, and has a
general fondness for dirt. I said he was not handsome, and when we
consider his rusty, dark-brown color, his heavy features, fishy black
eyes, coarse black hair, and clumsy gait, nobody will dispute the
statement. But one Digger is uglier than another, and an old squaw caps
the climax.
The first Digger I ever saw was the best-looking. He had picked up a
little English, and loafed around the mining-camps picking up a meal
where he could get it. He called himself "Captain Charley," and, like a
true native American, was proud of his title. If it was self-assumed, he
was still following the precedent set by a vast host of captains,
majors, colonels, and generals, who never wore a uniform or hurt
anybody. He made his appearance at the little parsonage on the hill-side
in Sonora one day, and, thrusting his bare head into the door, he said:
"Me Cappin Charley," tapping his chest complacently as he spoke.
Returning his salutation, I waited for him to speak again.
"You got grub--coche carne?" he asked, mixing his Spanish and English.
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