I don’t suppose that his progenitors ever gave him that name, or, indeed, that it was a name at all; but it was currently believed that ­as pronounced “See up” ­it meant that lifting of the outer angle of the eye common to the Mongolian.  On the other hand, I had been told that there was an old Chinese custom of affixing some motto or legend, or even a sentence from Confucius, as a sign above their shops, and that two or more words, which might be merely equivalent to “Virtue is its own reward,” or “Riches are deceitful,” were believed by the simple Californian miner to be the name of the occupant himself.  Howbeit, “See Yup” accepted it with the smiling patience of his race, and never went by any other.  If one of the tunnelmen always addressed him as “Brigadier-General,” “Judge,” or “Commodore,” it was understood to be only the American fondness for ironic title, and was never used except in personal conversation.  In appearance he looked like any other Chinaman, wore the ordinary blue cotton blouse and white drawers of the Sampan coolie, and, in spite of the apparent cleanliness and freshness of these garments, always exhaled that singular medicated odor ­half opium, half ginger ­which we recognized as the common “Chinese smell.”

Our first interview was characteristic of his patient quality.  He had done my washing for several months, but I had never yet seen him.  A meeting at last had become necessary to correct his impressions regarding “buttons” ­which he had seemed to consider as mere excrescences, to be removed like superfluous dirt from soiled linen.  I had expected him to call at my lodgings, but he had not yet made his appearance.  One day, during the noontide recess of the little frontier school over which I presided, I returned rather early.  Two or three of the smaller boys, who were loitering about the school-yard, disappeared with a certain guilty precipitation that I suspected for the moment, but which I presently dismissed from my mind.  I passed through the empty school-room to my desk, sat down, and began to prepare the coming lessons.  Presently I heard a faint sigh.  Looking up, to my intense concern, I discovered a solitary Chinaman whom I had overlooked, sitting in a rigid attitude on a bench with his back to the window.  He caught my eye and smiled sadly, but without moving.

“What are you doing here?” I asked sternly.

“Me washee shilts; me talkee ‘buttons.’”

“Oh! you’re See Yup, are you?”

“Allee same, John.”

“Well, come here.”

I continued my work, but he did not move.

“Come here, hang it!  Don’t you understand?”

“Me shabbee, ‘comme yea.’  But me no shabbee Mellican boy, who catchee me, allée same.  You ’comme yea’ ­you shabbee?”

Indignant, but believing that the unfortunate man was still in fear of persecution from the mischievous urchins whom I had evidently just interrupted, I put down my pen and went over to him.  Here I discovered, to my surprise and mortification, that his long pigtail was held hard and fast by the closed window behind him which the young rascals had shut down upon it, after having first noiselessly fished it outside with a hook and line.  I apologized, opened the window, and released him.  He did not complain, although he must have been fixed in that uncomfortable position for some minutes, but plunged at once into the business that brought him there.

“But why didn’t you come to my lodgings?” I asked.

He smiled sadly but intelligently.

“Mishtel Bally [Mr. Barry, my landlord] he owce me five dollee fo washee, washee.  He no payee me.  He say he knock hellee outee me allée time I come for payee.  So me no come HOUSEE, me come SCHOOLEE, Shabbee?  Mellican boy no good, but not so big as Mellican man.  No can hurtee Chinaman so much.  Shabbee?”

Alas!  I knew that this was mainly true.  Mr. James Barry was an Irishman, whose finer religious feelings revolted against paying money to a heathen.  I could not find it in my heart to say anything to See Yup about the buttons; indeed, I spoke in complimentary terms about the gloss of my shirts, and I think I meekly begged him to come again for my washing.  When I went home I expostulated with Mr. Barry, but succeeded only in extracting from him the conviction that I was one of “thim black Republican fellys that worshiped naygurs.”  I had simply made an enemy of him.  But I did not know that, at the same time, I had made a friend of See Yup!

I became aware of this a few days later, by the appearance on my desk of a small pot containing a specimen of camellia japonica in flower.  I knew the school-children were in the habit of making presents to me in this furtive fashion, ­leaving their own nosegays of wild flowers, or perhaps a cluster of roses from their parents’ gardens, ­but I also knew that this exotic was too rare to come from them.  I remembered that See Yup had a Chinese taste for gardening, and a friend, another Chinaman, who kept a large nursery in the adjoining town.  But my doubts were set at rest by the discovery of a small roll of red rice-paper containing my washing-bill, fastened to the camellia stalk.  It was plain that this mingling of business and delicate gratitude was clearly See Yup’s own idea.  As the finest flower was the topmost one, I plucked it for wearing, when I found, to my astonishment, that it was simply wired to the stalk.  This led me to look at the others, which I found also wired!  More than that, they seemed to be an inferior flower, and exhaled that cold, earthy odor peculiar to the camellia, even, as I thought, to an excess.  A closer examination resulted in the discovery that, with the exception of the first flower I had plucked, they were one and all ingeniously constructed of thin slices of potato, marvelously cut to imitate the vegetable waxiness and formality of the real flower.  The work showed an infinite and almost pathetic patience in detail, yet strangely incommensurate with the result, admirable as it was.  Nevertheless, this was also like See Yup.  But whether he had tried to deceive me, or whether he only wished me to admire his skill, I could not say.  And as his persecution by my scholars had left a balance of consideration in his favor, I sent him a warm note of thanks, and said nothing of my discovery.

As our acquaintance progressed, I became frequently the recipient of other small presents from him:  a pot of preserves of a quality I could not purchase in shops, and whose contents in their crafty, gingery dissimulation so defied definition that I never knew whether they were animal, vegetable, or mineral; two or three hideous Chinese idols, “for luckee,” and a diabolical fire-work with an irregular spasmodic activity that would sometimes be prolonged until the next morning.  In return, I gave him some apparently hopeless oral lessons in English, and certain sentences to be copied, which he did with marvelous precision.  I remember one instance when this peculiar faculty of imitation was disastrous in result.  In setting him a copy, I had blurred a word which I promptly erased, and then traced the letters more distinctly over the scratched surface.  To my surprise, See Yup triumphantly produced his copy with the erasion itself carefully imitated, and, in fact, much more neatly done than mine.

In our confidential intercourse, I never seemed to really get nearer to him.  His sympathy and simplicity appeared like his flowers ­to be a good-humored imitation of my own.  I am satisfied that his particularly soulless laugh was not derived from any amusement he actually felt, yet I could not say it was forced.  In his accurate imitations, I fancied he was only trying to evade any responsibility of his own.  That devolved upon his taskmaster!  In the attention he displayed when new ideas were presented to him, there was a slight condescension, as if he were looking down upon them from his three thousand years of history.

“Don’t you think the electric telegraph wonderful?” I asked one day.

“Very good for Mellican man,” he said, with his aimless laugh; “plenty makee him jump!”

I never could tell whether he had confounded it with electro-galvanism, or was only satirizing our American haste and feverishness.  He was capable of either.  For that matter, we knew that the Chinese themselves possessed some means of secretly and quickly communicating with one another.  Any news of good or ill import to their race was quickly disseminated through the settlement before we knew anything about it.  An innocent basket of clothes from the wash, sent up from the river-bank, became in some way a library of information; a single slip of rice-paper, aimlessly fluttering in the dust of the road, had the mysterious effect of diverging a whole gang of coolie tramps away from our settlement.

When See Yup was not subject to the persécutions of the more ignorant and brutal he was always a source of amusement to all, and I cannot recall an instance when he was ever taken seriously.  The miners found diversions even in his alleged frauds and trickeries, whether innocent or retaliatory, and were fond of relating with great gusto his evasion of the Foreign Miners’ Tax.  This was an oppressive measure aimed principally at the Chinese, who humbly worked the worn-out “tailings” of their Christian fellow miners.  It was stated that See Yup, knowing the difficulty ­already alluded to ­of identifying any particular Chinaman by name, conceived the additional idea of confusing recognition by intensifying the monotonous facial expression.  Having paid his tax himself to the collector, he at once passed the receipt to his fellows, so that the collector found himself confronted in different parts of the settlement with the receipt and the aimless laugh of, apparently, See Yup himself.  Although we all knew that there were a dozen Chinamen or more at work at the mines, the collector never was able to collect the tax from more than two, ­See Yup and one See Yin, ­and so great was their facial resemblance that the unfortunate official for a long time hugged himself with the conviction that he had made See Yup pay twice, and withheld the money from the government!  It is very probable that the Californian’s recognition of the sanctity of a joke, and his belief that “cheating the government was only cheating himself,” largely accounted for the sympathies of the rest of the miners.

But these sympathies were not always unanimous.

One evening I strolled into the bar-room of the principal saloon, which, so far as mere upholstery and comfort went, was also the principal house in the settlement.  The first rains had commenced; the windows were open, for the influence of the southwest trades penetrated even this far-off mountain mining settlement, but, oddly enough, there was a fire in the large central stove, around which the miners had collected, with their steaming boots elevated on a projecting iron railing that encircled it.  They were not attracted by the warmth, but the stove formed a social pivot for gossip, and suggested that mystic circle dear to the gregarious instinct.  Yet they were decidedly a despondent group.  For some moments the silence was only broken by a gasp, a sigh, a muttered oath, or an impatient change of position.  There was nothing in the fortunes of the settlement, nor in their own individual affairs to suggest this gloom.  The singular truth was that they were, one and all, suffering from the pangs of dyspepsia.

Incongruous as such a complaint might seem to their healthy environment, ­their outdoor life, their daily exercise, the healing balsam of the mountain air, their enforced temperance in diet, and the absence of all enervating pleasures, ­it was nevertheless the incontestable fact.  Whether it was the result of the nervous, excitable temperament which had brought them together in this feverish hunt for gold; whether it was the quality of the tinned meats or half-cooked provisions they hastily bolted, begrudging the time it took to prepare and to consume them; whether they too often supplanted their meals by tobacco or whiskey, the singular physiological truth remained that these young, finely selected adventurers, living the lives of the natural, aboriginal man, and looking the picture of health and strength, actually suffered more from indigestion than the pampered dwellers of the cities.  The quantity of “patent medicines,” “bitters,” “pills,” “panaceas,” and “lozenges” sold in the settlement almost exceeded the amount of the regular provisions whose effects they were supposed to correct.  The sufferers eagerly scanned advertisements and placards.  There were occasional “runs” on new “specifics,” and general conversation eventually turned into a discussion of their respective merits.  A certain childlike faith and trust in each new remedy was not the least distressing and pathetic of the symptoms of these grown-up, bearded men.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Cyrus Parker, glancing around at his fellow sufferers, “ye kin talk of your patent medicines, and I’ve tackled ’em all, but only the other day I struck suthin’ that I’m goin’ to hang on to, you bet.”

Every eye was turned moodily to the speaker, but no one said anything.

“And I didn’t get it outer advertisements, nor off of circulars.  I got it outer my head, just by solid thinking,” continued Parker.

“What was it, Cy?” said one unsophisticated and inexperienced sufferer.

Instead of replying, Parker, like a true artist, knowing he had the ear of his audience, dramatically flashed a question upon them.

“Did you ever hear of a Chinaman having dyspepsy?”

“Never heard he had sabe enough to hev anything,” said a scorner.

“No, but did ye?” insisted Parker.

“Well, no!” chorused the group.  They were evidently struck with the fact.

“Of course you didn’t,” said Parker triumphantly. “’Cos they ain’t.  Well, gentlemen, it didn’t seem to me the square thing that a pesky lot o’ yellow-skinned heathens should be built different to a white man, and never know the tortur’ that a Christian feels; and one day, arter dinner, when I was just a-lyin’ flat down on the bank, squirmin’, and clutching the short grass to keep from yellin’, who should go by but that pizened See Yup, with a grin on his face.

“‘Mellican man plenty playee to him Joss after eatin’,’ sez he; ’but Chinaman smellee punk, allée same, and no hab got.’

“I knew the slimy cuss was just purtendin’ he thought I was prayin’ to my Joss, but I was that weak I hadn’t stren’th, boys, to heave a rock at him.  Yet it gave me an idea.”

“What was it?” they asked eagerly.

“I went down to his shop the next day, when he was alone, and I was feeling mighty bad, and I got hold of his pigtail and I allowed I’d stuff it down his throat if he didn’t tell me what he meant.  Then he took a piece of punk and lit it, and put it under my nose, and, darn my skin, gentlemen, you migh’n’t believe me, but in a minute I felt better, and after a whiff or two I was all right.”

“Was it pow’ful strong, Cy?” asked the inexperienced one.

“No,” said Parker, “and that’s just what’s got me.  It was a sort o’ dreamy, spicy smell, like a hot night.  But as I couldn’t go ’round ’mong you boys with a lighted piece o’ punk in my hand, ez if I was settin’ off Fourth of July firecrackers, I asked him if he couldn’t fix me up suthin’ in another shape that would be handier to use when I was took bad, and I’d reckon to pay him for it like ez I’d pay for any other patent medicine.  So he fixed me up this.”

He put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a small red paper which, when opened, disclosed a pink powder.  It was gravely passed around the group.

“Why, it smells and tastes like ginger,” said one.

“It is only ginger!” said another scornfully.

“Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn’t,” returned Cy Parker stoutly.  “Mebbe ut’s only my fancy.  But if it’s the sort o’ stuff to bring on that fancy, and that fancy cures me, it’s all the same.  I’ve got about two dollars’ worth o’ that fancy or that ginger, and I’m going to stick to it.  You hear me!” And he carefully put it back in his pocket.

At which criticisms and gibes broke forth.  If he (Cy Parker), a white man, was going to “demean himself” by consulting a Chinese quack, he’d better buy up a lot o’ idols and stand ’em up around his cabin.  If he had that sort o’ confidences with See Yup, he ought to go to work with him on his cheap tailings, and be fumigated all at the same time.  If he’d been smoking an opium pipe, instead of smelling punk, he ought to be man enough to confess it.  Yet it was noticeable that they were all very anxious to examine the packet again, but Cy Parker was alike indifferent to demand or entreaty.

A few days later I saw Abe Wynford, one of the party, coming out of See Yup’s wash-house.  He muttered something in passing about the infamous delay in sending home his washing, but did not linger long in conversation.  The next day I met another miner at the wash-house, but he lingered so long on some trifling details that I finally left him there alone with See Yup.  When I called upon Poker Jack of Shasta, there was a singular smell of incense in his cabin, which he attributed to the very resinous quality of the fir logs he was burning.  I did not attempt to probe these mysteries by any direct appeal to See Yup himself:  I respected his reticence; indeed, if I had not, I was quite satisfied that he would have lied to me.  Enough that his wash-house was well patronized, and he was decidedly “getting on.”

It might have been a month afterwards that Dr. Duchesne was setting a broken bone in the settlement, and after the operation was over, had strolled into the Palmetto Saloon.  He was an old army surgeon, much respected and loved in the district, although perhaps a little feared for the honest roughness and military precision of his speech.  After he had exchanged salutations with the miners in his usual hearty fashion, and accepted their invitation to drink, Cy Parker, with a certain affected carelessness which did not, however, conceal a singular hesitation in his speech, began: ­

“I’ve been wantin’ to ask ye a question, Doc, ­a sort o’ darned fool question, ye know, ­nothing in the way of consultation, don’t you see, though it’s kin er in the way o’ your purfeshun.  Sabe?”

“Go on, Cy,” said the doctor good-humoredly, “this is my dispensary hour.”

“Oh! it ain’t anything about symptoms, Doc, and there ain’t anything the matter with me.  It’s only just to ask ye if ye happened to know anything about the medical practice of these yer Chinamen?”

“I don’t know,” said the doctor bluntly, “and I don’t know anybody who does.”

There was a sudden silence in the bar, and the doctor, putting down his glass, continued with slight professional precision: ­

“You see, the Chinese know nothing of anatomy from personal observation.  Autopsies and dissection are against their superstitions, which declare the human body sacred, and are consequently never practiced.”

There was a slight movement of inquiring interest among the party, and Cy Parker, after a meaning glance at the others, went on half aggressively, half apologetically: ­

“In course, they ain’t surgeons like you, Doc, but that don’t keep them from having their own little medicines, just as dogs eat grass, you know.  Now I want to put it to you, as a fa’r-minded man, if you mean ter say that, jest because those old women who sarve out yarbs and spring medicines in families don’t know anything of anatomy, they ain’t fit to give us their simple and nat’ral medicines?”

“But the Chinese medicines are not simple or natural,” said the doctor coolly.

“Not simple?” echoed the party, closing round him.

“I don’t mean to say,” continued the doctor, glancing around at their eager, excited faces with an appearance of wonder, “that they are positively noxious, unless taken in large quantities, for they are not drugs at all, but I certainly should not call them ‘simple.’  Do you know what they principally are?”

“Well, no,” said Parker cautiously, “perhaps not exactly.”

“Come a little closer, and I’ll tell you.”

Not only Parker’s head but the others were bent over the counter.  Dr. Duchesne uttered a few words in a tone inaudible to the rest of the company.  There was a profound silence, broken at last by Abe Wynford’s voice: ­

“Ye kin pour me out about three fingers o’ whiskey, Barkeep.  I’ll take it straight.”

“Same to me,” said the others.

The men gulped down their liquor; two of them quietly passed out.  The doctor wiped his lips, buttoned his coat, and began to draw on his riding-gloves.

“I’ve heerd,” said Poker Jack of Shasta, with a faint smile on his white face, as he toyed with the last drops of liquor in his glass, “that the darned fools sometimes smell punk as a medicine, eh?”

“Yes, that’s comparatively decent,” said the doctor reflectively.  “It’s only sawdust mixed with a little gum and formic acid.”

“Formic acid?  Wot’s that?”

“A very peculiar acid secreted by ants.  It is supposed to be used by them offensively in warfare ­just as the skunk, eh?”

But Poker Jack of Shasta had hurriedly declared that he wanted to speak to a man who was passing, and had disappeared.  The doctor walked to the door, mounted his horse, and rode away.  I noticed, however, that there was a slight smile on his bronzed, impassive face.  This led me to wonder if he was entirely ignorant of the purpose for which he had been questioned, and the effect of his information.  I was confirmed in the belief by the remarkable circumstances that nothing more was said of it; the incident seemed to have terminated there, and the victims made no attempt to revenge themselves on See Yup.  That they had one and all, secretly and unknown to one another, patronized him, there was no doubt; but, at the same time, as they evidently were not sure that Dr. Duchesne had not hoaxed them in regard to the quality of See Yup’s medicines, they knew that an attack on the unfortunate Chinaman would in either case reveal their secret and expose them to the ridicule of their brother miners.  So the matter dropped, and See Yup remained master of the situation.

Meantime he was prospering.  The coolie gang he worked on the river, when not engaged in washing clothes, were “picking over” the “tailings,” or refuse of gravel, left on abandoned claims by successful miners.  As there was no more expense attending this than in stone-breaking or rag-picking, and the feeding of the coolies, which was ridiculously cheap, there was no doubt that See Yup was reaping a fair weekly return from it; but, as he sent his receipts to San Francisco through coolie managers, after the Chinese custom, and did not use the regular Express Company, there was no way of ascertaining the amount.  Again, neither See Yup nor his fellow countrymen ever appeared to have any money about them.  In ruder times and more reckless camps, raids were often made by ruffians on their cabins or their traveling gangs, but never with any pecuniary result.  This condition, however, it seemed was destined to change.

One Saturday See Yup walked into Wells, Fargo & Co.’s Express office with a package of gold-dust, which, when duly weighed, was valued at five hundred dollars.  It was consigned to a Chinese company in San Francisco.  When the clerk handed See Yup a receipt, he remarked casually: ­

“Washing seems to pay, See Yup.”

“Washee velly good pay.  You wantee washee, John?” said See Yup eagerly.

“No, no,” said the clerk, with a laugh.  “I was only thinking five hundred dollars would represent the washing of a good many shirts.”

“No leplesent washee shirts at all!  Catchee gold-dust when washee tailings.  Shabbee?”

The clerk did “shabbee,” and lifted his eyebrows.  The next Saturday See Yup appeared with another package, worth about four hundred dollars, directed to the same consignee.

“Didn’t pan out quite so rich this week, eh?” said the clerk engagingly.

“No,” returned See Yup impassively; “next time he payee more.”

When the third Saturday came, with the appearance of See Yup and four hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of gold-dust, the clerk felt he was no longer bound to keep the secret.  He communicated it to others, and in twenty-four hours the whole settlement knew that See Yup’s coolie company were taking out an average of four hundred dollars per week from the refuse and tailings of the old abandoned Palmetto claim!

The astonishment of the settlement was profound.  In earlier days jealousy and indignation at the success of these degraded heathens might have taken a more active and aggressive shape, and it would have fared ill with See Yup and his companions.  But the settlement had become more prosperous and law-abiding; there were one or two Eastern families and some foreign capital already there, and its jealousy and indignation were restricted to severe investigation and legal criticism.  Fortunately for See Yup, it was an old-established mining law that an abandoned claim and its tailings became the property of whoever chose to work it.  But it was alleged that See Yup’s company had in reality “struck a lead,” ­discovered a hitherto unknown vein or original deposit of gold, not worked by the previous company, and having failed legally to declare it by preemption and public registry, in their foolish desire for secrecy, had thus forfeited their right to the property.  A surveillance of their working, however, did not establish this theory; the gold that See Yup had sent away was of the kind that might have been found in the tailings overlooked by the late Palmetto owners.  Yet it was a very large yield for mere refuse.

“Them Palmetto boys were mighty keerless after they’d made their big ‘strike’ and got to work on the vein, and I reckon they threw a lot of gold away,” said Cy Parker, who remembered their large-handed recklessness in the “flush days.”  “On’y that we didn’t think it was white man’s work to rake over another man’s leavin’s, we might hev had what them derned Chinamen hev dropped into.  Tell ye what, boys, we’ve been a little too ‘high and mighty,’ and we’ll hev to climb down.”

At last the excitement reached its climax, and diplomacy was employed to effect what neither intimidation nor espionage could secure.  Under the pretense of desiring to buy out See Yup’s company, a select committee of the miners was permitted to examine the property and its workings.  They found the great bank of stones and gravel, representing the cast-out debris of the old claim, occupied by See Yup and four or five plodding automatic coolies.  At the end of two hours the committee returned to the saloon bursting with excitement.  They spoke under their breath, but enough was gathered to satisfy the curious crowd that See Yup’s pile of tailings was rich beyond their expectations.  The committee had seen with their own eyes gold taken out of the sand and gravel to the amount of twenty dollars in the two short hours of their examination.  And the work had been performed in the stupidest, clumsiest, yet patient Chinese way.  What might not white men do with better appointed machinery!  A syndicate was at once formed.  See Yup was offered twenty thousand dollars if he would sell out and put the syndicate in possession of the claim in twenty-four hours.  The Chinaman received the offer stolidly.  As he seemed inclined to hesitate, I am grieved to say that it was intimated to him that if he declined he might be subject to embarrassing and expensive legal proceedings to prove his property, and that companies would be formed to “prospect” the ground on either side of his heap of tailings.  See Yup at last consented, with the proviso that the money should be paid in gold into the hands of a Chinese agent in San Francisco on the day of the delivery of the claim.  The syndicate made no opposition to this characteristic precaution of the Chinaman.  It was like them not to travel with money, and the implied uncomplimentary suspicion of danger from the community was overlooked.  See Yup departed the day that the syndicate took possession.  He came to see me before he went.  I congratulated him upon his good fortune; at the same time, I was embarrassed by the conviction that he was unfairly forced into a sale of his property at a figure far below its real value.

I think differently now.

At the end of the week it was said that the new company cleared up about three hundred dollars.  This was not so much as the community had expected, but the syndicate was apparently satisfied, and the new machinery was put up.  At the end of the next week the syndicate were silent as to their returns.  One of them made a hurried visit to San Francisco.  It was said that he was unable to see either See Yup or the agent to whom the money was paid.  It was also noticed that there was no Chinaman remaining in the settlement.  Then the fatal secret was out.

The heap of tailings had probably never yielded the See Yup company more than twenty dollars a week, the ordinary wage of such a company.  See Yup had conceived the brilliant idea of “booming” it on a borrowed capital of five hundred dollars in gold-dust, which he openly transmitted by express to his confederate and creditor in San Francisco, who in turn secretly sent it back to See Yup by coolie messengers, to be again openly transmitted to San Francisco.  The package of gold-dust was thus passed backwards and forwards between debtor and creditor, to the grave edification of the Express Company and the fatal curiosity of the settlement.  When the syndicate had gorged the bait thus thrown out, See Yup, on the day the self-invited committee inspected the claim, promptly “salted” the tailings by conscientiously distributing the gold-dust over it so deftly that it appeared to be its natural composition and yield.

I have only to bid farewell to See Yup, and close this reminiscence of a misunderstood man, by adding the opinion of an eminent jurist in San Francisco, to whom the facts were submitted:  “So clever was this alleged fraud, that it is extremely doubtful if an action would lie against See Yup in the premises, there being no legal evidence of the ‘salting,’ and none whatever of his actual allegation that the gold-dust was the ordinary yield of the tailings, that implication resting entirely with the committee who examined it under false pretense, and who subsequently forced the sale by intimidation.”