PETE SWANSON was a surly man. He never had a pleasant word for anybody. Morning after morning he left his little cabin and stumbled along the trail to his bit of a claim, with shovel and pick on his shoulder. His hat was drawn low to shade his eyes, and he neither gave nor returned a greeting.
When the surly demon that possessed him relaxed its hold and allowed him to talk, his talk was all of hard luck. Hard luck had pursued him from childhood to the present hour.
He usually grew excited when he began his story of misfortune, and ended by cursing his lot, and all who offered him sympathy. So, when his claim failed suddenly, the miners just merely shrugged their shoulders.
They had long ago named him Hard-Luck Pete. His attitude seemed to invite misfortune. Men came to accept, with regard to him, his own gloomy creed.
One afternoon, Hard-Luck Pete passed through a group of men in front of the provision store. He answered their greetings with a short nod, and some faint stirrings of comradeship among them died out at the rebuff.
"He's an ugly-tempered brute," said one.
"He looks as if he didn't get enough to eat," remarked another.
The storekeeper sauntered out, thumbs in pockets.
"Talking about Hard-Luck Pete?" he questioned. "He hasn't been inside the store, for a week. Wonder what he lives on!"
"My woman took him over some supper the other night," went on the first speaker. "Do you think he'd eat it? Not much. He told her to take her victuals to them as wanted 'em."
"That's Pete all over! Never would take what he couldn't pay for."
They watched him out of sight, and then forgot him in some other topic.
Meanwhile Pete strode along the main street of the little mining town, and so out into the open country.
In truth, he was hungry and close to despair. In his black mood he felt that every man's hand was against him. He had brought his pick only from force of habit. No thought of locating a new claim was in his mind. His one wish was to get quite away from the scene of his recent disappointment.
So he struck off in the direction of the mountains, and turned toward one of the canyons that cut their front so deeply.
No unhappier man than Pete ever walked uncheered through the glory of a spring afternoon. Yet his heart craved both sunshine and sympathy.
No wife or child awaited him anywhere. He had shut love out of his life, and he was very lonely. As he strode along he wondered why he cared so much, after all, for the elusive gold. What should he do with it?
The blackness of despair fell upon him, and his soul cried out to him in the world-old question "What's the use?"
No suffering is keener. Its only antidote is to find something to do for somebody. Pete did not know this; he would not have believed it; but the lesson was close at hand.
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