Rough, bearded men, in Mexican sombreros and coarse attire--many in shirt-sleeves and with their pantaloons tucked in their boots--watched the new arrivals with interest.
"You needn't feel ashamed of your clothes, Joe," said Folsom, with a smile.

"You are better dressed than the majority of those we see." Joe looked puzzled.
"They don't look as if they had made their fortunes," he said.
"Don't judge by appearances.

In a new country people are careless of appearances.

Some of these rough fellows, no doubt, have their pockets full of gold." At this moment a rough-looking fellow stepped forward and said heartily: "Isn't this Charles Folsom ?" "Yes," answered Folsom, puzzled.
"You don't remember me ?" said the other, laughing.
"Not I." "Not remember Harry Carter, your old chum ?" "Good Heaven!" exclaimed Folsom, surveying anew the rough figure before him.

"You don't mean to say you are Harry Carter ?" "The same, at your service." "What a transformation! Why, you used to be rather a swell and now----" "Now I look like a barbarian." "Well, rather," said Folsom, laughing.
"You want me to explain?
Such toggery as I used to wear would be the height of folly at the mines." "I hope you have had good luck," said Folsom.
"Pretty fair," said Carter, in a tone of satisfaction.