While the building was under construction he was called away from the city. The story is related that on his return he went to see what progress had been made, and found mural painters at work, over the proscenium arch. They were painting the portrait of a man.
"Shakespeare," the decorator informed him.
"Shakespeare--shake hell!" responded the proprietor. "He never done nothing for Denver. Paint him out and put me up there."
Though there have been no Tabors made in Denver in the last few years, mining has not gone out of fashion. In the lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel my companion and I saw several old fellows, sitting about, looking neither prosperous nor busy, but always talking mines. A kind word, or even a pleasant glance is enough to set them off. Instantly their hands dive into their pockets and out come nuggets and samples of ore, which they polish upon their coat sleeves, and hold up proudly, turning them to catch the light.
"Yes, sir! I made the doggondest strike up there you ever saw! It's all on the ground. Come over here and look at this!"
The Denver Club is a central rallying place for the successful business men of the city. It is a splendid club, with the best of kitchens, and cellars, and humidors. All over the land I have met men who had been entertained there and who spoke of the place with something like affection.
One night, several weeks after we had left Denver, we were at the Bohemian Club in San Francisco, and fell to talking of Denver and her clubs.
"It was in a club in Denver," one man said, "that I witnessed the most remarkable thing I saw in Colorado."
"I met a former governor of the State there one night," he said. "We sat around the fire. Every now and then he would hit the very center of a cuspidor which stood fifteen feet away. The remarkable thing about it was that he didn't look more than forty-five years old. I have always wondered how a man of that age could have carried his responsibility as governor, yet have found time to learn to spit so superbly."
An enthusiastic young millionaire, the son of a pioneer, determined that my companion and I ought to see the mountain parks.
It was winter, and for reasons all too plainly visible from Denver, no automobiles had attempted the ascent since fall, for the mountain barrier, rearing itself majestically to the westward, glittered appallingly with ice and snow.