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The Golden Dream: Adventures in the Far West

by R. M. Ballantyne · English · Gutenberg #21734 · 572,640 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Golden Dream: Adventures in the Far West

Author: R. M. Ballantyne


        
Release date: June 7, 2007 [eBook #21734]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/21734

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN DREAM: ADVENTURES IN THE FAR WEST ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Golden Dream, by R.M. Ballantyne

________________________________________________________________________

Robert Michael Ballantyne was born in 1825 and died in 1894.  He was
educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk with
the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in Northen
Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848.  The letters he
had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods
life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should
construct a book based on these letters.  Three of his most enduring
books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur Traders",
"Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his experiences
with the H.B.C.  In this period he also wrote "The Coral island" and
"Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by
Ballantyne.  Having been chided for small mistakes he made in these
books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about.  With
these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for
teenagers.  He researched the Cornish Mines, the London Fire Brigade,
the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph
cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the
life-boat service, South Africa, Norway, the North Sea fishing fleet,
ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many more, experiencing the
lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for
weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived.

He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he
encountered with great care and attention to detail.  His young readers
looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and
1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year,
all very good reading.  The rate of production diminished in the last
ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed.

He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for
very young children under the pseudonym "Comus".

For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what
we would nowadays call "pi".  In part that was the way people wrote in
those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red
River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little
dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how
they ought to behave, as he felt he had been.

Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages.  These books
formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less
pocket-money.  These books are particularly well-written and researched,
because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for
their money.  They were published as six series, three books in each
series.

Re-created as an e-Text by Nick Hodson, August 2003.

________________________________________________________________________

THE GOLDEN DREAM, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.



CHAPTER ONE.

ADVENTURES IN THE FAR WEST.

THE CAUSE OF THE WHOLE AFFAIR.

Ned Sinton gazed at the scene before him with indescribable amazement!
He had often witnessed strange things in the course of his short though
chequered life, but he had never seen anything like this.  Many a dream
of the most extravagant nature had surrounded his pillow with creatures
of curious form and scenes of magic beauty, but never before, either by
actual observation or in nightly vision, had Ned Sinton beheld a scene
so wonderful as that which now lay spread out before him.

Ned stood in the centre of a cavern of vast dimensions--so vast, and so
full of intense light, that instead of looking on it as a huge cave, he
felt disposed to regard it as a small world.  The sides of this cavern
were made of pure gold, and the roof--far above his head--was spangled
all over with glittering points, like a starry sky.  The ground, too,
and, in short, everything within the cave, was made of the same precious
metal.  Thousands of stalactites hung from the roof like golden icicles.
Millions of delicate threads of the same material also depended from
the star-spangled vault, each thread having a golden ball at the end of
it, which, strange to say, was transparent, and permitted a bright
flame within to shine through, and shed a yellow lustre over
surrounding objects.  All the edges, and angles, and points of the
irregularly-formed walls were of burnished gold, which reflected the
rays of these pendant lamps with dazzling brilliancy, while the broad
masses of the frosted walls shone with a subdued light.  Magnificent
curtains of golden filigree fell in rich voluminous folds on the
pavement, half concealing several archways which led into smaller
caverns, similar to the large one.  Altogether it was a scene of
luxurious richness and splendour that is utterly indescribable.

But the thing that amazed Ned Sinton most was, that the company of
well-dressed ladies and gentlemen who moved about in these splendid
halls, and ate golden ices, or listened to the exquisite strains of
music that floated on the atmosphere, were all as yellow as guineas!
Ned could by no means understand this.  In order to convince himself
that there was no deception in the matter, he shook hands with several
of the people nearest to him, and found that they were cold and hard as
iron; although, to all appearance, they were soft and pliable, and could
evidently move about with perfect freedom.

Ned was very much puzzled indeed.  One would have thought he must have
believed himself to be dreaming.  Not a bit of it.  He knew perfectly
well that he was wide-awake.  In fact, a doubt upon that point never
crossed his mind for a moment.  At length he resolved to ask the meaning
of it all, and, observing a stout old gentleman, with a bland smile on
his yellow countenance, in the act of taking a pinch of golden snuff
from a gold snuff-box, he advanced and accosted him.

"Pray, sir," began Ned, modestly, "may I take the liberty of asking you
what is the meaning of all this?"

"All what, sir?" inquired the old gentleman, in a deep metallic voice.

"This golden cave, with its wonderful lamps, and especially these golden
people; and--excuse me, sir, for remarking on the circumstance--you seem
to be _made of gold_ yourself.  I have often heard the term applied to
extremely rich persons, but I really never expected to see a man who was
literally `worth his weight in gold.'"

The old gentleman laughed sarcastically at this sally, and took an
enormous pinch of gold-dust.

As he did not seem inclined to be communicative, however, Ned said
again, "What is the meaning of it all? can you explain what has done
it?"

Smiling blandly at his interrogator, this gentleman of precious metal
placed his head a little on one side, and tapped the lid of his
snuff-box, but said nothing.  Then he suddenly exclaimed, at the full
pitch of his voice, "California, my boy!  That's what's done it, Edward!
_California for ever_!  Ned, hurrah!"

As the deep tones of his voice rang through the star-spangled vault, the
company took up the shout, and with "California for ever!" made the
cavern ring again.  In the excess of their glee the gentlemen took off
their hats, and the ladies their wreaths and turbans, and threw them in
the air.  As many of them failed to catch these portions of costume in
their descent, the clatter caused by their fall on the golden pavement
was very striking indeed.

"Come here, my lad," said the old gentleman, seizing Ned Sinton by the
arm, and laughing heartily as he dragged him towards an immense mirror
of burnished gold; "look at yourself there."

Ned looked, and started back with horror on observing that he himself
had been converted into gold.  There could be no mistake whatever about
it.  There he stood, staring at himself like a yellow statue.  His
shooting-jacket was richly chased with alternate stripes of burnished
and frosted work; the buttons on his vest shone like stars; his
pantaloons were striped like the coat; his hair was a mass of
dishevelled filigree; and his hands, when, in the height of his horror,
he clasped them together, rang like a brass-founder's anvil.

For a few moments he stood before the mirror speechless.  Then a feeling
of intense indignation unaccountably took possession of him, and he
turned fiercely on the old gentleman, exclaiming--

"_You_ have done this, sir!  What do you mean by it? eh!"

"You're quite mistaken, Ned.  I didn't do it.  California has done it.
Ha! ha! my boy, you're done for!  Smitten with the yellow fever, Neddy?
California for ever!  See here--"

As he spoke, the old gentleman threw out one leg and both arms, and
began to twirl round, after the fashion of a peg-top, on one toe.  At
first he revolved slowly, but gradually increased his speed, until no
part of him could be distinctly observed.  Ned Sinton stood aghast.
Suddenly the old gentleman shot upwards like a rocket, but he did not
quit the ground; he merely elongated his body until his head stuck
against the roof of the cave.  Then he ceased to revolve, and remained
in the form of a golden stalactite--his head surrounded by stars and his
toe resting on the ground!

While Ned stood rooted to the spot, turning the subject over in his
mind, and trying to find out by what process of chemical or mechanical
action so remarkable a transformation could have been accomplished, he
became aware that his uncle, old Mr Shirley, was standing in the middle
of the cave regarding him with a look of mingled sarcasm and pity.  He
observed, too, that his uncle was not made of gold, like the people
around him, but was habited in a yeomanry uniform.  Mr Shirley had been
a yeoman twenty years before his nephew was born.  Since that time his
proportions had steadily increased, and he was now a man of very
considerable rotundity--so much so, that his old uniform fitted him with
excessive tightness; the coat would by no means button across his
capacious chest, and, being much too short, shewed a very undignified
amount of braces below it.

"Uncle!" exclaimed Ned Sinton, rushing up to his relative, "what _can_
be the meaning of all this?  Everybody seems to be mad.  I think you
must be mad yourself, to come here such a figure as that; and I'm quite
sure _I_ shall go mad if you don't explain it to me.  What _does_ it all
mean?"

"California," replied Mr Shirley, becoming more sarcastic in expression
and less pitiful.

"Why, that's what everybody cries," exclaimed Ned, who was now driven
almost to desperation.  "My dear uncle, do look like yourself and
exercise some of your wonted sagacity.  Just glance round at the cave
and the company, all made of gold, and look at me--gold too, if not
pinchbeck, but I'm not a good-enough judge of metals to tell which.
What _has_ done it, uncle?  _Do_ look in a better humour, and tell me
how it has happened."

"California," replied Mr Shirley.

"Yes, yes; I know that.  California seems to be everything here.  But
how has it come about?  Why are _you_ here, and what has brought me
here?"

"California," repeated Mr Shirley.

"Uncle, I'll go deranged if you don't answer me.  What do you mean?"

"California," reiterated Mr Shirley.

At the same moment a stout golden lady with a filigree turban shouted,
"for ever!" at the top of a very shrill voice, and immediately the
company took up the cry again, filling the cave with deafening sounds.

Ned Sinton gave one look of despair at his relative--then turned and
fled.

"Put him out," shouted the company.  "Down with the intruder!"

Ned cast a single glance backward, and beheld the people pushing and
buffeting his uncle in a most unceremonious manner.  His helmet was
knocked down over his eyes, and the coat--so much too small for him--was
rendered an easy fit by being ripped up behind to the neck.  Ned could
not stand this.  He was stout of limb and bold as a lion, although not
naturally addicted to fighting, so he turned suddenly round and flew to
the rescue.  Plunging into the midst of the struggling mass of golden
creatures, Ned hit out right and left like a young Hercules, and his
blows rang upon their metal chests and noses like the sound of
sledge-hammers, but without any other effect.

Suddenly he experienced an acute sensation of pain, and--awoke to find
himself hammering the bed-post with bleeding knuckles, and his uncle
standing beside his bed chuckling immensely.

"O uncle," cried Ned, sitting up in his bed, and regarding his knuckles
with a perplexed expression of countenance, "I've had _such_ an
extraordinary dream!"

"Ay, Ned," interrupted his uncle, "and all about California, I'll be
bound."

"Why, how did you guess that?"

"It needs not a wizard to guess that, lad.  I've observed that you have
read nothing in the newspapers for the last three months but the news
from the gold-diggings of California.  Your mind has of late been
constantly running on that subject, and it is well-known that day-dreams
are often reproduced at night.  Besides, I heard you shouting the word
in your sleep as I entered your room.  Were you fighting with
gold-diggers, eh! or Indians?"

"Neither, uncle; but I was fighting with very strange beings, I assure
you, and--"

"Well, well," interrupted Mr Shirley, "never mind the dream just now;
we shall have it at some other time.  I have important matters to talk
over with you, my boy.  Morton has written to me.  Get up and come down
as quickly as you can, and we'll discuss the matter over our breakfast."

As the door closed after the retreating form of his uncle, Edward Sinton
leaped out of bed and into his trousers.  During his toilet he wondered
what matters of importance Mr Shirley could intend to discuss with him,
and felt half inclined to fear, from the grave expression of his uncle's
face when he spoke of it, that something of a disagreeable nature
awaited him.  But these thoughts were intermingled with reminiscences of
the past night.  His knuckles, too, kept constantly reminding him of his
strange encounter, and, do what he would, he could not banish from his
mind the curious incidents of that remarkable golden dream.



CHAPTER TWO.

OUR HERO.

We have entered thus minutely into the details of our hero's dream,
because it was the climax to a long series of day-dreams, in which he
had indulged ever since the discovery of gold in California.

Edward Sinton was a youth of eighteen at the time of which we write, and
an orphan.  He was tall, strong, broad-shouldered, fair-haired,
blue-eyed, Roman-nosed, and gentle as a lamb.  This last statement may
perhaps appear inconsistent with the fact that, during the whole course
of his school-life, he had a pitched battle every week--sometimes two or
three in the week.  Ned never began a fight, and, indeed, did not like
fighting.  But some big boys _will_ domineer over little ones, and Ned
would not be domineered over; consequently he had to be thrashed.  He
was possessed, even in boyhood, of an amount of physical courage that
would have sufficed for any two ordinary men.  He did not boast.  He did
not quarrel.  He never struck the first blow, but, if twenty boys had
attacked him, he would have tried to fight them all.  He never
tyrannised over small boys.  It was not his nature to do so; but he was
not perfect, any more than you are, dear reader.  He sometimes punched
small boys' heads when they worried him, though he never did so without
repenting of it, and doing them a kindness afterwards in order to make
up.  He was very thoughtless, too, and very careless; nevertheless he
was fond of books--specially of books of adventure--and studied these
like a hero--as he was.

Boys of his own size, or even a good deal bigger, never fought with Ned
Sinton.  They knew better than that; but they adored him, in some cases
envied him, and in all cases trusted and followed him.  It was only
_very_ big boys who fought with him, and all they got by it was a good
deal of hard pummelling before they floored their little adversary, and
a good deal of jeering from their comrades for fighting a small boy.
From one cause or another, Ned's visage was generally scratched, often
cut, frequently swelled, and almost always black and blue.

But as Ned grew older, the occasions for fighting became less frequent;
his naturally amiable disposition improved, (partly owing, no doubt, to
the care of his uncle, who was, in every sense of the term, a good old
man,) and when he attained the age of fifteen and went to college, and
was called "Sinton," instead of "Ned," his fighting days were over.  No
man in his senses would have ventured to attack that strapping youth
with the soft blue eyes, the fair hair, the prominent nose, and the firm
but smiling lips, or, if he had, he would have had to count on an hour's
extremely hard work, whether the fortune of war went for or against him.

When Ned had been three years at college, his uncle hinted that it was
time to think of a profession, and suggested that as he was a first-rate
mathematician, and had been fond of mechanics from his childhood, he
should turn an engineer.  Ned would probably have agreed to this
cheerfully, had not a thirst for adventure been created by the stirring
accounts which had begun to arrive at this time from the
recently-discovered gold-fields of California.  His enthusiastic spirit
was stirred, not so much by the prospect of making a large fortune
suddenly by the finding of a huge nugget--although that was a very
pleasant idea--as by the hope of meeting with wild adventures in that
imperfectly-known and distant land.  And the effect of such dreams was
to render the idea of sitting down to an engineer's desk, or in a
mercantile counting-room, extremely distasteful.

Thus it came to pass that Edward Sinton felt indisposed to business, and
disposed to indulge in golden visions.

When he entered the breakfast-parlour, his mind was still full of his
curious dream.

"Come along, my lad," cried Mr Shirley, laying down the Bible, and
removing his spectacles from a pair of eyes that usually twinkled with a
sort of grave humour, but in which there was now an expression of
perplexity; "set to work and get the edge off your appetite, and then
I'll read Moxton's letter."

When Mr Shirley had finished breakfast, Ned was about half done, having
just commenced his third slice of toast.  So the old gentleman
complimented his nephew on the strength of his appetite, put on his
spectacles, drew a letter from his pocket, and leaned back in his chair.

"Now, lad, open your ears and consider what I am about to read."

"Go on, uncle, I'm all attention," said Ned, attacking slice number
four.

"This is Moxton's letter.  It runs thus--

"`Dear Sir,--I beg to acknowledge receipt of yours of the 5th inst.  I
shall be happy to take your nephew on trial, and, if I find him steady,
shall enter into an engagement with him, I need not add that unremitting
application to business is the only road to distinction in the
profession he is desirous of adopting.  Let him call at my office
to-morrow between ten and twelve.--Yours very truly, Daniel Moxton.'"

"Is that all?" inquired Ned, drawing his chair towards the fire, into
which he gazed contemplatively.

Mr Shirley looked at his nephew over the top of his spectacles, and
said--

"That's all."

"It's very short," remarked Ned.

"But to the point," rejoined his uncle.  "Now, boy, I see that you don't
relish the idea, and I must say that I would rather that you became an
engineer than a lawyer; but then, lad, situations are difficult to get
now-a-days, and, after all, you might do worse than become a lawyer.  To
be sure, I have no great love for the cloth, Ned; but the ladder reaches
very high.  The foot is crowded with a struggling mass of aspirants,
many of whom are of very questionable character, but the top reaches to
one of the highest positions in the empire.  You might become the Lord
High Chancellor at last, who knows!  But seriously, I think you should
accept this offer.  Moxton is a grave, stern man, but a sterling fellow
for all that, and in good practice.  Now, what do you think!"

"Well, uncle," replied Ned, "I've never concealed my thoughts from you
since the day you took me by the hand, eleven years ago, and brought me
to live under your roof; and I'll not begin to dissemble now.  The plain
truth is, that I don't like it at all."

"Stop, now," cried Mr Shirley, with a grieved expression of
countenance; "don't be hasty in forming your opinion.  Besides, my boy,
you ought to be more ready to take my advice, even although it be not
altogether palatable."

"My dear uncle, you quite misunderstand me.  I only tell you what I
_think_ about the proposal.  As to taking your advice, I fully intend to
do that whether I like it or not; but I think, if you will listen to me
for a few minutes, you will change your mind in regard to this matter.
You know that I am very fond of travelling, and that I dislike the idea
of taking up my abode on the top of a three-legged stool, either as a
lawyer's or a merchant's clerk.  Well, unless a man likes his
profession, and goes at it with a will, he cannot hope to succeed, so
that I have no prospect of getting on, I fear, in the line you wish me
to adopt.  Besides, there are plenty of poor fellows out of work, who
love sitting still from nine a.m. to ten p.m., and whose bread I would
be taking out of their mouths by devoting myself to the legal
profession, and--"

At this point Ned hesitated for a moment, and his uncle broke in with--

"Tell me, now, if every one thought about business as you do, how would
the world get on, think you?"

"Badly, I fear," replied the youth, with a smile; "but everybody doesn't
think of it as I do; and, tell me, uncle, if everybody thought of
business as you would wish me to do, what would come of the soldiers and
sailors who defend our empire, and extend our foreign trade, and achieve
the grand geographical discoveries that have of late added so much
lustre to the British name?"

Ned flushed and became quite eloquent at this point.  "Now, look at
California," he continued; "there's a magnificent region, full of gold;
not a mere myth, or an exaggeration, but a veritable fact, attested by
the arrival of letters and gold-dust every month.  Surely that land was
made to be peopled; and the poor savages who dwell there need to be
converted to Christianity, and delivered from their degraded condition;
and the country must be worked, and its resources be developed; and
who's to do it, if enterprising clergymen, and schoolmasters, and miners
do not go to live there, and push their fortunes?"

"And which of the three callings do you propose adopting?" inquired Mr
Shirley, with a peculiar smile.

"Well uncle, I--a--the fact is, I have not thought much about that as
yet.  Of course, I never thought of the first.  I do not forget your own
remark, that the calling of a minister of the gospel of Christ is not,
like other professions, to be adopted merely as a means of livelihood.
Then, as to the second, I might perhaps manage that; but I don't think
it would suit me."

"Do you think, then, that you would make a good digger?"

"Well, perhaps I would," replied Ned, modestly.

Mr Shirley gravely regarded the powerful frame that reclined in the
easy-chair before him, and was compelled to admit that the supposition
was by no means outrageous.

"Besides," continued the youth, "I might turn my hand to many things in
a new country.  You know I have studied surveying, and I can sketch a
little, and know something of architecture.  I suppose that Latin and
Greek would not be of much use, but the little I have picked up of
medicine and surgery among the medical students would be useful.  Then I
could take notes, and sketch the scenery, and bring back a mass of
material that might interest the public, and do good to the country."

"Oh," said the old gentleman, shortly; "come back and turn author, in
fact, and write a book that nobody would publish, or which, in the event
of its being published, nobody would read!"

"Come, now, my dear uncle, don't laugh at me.  I assure you it seems
very reasonable to me to think that what others have done, and are doing
every day, I am able to do."

"Well, I won't laugh at you; but, to be serious, you are wise enough to
know that an old man's experience is worth more than a youth's fancies.
Much of what you have said is true, I admit, but I assure you that the
bright prospects you have cut out for yourself are very delusive.  They
will never be realised, at least in the shape in which you have depicted
them on your imagination.  They will dissolve, my boy, on a nearer
approach, and, as Shakespeare has it, `like the baseless fabric of a
vision, leave not a wrack behind,' or, at least, not much more than a
wrack."

Ned reverted to the golden dream, and felt uneasy under his uncle's kind
but earnest gaze.

"Most men," continued Mr Shirley, "enjoy themselves at first, when they
go to wild countries in search of adventure, but they generally regret
the loss of their best years afterwards.  In my opinion men should never
emigrate unless they purpose making the foreign land they go to their
_home_.  But I won't oppose you, if you are determined to go; I will do
all I can to help you, and give you my blessing; but before you make up
your mind, I would recommend you to call on Mr Moxton, and hear what
prospects he holds out to you.  Then take a week to think seriously over
it; and if at the end of that time, you are as anxious to go as ever,
I'll not stand in your way."

"You are kind to me, uncle; more so than I deserve," said Ned earnestly.
"I'll do as you desire, and you may depend upon it that the generous
way in which you have left me to make my own choice will influence me
against going abroad more than anything else."

Ned sighed as he rose to quit the room, for he felt that his hopes at
that moment were sinking.

"And before you take a step in the matter, my boy," said old Mr
Shirley, "go to your room and ask counsel of Him who alone has the power
to direct your steps in this life."

Ned replied briefly, "I will, uncle," and hastily left the room.  Mr
Shirley poked the fire, put on his spectacles, smoothed out the wrinkles
on his bald forehead with his hand, took up the _Times_, and settled
himself down in his easy-chair to read; but his nephew's prospects could
not be banished from his mind.  He went over the whole argument again,
mentally, with copious additions, ere he became aware of the fact, that
for three-quarters of an hour he had been, (apparently), reading the
newspaper upside down.



CHAPTER THREE.

HOPES AND FEARS--MR. SHIRLEY RECEIVES A VISIT AND A WILD PROPOSAL.

When Edward Sinton left his chamber, an hour after the conversation
related in the last chapter, his brow was unruffled and his step light.
He had made up his mind that, come what might, he would not resist the
wishes of his only near relative and his best friend.

There was a day in the period of early boyhood that remained as fresh on
the memory of young Sinton as if it had been yesterday--the day on which
his mother died.  The desolation of his early home on that day was like
the rising of a dark thunder-cloud on a bright sky.  His young heart was
crushed, his mind stunned, and the first ray of light that broke upon
him--the first gush of relief--was when his uncle arrived and took him
on his knee, and, seated beside the bed where that cold, still form lay,
wept upon the child's neck as if his heart would break.  Mr Shirley
buried the sister whom he had been too late to see alive.  Then he and
his little nephew left the quiet country village and went to dwell in
the great city of London.  From that time forward Mr Shirley was a
father to Ned, who loved him more than any one else on earth, and
through his influence he was early led to love and reverence his
heavenly Father and his blessed Redeemer.

The subject of going abroad was the first in regard to which Ned and his
uncle had seriously disagreed, and the effect on the feelings of both
was very strong.

Ned's mind wandered as he put on his hat, and buttoned his great-coat up
to the chin, and drew on his gloves slowly.  He was not vain of his
personal appearance; neither was he reckless of it.  He always struck
you as being a particularly well-dressed man, and he had naturally a
dashing look about him.  Poor fellow! he felt anything but dashing or
reckless as he hurried through the crowded streets in the direction of
the city that day.

Moxton's door was a green one, with a brass knocker and a brass plate,
both of which ornaments, owing to verdigris, were anything but
ornamental.  The plate was almost useless, being nearly illegible, but
the knocker was still fit for duty.  The street was narrow--as Ned
observed with a feeling of deep depression--and the house to which the
green door belonged, besides being dirty, retreated a little, as if it
were ashamed of itself.

On the knocker being applied, the green door was opened by a
disagreeable-looking old woman, who answered to the question, "Is Mr
Moxton in?" with a short "Yes," and, without farther remark, ushered our
hero into a very dingy and particularly small office, which, owing to
the insufficient quantity of daylight that struggled through the dirty
little windows, required to be lighted with gas.  Ned felt, so to speak,
like a thermometer which was falling rapidly.

"Can I see Mr Moxton?" he inquired of a small dishevelled clerk, who
sat on a tall stool behind a high desk, engaged in writing his name in
every imaginable form on a sheet of note paper.

The dishevelled clerk pointed to a door which opened into an inner
apartment, and resumed his occupation.

Ned tapped at the door indicated.

"Come in," cried a stern voice.

Ned, (as a thermometer), fell considerably lower.  On entering, he
beheld a tall, gaunt man, with a sour cast of countenance, standing with
his back to the fire.

Ned advanced with a cheerful expression of face.  Thermometrically
speaking, he fell to the freezing-point.

"You are young Sinton, I suppose.  You've come later than I expected."

Ned apologised, and explained that he had had some difficulty in finding
the house.

"Umph!  Your uncle tells me that you're a sharp fellow, and write a good
hand.  Have you ever been in an office before?"

"No, sir.  Up till now I have been at college.  My uncle is rather
partial, I fear, and may have spoken too highly of me.  I think,
however, that my hand is not a bad one.  At least it is legible."

"At least!" said Mr Moxton, with a sarcastic expression that was meant
for smile, perhaps for a grin.  "Why, that's the _most_ you could say of
it.  No hand is good, sir, if it is not legible, and no hand can
possibly be bad that _is_ legible.  Have you studied law?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"Umph! you're too old to begin.  Have you been used to sit at the desk?"

"Yes; I have been accustomed to study the greater part of the day."

"Well, you may come here on Monday, and I'll speak to you again, and see
what you can do.  I'm too busy just now.  Good-morning."

Ned turned to go, but paused on the threshold, and stood holding the
door-handle.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, hesitatingly, "may I ask what room I shall
occupy, if--if--I come to work here?"

Mr Moxton looked a little surprised at the question, but pointed to the
outer office where the dishevelled clerk sat, and said, "There."  Ned
fell to twenty below the freezing-point.

"And pray, sir," he continued, "may I ask what are office-hours?"

"From nine a.m. till nine p.m., with an interval for meals," said Mr
Moxton, sharply; "but we usually continue at work till eleven at night,
sometimes later.  Good-morning."

Ned fell to zero, and found himself in the street, with an indistinct
impression of having heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously
as he passed through the office.

It was a hard struggle, a very hard struggle, but he recalled to mind
all that his uncle had ever done for him, and the love he bore him, and
manfully resolved to cast California behind his back for ever, and
become a lawyer.

Meanwhile Mr Shirley received a visit from a very peculiar personage.
He was still seated in his arm-chair pondering his nephew's prospects
when this personage entered the room, hat in hand--the hat was a round
straw one--and cried heartily, "Good day, kinsman."

"Ha!  Captain Bunting, how are ye?  Glad to see you, old fellow,"
exclaimed Mr Shirley, rising and seizing the sailor by the hand.  "Sit
down, sit down, and let's hear your news.  Why, I believe it's six
months since I saw you."

"Longer, Shirley, longer than that," replied the captain, seating
himself in the chair which Ned Sinton had vacated a short time before.
"I hope your memory is not giving way.  I have been half round the
world, and it's a year and six months to-day since I sat here last."

"Is it?" cried Mr Shirley, in surprise.  "Now, that is very remarkable.
But do you know, captain, I have often thought upon that subject, and
wondered why it is that, as we get older, time seems to fly faster, and
events which happened a month ago seem as if they only occurred
yesterday.  But let me hear all about it.  Where have you been, and
where are you going next?"

"I've been," replied the captain, who was a big, broad man with a rough
over-all coat, rough pilot-cloth trousers, rough red whiskers, a shaggy
head of hair, and a rough-skinned face; the only part of him, in fact,
which wasn't rough was his heart; that was soft and warm--

"I've been, as I remarked before, half round the world, and I'm goin'
next to America.  That's a short but comprehensive answer to your
question.  If you have time and patience, kinsman, I'll open the
log-book of my memory and give you some details of my doings since we
last met.  But first tell me, how is my young friend, Ned?"

"Oh, he's well--excellently well--besides being tall and strong.  You
would hardly know him, captain.  He's full six feet high, I believe, and
the scamp has something like a white wreath of smoke over his upper lip
already!  I wish him to become an engineer or a lawyer, but the boy is
in love with California just now, and dreams about nothing but wild
adventures and gold-dust."

The captain gave a grunt, and a peculiar smile crossed his rugged visage
as he gazed earnestly and contemplatively into the fire.

Captain Bunting was a philosopher, and was deeply impressed with the
belief that the smallest possible hint upon any subject whatever was
sufficient to enable him to dive into the marrow of it, and
prognosticate the probable issue of it, with much greater certainty than
any one else.  On the present occasion, however, the grunt above
referred to was all he said.

It is not necessary to trouble the reader with the lengthened discourse
that the captain delivered to his kinsman.  When he concluded, Mr
Shirley pushed his spectacles up on his bald head, gazed at the fire,
and said, "Odd, very odd; and interesting too--very interesting."  After
a short pause, he pulled his spectacles down on his nose, and looking
over them at the captain, said, "And what part of America are you bound
for now?"

"California," answered the captain, slowly.

Mr Shirley started, as if some prophetic vision had been called up by
the word and the tone, in which it was uttered.

"And that," continued the captain, "brings me to the point.  I came here
chiefly for the purpose of asking you to let your nephew go with me, as
I am in want of a youth to assist me, as a sort of supercargo and
Jack-of-all-trades.  In fact, I like your nephew much, and have long had
my eye on him.  I think him the very man for my purpose.  I want a
companion, too, in my business--one who is good at the pen and can turn
his hand to anything.  In short, it would be difficult to explain all
the outs and ins of why I want him.  But he's a tight, clever fellow, as
I know, and I _do_ want him, and if you'll let him go, I promise to
bring him safe back again in the course of two years--if we are all
spared.  From what you've told me, I've no doubt the lad will be
delighted to go.  And, believe me, his golden dreams will be all washed
out by the time he comes back.  Now, what say you!"

For the space of five minutes Mr Shirley gazed at the captain over his
spectacles in amazement, and said nothing.  Then he threw himself back
on his chair, pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, and gazed at him
from underneath these assistants to vision.  The alteration did not seem
to improve matters, for he still continued to gaze in silent surprise.
At last his lips moved, and he said, slowly but emphatically--

"Now, that is the most remarkable coincidence I ever heard of."

"How so?" inquired the captain.

"Why, that my nephew should be raving about going to California, and
that you should be raving about getting him to go, and that these things
should suddenly come to a climax on the same forenoon.  It's absolutely
incredible.  If I had read it in a tale, now, or a romance, I would not
have been surprised, for authors are such blockheads, generally, that
they always make things of this kind fit in with the exactness of a
dove-tail; but that it should _really_ come to pass in my own
experience, is quite incomprehensible.  And so suddenly, too!"

"As to that," remarked the captain, with a serious, philosophical
expression of countenance, "most things come to a climax suddenly, and
coincidences invariably happen together; but, after all, it doesn't seem
so strange to me, for vessels are setting sail for California every
other day, and--"

"Well," interrupted Mr Shirley, starting up with energy, as if he had
suddenly formed a great resolve, "I _will_ let the boy go.  Perhaps it
will do him good.  Besides, I have my own reasons for not caring much
about his losing a year or two in regard to business.  Come with me to
the city, captain, and we'll talk over it as we go along."  So saying,
Mr Shirley took his kinsman by the arm, and they left the house
together.



CHAPTER FOUR.

THE END OF THE BEGINNING--FAREWELL TO OLD ENGLAND.

As Captain Bunting sagaciously remarked, "most things come to a climax
suddenly."

On the evening of the day in which our tale begins, Edward Sinton--still
standing at zero--walked into his uncle's parlour.  The old gentleman
was looking earnestly, though unintentionally, at the cat, which sat on
the rug; and the cat was looking attentively at the kettle, which sat on
the fire, hissing furiously, as if it were disgusted at being kept so
long from tea.

Ned's face was very long and sad as he entered the room.

"Dear uncle," said he, taking Mr Shirley by the hand, "I'm not going to
take a week to think over it.  I have made up my mind to remain at home,
and become a lawyer."

"Ned," replied Mr Shirley, returning his nephew's grasp, "I'm not going
to take a week to think over it either.  I have made up my mind that you
are to go to California, and become a--a--whatever you like, my dear
boy; so sit down to tea, and I'll tell you all about it."

Ned was incredulous at first, but as his uncle went on to explain how
matters stood, and gradually diverged from that subject to the details
of his outfit, he recovered from his surprise, and sprang suddenly up to
100 degrees of Fahrenheit, even in the shade of the prospect of parting
for a time from old Mr Shirley.

Need we be surprised, reader, that our hero on that night dreamed the
golden dream over again, with many wonderful additions, and sundry
remarkable variations.

Thus it came to pass that, two weeks afterwards, Ned and his uncle found
themselves steaming down the Thames to Gravesend, where the good ship
_Roving Bess_ lay riding at anchor, with a short cable, and top-sails
loose, ready for sea.

"Ned," said Mr Shirley, as they watched the receding banks of the noble
river, "you may never see _home_ again, my boy.  Will you be sure not to
forget me! will you write often, Ned!"

"Forget you, uncle!" exclaimed Ned, in a reproachful voice, while a tear
sprang to his eye.  "How can you suggest such a--"

"Well, well, my boy, I know it--I know it; but I like to hear the
assurance repeated by your own lips.  I'm an old man now, and if I
should not live to see you again, I would like to have some earnest,
loving words to think upon while you are away."  The old man paused a
few moments, and then resumed--

"Ned, remember when far from home, that there is another home--eternal
in the heavens--to which, if you be the Lord's child, you are hastening.
You will think of that home, Ned, won't you!  If I do not meet you
again here at any rate I shall hope to meet you _there_."

Ned would have spoken, but his heart was too full.  He merely pressed
old Mr Shirley's arm.

"Perhaps," continued his uncle, "it is not necessary to make you promise
to read God's blessed Word.  You'll be surrounded by temptations of no
ordinary kind in the gold-regions; and depend upon it that the Bible,
read with prayer, will be the best chart and compass to guide you safely
through them all."

"My dear uncle," replied Ned, with emotion, "perhaps the best promise I
can make is to assure you that I will endeavour to do, in all things and
at all times, as you have taught me, ever since I was a little boy.  If
I succeed, I feel assured that I shall do well."

A long and earnest conversation ensued between the uncle and nephew,
which was interrupted at last, by the arrival of the boat at Gravesend.
Jumping into a wherry, they pushed off, and were soon alongside of the
_Roving Bess_, a barque of about eight hundred tons burden, and,
according to Captain Bunting, "an excellent sea-boat."

"Catch hold o' the man-ropes," cried the last-named worthy, looking over
the side; "that's it; now then, jump! all right!  How are ye, kinsman?
Glad to see you, Ned.  I was afraid you were goin' to give me the slip."

"I have not kept you waiting, have I?" inquired Ned.

"Yes, you have, youngster," replied the captain, with a facetious wink,
as he ushered his friends into the cabin, and set a tray of broken
biscuit and a decanter of wine before them.  "The wind has been blowin'
off shore the whole morning, and the good ship has been straining at a
short cable like a hound chained up.  But we'll be off now in another
half-hour."

"So soon?" said Mr Shirley, with an anxious expression on his kind old
face.

"All ready to heave up the anchor, sir," shouted the first mate down the
companion.

The captain sprang on deck, and soon after the metallic clatter of the
windlass rang a cheerful accompaniment to the chorus of the sailors.
One by one the white sails spread out to the breeze, and the noble ship
began to glide through the water.

In a few minutes more the last words were spoken, the last farewell
uttered, and Mr Shirley stood alone in the stern-sheet of the little
boat, watching the departing vessel as she gathered way before the
freshening breeze.  As long as the boat was visible Ned Sinton stood on
the ship's bulwarks, holding on to the mizzen shrouds, and waving his
handkerchief from time to time.  The old man stood with his head
uncovered, and his thin locks waving in the wind.

Soon the boat was lost to view.  Our hero brushed away a tear, and
leaped upon the deck, where the little world, of which for many days to
come he was to form a part, busied itself in making preparation for a
long, long voyage.  The British Channel was passed; the Atlantic Ocean
was entered; England sank beneath the horizon; and, for the first time
in his life, Ned Sinton found himself--at sea.



CHAPTER FIVE.

THE SEA--DANGERS OF THE DEEP, AND UNCERTAINTY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS--A
DISASTROUS NIGHT AND A BRIGHT MORNING--CALIFORNIA AT LAST.

Only those who have dwelt upon the ocean for many months together can
comprehend the feelings of delight, with which the long-imprisoned
voyager draws near to his desired haven.  For six long months did the
_Roving Bess_ do battle with the surging billows of the great deep.
During that time she steered towards the Gulf of Mexico--carefully
avoiding that huge reservoir of sea-weed, termed the Saragossa sea, in
which the unscientific but enterprising mariners of old used to get
becalmed oftentimes for days and weeks together--she coasted down the
eastern shores of South America; fired at, and "shewed her heels" to, a
pirate; doubled Cape Horn; fought with the tempests that take special
delight in revelling there; and, finally, spreading her sails to the
genial breezes of the Pacific Ocean, drew near to her voyage-end.

All this the good ship _Roving Bess_ did with credit to herself and
comfort to her crew; but a few weeks after she entered the Pacific, she
was met, contrary to all expectation, by the bitterest gale that had
ever compelled her to scud under bare poles.

It was a beautiful afternoon when the first symptoms of the coming storm
were observed.  Captain Bunting had just gone down below, and our hero
was standing at the weather gangway, observing the sudden dart of a
shoal of flying-fish, which sprang out of the sea, whizzed through the
air a few hundred feet, and fell with a splash into the water, in their
frantic efforts to escape from their bitter enemy, the dolphin.

While Ned gazed contemplatively at the spot where the winged fish had
disappeared, the captain sprang on deck.

"We're goin' to catch it," he said, hurriedly, as he passed forward;
"tumble up, there; tumble up; all hands to shorten sails.  Hand down the
royals, and furl the t'gallant sails, Mr Williams, (to the first mate,)
and look alive."

"Ay, ay, sir," was answered in that prompt tone of voice which indicates
thorough discipline and unquestioning obedience, while the men scrambled
up the fore-hatch, and sprang up the ratlines hand over hand.  A moment
before, the vessel had lain quietly on the bosom of the unruffled deep,
as if she were asleep, now she was all uproar and apparent confusion;
sails slewed round, ropes rattled, and blocks creaked, while the
sonorous voice of the first mate sounded commands like a trumpet from
the quarter-deck.

"I see no indication of a storm," remarked young Sinton, as the captain
walked aft.

"Possibly not, lad; but _I_ do.  The barometer has fallen lower, all of
a sadden, than I ever saw it fall before.  You may depend upon it, we
shall have to look out for squalls before long.  Just cast your eyes on
the horizon over the weather bows there; it's not much of a cloud, and,
to say truth, I would not have thought much of it had the glass remained
steady, but that faithful servant never--"

"Better close-reef the top-sails, sir," said the mate, touching his cap,
and pointing to the cloud just referred to.

"Do so, Mr Williams, and let the watch below remain on deck, and stand
by to man the halyards."

In less than an hour the _Roving Bess_ was running at the rate of twelve
knots, under close-reefed top-sails, before a steady gale, which in
half-an-hour later increased to a hurricane, compelling them to take in
all sail and "lay to."  The sun set in a blaze of mingled black and
lurid clouds, as if the heavens were on fire; the billows rose to their
utmost height as the shrieking winds heaved them upwards, and then,
cutting off their crests, hurled the spray along like driving clouds of
snow, and dashed it against the labouring ship, as if impatient to
engulf her in that ravening maw which has already swallowed up so many
human victims.

But the little vessel faced the tempest nobly, and rose like a sea-mew
on the white crest of each wave, while the steersmen--for there were two
lashed to the wheel--kept her to the wind.  Suddenly the sheet of the
fore trysail parted, the ship came up to the wind, and a billow at that
moment broke over her, pouring tons of water on her deck, and carrying
away the foremast, main-top-masts, and the jib-boom.

"Clear the wreck--down the helm, and let her scud," shouted the captain,
who stood by the mizzen-mast, holding on to a belaying-pin.  But the
captain's voice was drowned by the whistling winds, and, seeing that the
men were uncertain what to do, he seized one of the axes which were
lashed to the foot of the mast, and began to cut away the ropes which
dragged the wreck of the foremast under the lee of the ship.  Williams,
the mate, and the second mate, followed his example, while Ned sprang to
the wheel to see the orders to the steersmen obeyed.  In half-an-hour
all was clear, and the ship was scudding before the gale under bare
poles.

"We've not seen the worst of it," remarked the captain, as he resumed
his post on the quarter-deck, and brushed the brine from his whiskers;
"I fear, too, that she has received some bad thumps from the wreck of
the foremast.  You'd better go below, Sinton, and put on a topcoat; its
no use gettin' wetter than you can help."

"I'm as wet as I can be, captain; besides, I can work better as I am, if
there's anything for me to do."

"Well, there ain't much: you'll have enough to do to keep yourself from
being washed overboard.  How's her head, Larry?"

"Nor' east an' by east," replied one of the men at the wheel, Larry
O'Neil by name--a genuine son of Erin, whose jovial smile of rollicking
good humour was modified, but by no means quenched, by the serious
circumstances in which he found himself placed.  His comrade, William
Jones, who stood on the larboard side of the wheel, was a short,
thick-set, stern seaman, whose facial muscles were scarcely capable of
breaking into a smile, and certainly failed to betray any of the owner's
thoughts or feelings, excepting astonishment.  Such passions as anger,
pity, disgust, fear, and the like, whatever place they might have in
Jones's breast, had no visible index on his visage.  Both men were
sailor-like and powerful, but they were striking contrasts to each
other, as they stood--the one sternly, the other smilingly--steering the
_Roving Bess_ before that howling storm.

"Is not `nor' east and by east' our direct course for the harbour of San
Francisco?" inquired Ned Sinton.

"It is," replied the captain, "as near as I can guess; but we've been
blown about so much that I can't tell exactly.  Moreover, it's my
opinion we can't be far off the coast now; and if this gale holds on
I'll have to bring to, at the risk of bein' capsized.  Them plaguey
coral-reefs, too, are always springin' up in these seas where you least
expect 'em.  If we go bump against one as we are goin' now, its all up
with us."

"Not a pleasant idea," remarked Ned, somewhat gravely.  "Do these storms
usually last long?"

Before the captain could reply, the first mate came up and whispered in
his ear.

"Eh! how much d'ye say?" he asked quickly.

"Five feet, sir; she surged heavily once or twice on the foremast, and I
think must have started a plank."

"Call all hands to work the pumps; and don't let the men know how much
water there is in the hold.  Come below, Ned.  I want you.  Keep her
head steady as she goes."

"Ay, ay, sir," sang out O'Neil, as the captain descended the
companion-hatch to the cabin, followed by his young friend.

The dim light in the swinging lamp flickered fitfully when the ship
plunged into the troughs of the seas, and rose again with a violent
surge, as each wave passed under her, while every plank and spar on
board seemed to groan under the strain.  Darkness now added to the
terrors of the wild storm.

Sitting down on a locker, Captain Bunting placed his elbows on the
table, and covering his face with his hands, remained silent for several
minutes, while Ned sat down beside him, but forbore to interrupt his
thoughts.

"Boy," he said, at length, looking up anxiously, "we've sprung a leak,
and a few minutes will shew what our fate is to be.  Five feet of water
in the hold in so short a time implies a bad one."

"Five feet two, sir," said the mate, looking in at the cabin door; "and
the carpenter can't get at the leak."

"I feared as much," muttered the captain.  "Keep the men hard at the
pumps, Mr Williams, and let me hear how it stands again in ten
minutes."

"Captain," said Ned, "it does not become a landsman to suggest, perhaps,
but I can't help reminding you, that leaks of this kind have been
stopped by putting a sail below the ship's bottom."

"I know it, boy, I know it; but we could never get a sail down in such a
night."

"Can nothing be done, then?"

"Yes, lad; it's hard to do it, but it must be done; life is more
precious than gold--we must heave the cargo overboard.  I have invested
every farthing I have in the world in this venture," continued Captain
Bunting, sadly, "but there's no help for it.  Now, you were at the
shifting of the cargo when we opened the hatches during the calms off
the Brazilian coast, and as you know the position of the bales and
boxes, I want you to direct the men so as to get it hove out quickly.
Luckily, bein' a general cargo, most o' the bales are small and easily
handled.  Here comes the mate again--well, Mr Williams?"

"Up another inch, sir."

"Go, Ned, over with it.  I'll superintend above; so good-bye to our
golden dreams."

There was a slight tone of bitterness in the captain's voice as he
spoke, but it passed away quickly, and the next instant he was on deck
encouraging his men to throw the valuable cargo over the side.  Bale
after bale and box after box were tossed ruthlessly out upon the raging
sea until little was left in the ship, save the bulky and less valuable
portion of the cargo.  Then a cry arose that the leak was discovered!
The carpenter had succeeded in partially stopping it with part of a
sail, and soon the pumps began to reduce the quantity of water in the
hold.  At last the leak was gained and effectually stopped, and before
daybreak the storm began to subside.  While part of the crew, being
relieved from the harassing work at the pumps, busied themselves in
repairing damages, Ned went to his cabin to put on dry clothes and take
a little rest, of which he stood much in need.

Next day the bright sun rose in a cloudless sky, and a gentle breeze now
wafted the _Roving Bess_ over the Pacific, whose bosom still heaved
deeply from the effects of the recent storm.  A sense of fervent
thankfulness to God for deliverance filled the heart of our hero as he
awoke and beheld the warm sunbeams streaming in at the little window of
his cabin.  Suddenly he was roused from a deep reverie by the shout of
"Land, ho!" on deck.

Words cannot convey an adequate idea of the effect of such a shout upon
all on board.  "Land, ho!" was repeated by every one, as he sprang in
dishabille up the hatchway.

"Where away?" inquired Captain Bunting.

"Right ahead, sir," answered the look-out.

"Ay, there it is," said the captain, as Ned, without coat or vest,
rushed to his side, and gazed eagerly over the bow, "there it is, Ned,--
California, at last!  Yonder rise the golden mountains that have so
suddenly become the world's magnet; and yonder, too, is the `Golden
Gate' of the harbour of San Francisco.  Humph! much good it'll do us."

Again there was a slight tone of bitterness in the captain's voice.

"Don't let down your spirits, captain," said Ned, in a cheering tone;
"there is still enough of the cargo left to enable us to make a start
for the gold-fields.  Perhaps we may make more money there than we would
have made had we sold the cargo at a large profit by trafficking on the
coast."

Captain Bunting hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat,
and shook his head.  It was evident that he had no faith in
gold-digging.  Meanwhile the crew had assembled on the forecastle, and
were looking out ahead with wistful and excited glances; for the fame of
the golden land to which they were approaching had spread far and wide,
and they longed to see the gold-dust and nuggets with their own eyes.

"It's a beautiful land, intirely," exclaimed Larry O'Neil, with an
irrepressible shout of enthusiasm, which called forth a general cheer
from the men.

"Arrah, now," remarked another Patlander, "don't ye wish ye wos up to
the knees and elbows in the goolden sands already?  Faix I'd give a
month's pay to have wan day at the diggin's."

"I don't believe a word about it--I don't," remarked Jones, with the
dogged air of a man who shouldn't, wouldn't, and didn't believe, and yet
felt, somehow, that he couldn't help it.

"Nother do I," said another, "It's all a sham; come, now, ain't it,
Bill?" he added, turning to a bronzed veteran who had visited California
two years before.

"A sham!" exclaimed Bill.  "I tell 'e wot it is, messmate, when you
comes for to see the miners in San Francisco drinkin' _sham_pain like
water, an' payin' a dollar for a glass o' six-water grog, you'll--"

"How much is a dollar?" inquired a soft-looking youth, interrupting him.

Bill said it was "'bout four shillin's," and turned away with a look of
contempt at such a display of ignorance.

"_Four shillin's_!" exclaimed the soft youth, in amazement.

"Clear the anchor, and clew up the main-topsail," shouted the mate.

In another moment the crew were scattered, some aloft to "lay out" on
the topsail yard, some to the clew-lines, and some to clear the anchor,
which latter had not been disturbed since the _Roving Bess_ left the
shores of Old England.



CHAPTER SIX.

SAN FRANCISCO--AN UNEXPECTED DESERTION--CAPTAIN BUNTING TAKES A GLOOMY
VIEW OF THINGS IN GENERAL--NEW FRIENDS AND NEW PLANS--SINGULAR FACTS AND
CURIOUS FANCIES.

The "Golden Gates," as they are called, of San Francisco, are two rocky
headlands, about a mile apart, which form the entrance to one of the
finest harbours, or rather land-locked seas, in the world.  This harbour
is upwards of forty miles long, by about twelve miles broad at its
widest point, and receives at its northern end the waters of the noble
Sacramento river, into which all the other rivers in California flow.

Nearly opposite to the mouth of the Sacramento, on the southern shores
of the bay, stands the famous city of San Francisco, close to which the
_Roving Bess_ let go her anchor and clasped the golden strand.

The old adage that, "truth is strange, stranger than fiction," was never
more forcibly verified than in the growth and career of this wonderful
city.  No dreams of Arabian romance ever surpassed the inconceivable
wonders that were matters of every-day occurrence there during the first
years of the gold-fever; and many of the results attributed to Aladdin's
wonderful lamp were almost literally accomplished--in some cases
actually surpassed--in and around the cities of California.

Before the discovery of gold, San Francisco was a mere hamlet.  It
consisted of a few rude cottages, built of sun-dried bricks, which were
tenanted by native Californians; there were also a few merchants who
trafficked in hides and horns.  Cruisers and whalers occasionally put
into the harbour to obtain fresh supplies of water, but beyond these and
the vessels engaged in the hide-trade few ships ever visited the port,
and the name of San Francisco was almost unknown.

But the instant the rumour got abroad that gold had been discovered
there, the eyes of the world were turned towards it.  In a few months
men and ships began to pour into the capacious harbour; a city of tents
overspread the sand-hills on which the hamlet stood; thousands upon
thousands of gold-hunters rushed to the mines; the golden treasures of
the land were laid bare, and immense fortunes were made, literally in
the course of a few weeks.  In many cases these were squandered or
gambled away almost as soon as made; but hundreds of men retired from
the gold-fields after a few months' labour, and returned home possessed
of ample fortunes.  Thousands, too, failed--some from physical inability
to stand the fatiguing labour of the mines, and some from what they
termed "want of luck," though want of perseverance was, in nine cases
out of ten, the real cause; while many hundreds perished from exposure
and from the diseases that were prevalent in the country.

Well would it have been for these last had they remembered God's word,
"Make not haste to be rich;" but the thirst for gold, and the prospect
of the sudden acquisition of enormous wealth, had blinded them to the
fact that their frames were not equal to the rough life at the mines.

The excitement was at its height when the _Roving Bess_ anchored off the
shores of this land of gold.

The sun was just setting as the anchor dropped, and the crippled ship
swung round towards the shore, for the tide had just begun to rise.

"Faix, it's a quare town," said Larry O'Neil to Ned, who was gazing in
wrapt, astonishment and admiration ever the stern.

It was indeed "quare."  The entire city was made up of the most flimsy
and make-shift materials that can be conceived.  Many of the shops were
mere tents with an open framework of wood in front; some were made of
sheet-iron nailed to wooden posts; some were made of zinc; others,
(imported from the States), of wood, painted white, and edged with
green; a few were built of sun-dried bricks, still fewer of corrugated
iron, and many of all these materials pieced together in a sort of fancy
patchwork.  Even boats were used as dwellings, turned keel up, with a
hole cut in their sides for the egress of a tin smoke-pipe, and two
others of larger size to serve as door and window.

Finding space scarce, owing to the abrupt rise of the hills from the
shore, many enterprising individuals had encroached upon the sea, and
built houses on piles driven into the sand nearly half-a-mile below the
original high water mark.

Almost every nation under the sun had representatives there, and the
consequent confusion of tongues was equal to that of Babel.

The hills overhanging the lower part of the town were also well covered
with tents, temporary houses, and cottages that had some appearance of
comfort about them.

Such was the city on which the sun went down that night, and many were
the quaint, sagacious, and comic remarks made by the men as they sat
round their various mess-tables in the forecastle of the _Roving Bess_,
speculating noisily and half-seriously on the possibility of getting a
run into the interior for a day or two.

But there was a party of men in the ship whose conversation that night
was neither so light-hearted nor so loud.  They sat in a dark corner of
the forecastle talking earnestly in subdued tones after the watch for
the night was set.  Their chief spokesman was a rough, ill-looking
fellow, named Elliot.

"Ye see, lads," said this man to the half-dozen comrades around him, "we
must do it to-night, if we're to do it at all.  There's the captain's
small boat layin' out astarn, which comes quite handy, an', as we lose
all our pay by the dodge, I don't see why we shouldn't take it."

The man struck his fist into his left palm, and looked round the circle
for opinions.

"I don't half like it," said one; "it seems to me a sneaking way of
doin' it."

"Bah!" ejaculated another, "wot gammon you do talk.  If _he_ lose the
boat, don't _we_ lose the tin?  Besides, are we agoin' to let sich a
trifle stand in the way o' us an' our fortins?"

"Have ye spoken to the other men, Elliot?" inquired one of the group.

"Ay, in coorse I have; an' they're all agreeable.  Young Spense stood
out pretty stiff at first; but I talked him over.  Only I said nothing
to Larry O'Neil or Bill Jones.  I know it's of no use.  They'll never
agree; and if we wos to speak of it to either on 'em, he'd go right away
aft an' tell the captain.  Their watch below 'll come on in an hour, an'
then the watch on deck'll be on our side.  So, lads, go and git ready--
an' sharp's the word."

The party broke up, and went quietly below to prepare for flight,
leaving no one on deck except O'Neil and Jones, and two of their
comrades, who formed part of the watch.  As Elliot had said, the watch
was changed in about an hour.  The mate and captain came on deck, looked
round to see that all was right, and then returned to the cabin, to
consult about the preliminary arrangements for disposing of the remnant
of the cargo.  Ned Sinton had turned in to have a good sleep before the
expected toil and bustle of the following day; O'Neil and Jones, being
relieved from duty, were glad to jump into their hammocks; and the deck
was left in charge of the conspirators.

It was a clear, lovely night.  Not a zephyr stirred the surface of the
sea, in whose depths the starry host and the images of a hundred ships
of all shapes and tonnage were faithfully mirrored.  Bright lights
illumined the city, those in the tents giving to them the appearance of
cones and cubes of solid fire.  The subdued din of thousands of human
voices floated over the water, and mingled with the occasional shout or
song that rose from the fleet and the splash of oars, as boats passed to
and from the shore.  Over all, the young moon shed a pale, soft light,
threw into deep shadow the hills towards the north, which rose abruptly
to a height of 3000 feet, and tipped with a silver edge the peak of
Monte Diavolo, whose lofty summit overlooks all the golden land between
the great range of the Sierra Nevada and the ocean.  It was a scene of
peaceful beauty, well fitted to call forth the adoration of man to the
great and good Creator.  Doubtless there were some whose hearts rose
that night above the sordid thoughts of gain and gold; but few such were
recognisable by their fellow-men, compared with the numerous votaries of
sin and so-called pleasure.

Towards midnight, Captain Bunting turned in, ordering the steward to
call him at daybreak; and shortly afterwards the mate retired, having
previously looked round the deck and spoken the watch.  A few minutes
after, Elliot and his comrades appeared on deck, with their boots and
small bundles in their hands.

"Is all right?" whispered Elliot.

"All right!" replied one of the watch.

Nothing more was said; the boat was hauled softly alongside, and held
firmly there while two men descended and muffled the oars; then one by
one the men slid down the side, and a bag of biscuit and a junk of beef
were lowered into it by the second mate, who was one of the
conspirators.

At that moment the first mate came on deck, and went forward to inquire
what was wrong.

"It's something in the boat, sir," replied the second mate.

The mate looked over the side, and the sailors felt that they must be
discovered, and that their plans were about to be frustrated.  But the
second mate was a man of decision.  He suddenly seized Williams round
the neck, and, covering his mouth with his hand, held him as if in a
vice until he was secured and gagged.

"Shall we leave him!" whisperingly inquired one of the men.

"No, he'd manage to kick up a row; take him with us."

The helpless mate was immediately passed over the side, the rope was
cast off; and the boat floated softly away.  At first, the oars were
dipped so lightly that no sound was heard, even by those on board,
except the drops of brine that trickled from the blades as they rose
from the water; then, as the distance increased, the strokes were given
more vigorously, and, at last, the men bent to it "with a will;" and
they were soon shooting over the vast bay in the direction of the
Sacramento river, up which they meant to proceed to the "diggings."

With the exception of O'Neil and Jones, who had already reached the
diggings in their dreams, the whole crew, sixteen in all, levanted,
leaving Captain Bunting to navigate the ship back to Old England as he
best might.

It is easier to conceive than to describe the feelings of the captain,
when, on the following morning, he discovered that his crew had fled.
He stamped, and danced, and tugged his hair, and pursed up his lips so
tight that nothing but an occasional splutter escaped them!  Then he sat
down on the cabin skylight, looked steadily at Ned, who came hurriedly
on deck in his shirt and drawers to see what was wrong, and burst into a
prolonged fit of laughter.

"Hallo, captain! what's up!"

"Nothin', lad, ha! ha!  Oh yes, human flesh is up, Ned; sailors is riz,
an' we've been sold;--we have--uncommon!"

Hereupon the captain roared again; but there was a slight peculiarity in
the tone, that indicated a strong infusion of rage with the seeming
merriment.

"They're all gone--every man, Jack," said Jones, with a face of deep
solemnity, as he stood looking at the captain.

"So they are, the blackguards; an' that without biddin' us good mornin',
bad luck to them," added O'Neil.

At first, Ned Sinton felt little disposed to take a comic view of the
affair, and urged the captain strongly to take the lightest boat and set
off in pursuit; but the latter objected to this.

"It's of no use," he said, "the ship can't be repaired here without
heavy expense; so, as I don't mean to go to sea again for some time, the
desertion of the men matters little after all."

"Not go to sea again!" exclaimed Ned, in surprise.  "What, then, do you
mean to do?"

"That's more than I can tell.  I must see first how the cargo is to be
disposed of; after that, it will be time enough to concoct plans for the
future.  It is quite clear that the tide of luck is out about as far as
it can go just now; perhaps it may turn soon."

"No doubt of it, captain," cried his young _protege_ with a degree of
energy that shewed he had made up his mind as to what _his_ course
should be, in the event of things coming to the worst.  "I'll go down
and put on a few more articles of clothing, and then we'll have a talk
over matters."

The "talk," which was held over the breakfast-table in the cabin,
resulted in the captain resolving to go ashore, and call on a Scotch
merchant, named Thompson, to whom he had a letter of introduction.
Half-an-hour later this resolve was carried out.  Jones rowed them
ashore in the smallest boat they had, and sculled back to the ship,
leaving O'Neil with them to assist in carrying up two boxes which were
consigned to Mr Thompson.

The quay on which they stood was crowded with men of all nations, whose
excited looks, and tones, and "go-ahead" movements, testified to the
high-pressure speed with which business in San Francisco was transacted.

"It's more nor I can do to carry them two boxes at wance," said Larry
O'Neil, regarding them with a puzzled look, "an' sorra a porter do I see
nowhere."

As he spoke, a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, in a red-flannel
shirt, round-crowned wide-awake, long boots, and corduroys, stepped
forward, and said, "I'll help you, if you like."

"D'ye think ye can lift it!" inquired Larry, with a dubious look.

The youth replied by seizing one of the boxes, and lifting it with ease
on his shoulder, shewing that, though destitute of fat, he had more than
the average allowance of bone and sinew.

"I doubt if you could do it better than that yourself, Larry," said Ned,
laughing.  "Come along, now, close at our heels, lest we get separated
in the crowd."

The young porter knew the residence of Mr Thompson well, and guided
them swiftly through the crowded thoroughfares towards it.  Passing
completely through the town, he led them over the brow of one of the
sand-hills beyond it, and descended into a little valley, where several
neat villas were scattered along the sides of a pleasant green slope,
that descended towards another part of the bay.  Turning into the little
garden in front of one of these villas, he placed the box on the wooden
platform before the door, and said, "This is Mr Thompson's house."

There was something striking in the appearance of this young porter; he
seemed much above his station in life; and Ned Sinton regarded his
bronzed and handsome, but somewhat haggard and dissipated countenance,
with interest, as he drew out his purse, and asked what was to pay.

"Two dollars," answered the man.

Ned looked up in surprise.  The idea of paying eight shillings for so
slight a service had never entered his imagination.  At that moment the
door opened, and Mr Thompson appeared, and invited them to enter.  He
was a shrewd, business-like man, with stern, but kind expression of
countenance.

"Come in, come in, and welcome to California," he said, on perusing the
captain's letter of introduction.  "Glad to see you, gentlemen.  You've
not had breakfast, of course; we are just about to sit down.  This
way," he added, throwing open the door of a comfortable and
elegantly-furnished parlour.  "Bring the boxes into the passage--that
will do.  Here, Lizette, pay the men, dear; two dollars a-piece, I
fancy--"

"Excuse me," interrupted Captain Bunting, "only one bas to be paid, the
other is one of my sailors."

"Ah! very good; which is he?"

Larry O'Neil stepped forward, hat in hand.

"Go in there, my man, and cook will attend to you."

Larry passed through the doorway pointed out with a pleasant, fluttering
sensation at the heart, which was quickly changed to a feeling of
considerable disappointment on discovering that "cook" was a negro.

Meanwhile Lizette took two dollars from her purse, and bowing modestly
to the strangers as she passed out of the room, advanced with them
towards the young porter.

Now, Lizette was _not_ beautiful--few women are, in the highest sense of
the term, and the few who are, are seldom interesting; but she was
pretty, and sweet, and innocent, and just turned sixteen.  Fortunately
for the male part of the world, there are many such.  She had
light-brown hair, which hung in dishevelled curls all round, a soft fair
complexion, blue eyes, and a turned-up nose--a pert little nose that
said plainly, "I _will_ have my own way; now see if I don't."  But the
heart that animated the body to which that nose belonged, was a good,
kind, earnest one; therefore, the nose having its own way was rather a
blessing than otherwise to those happy individuals who dwelt habitually
in the sunshine of Lizette's presence.

At this particular time, ladies were scarce in California.  The immense
rush of men from all parts of the earth to the diggings had not been
accompanied as yet by a corresponding rush of women, consequently the
sight of a female face was, as it always ought to be, a source of
comfort to mankind.  We say "comfort" advisedly, because life at the
gold-mines was a hard, riotous, mammon-seeking, rugged, and, we regret
to say it, ungodly life; and men, in whom the soft memories of "other
days" were not entirely quenched, had need, sometimes, of the comforting
reflection that there still existed beings on the earth who didn't rant,
and roar, and drink, and swear, and wear beards, and boots, and
bowie-knives.

There was double cause, then, for the gaze of respectful admiration with
which the young porter regarded Lizette, as she said, "Here is your
fare, porter," and put the money into his hand, which he did not even
thank her for, but continued to hold extended as if he wished her to
take it back again.

Lizette did not observe the gaze, for she turned away immediately after
giving him the money, and re-entered the parlour, whereupon the youth
thrust both hands into his breeches-pockets, left the house, and
returned slowly to the city, with the expression on his countenance of
one who had seen a ghost.

Meanwhile Captain Bunting and Ned Sinton sat down with their host and
hostess to a second breakfast, over which the former related the
circumstances of the double loss of his crew and cargo.

"You are unfortunate," said Mr Thompson, when the captain paused; "but
there are hundreds in nearly the same predicament.  Many of the
fine-looking vessels you see in the harbour have lain helplessly there
for months, the crews having taken French leave, and gone off to the
diggings."

"It's awkward," said the captain, with a troubled expression, as he
slowly raised a square lump of pork to his mouth; "what would you advise
me to do?"

"Sell off the remnant of the cargo, and set up a floating
boarding-house."

The square lump of pork disappeared, as the captain thrust it into his
cheek in order to say, "What?" with a look of intense amazement.

Lizette laughed inadvertently, and, feeling that this was somewhat rude,
she, in her effort to escape, plunged deeper into misfortune by turning
to Sinton, with a blushing countenance, and asking him to take another
cup of tea--a proposal that was obviously absurd, seeing that she had a
moment before filled up his second cup.

Thus suddenly appealed to, Ned stammered, "Thank you--if you--ah!--no,
thank you, not any more."

"Set up a floating boarding establishment," reiterated the merchant, in
a tone of decision that caused them all to laugh heartily.

"It may sound strange," he continued, "but I assure you it's not a bad
speculation.  The captain of an American schooner, whose crew deserted
the very day she arrived, turned his vessel into a floating
boarding-house, about two months ago, and I believe he's making a
fortune."

"Indeed," ejaculated the captain, helping himself to another mass of
pork, and accepting Lizette's proffer of a third cup of tea.

"You have no idea," continued the merchant, as he handed the bread to
Ned, and pressed him to eat--"you have no idea of the strange state of
things here just now, and the odd ways in which men make money.  Owing
to the rush of immigrants everything is enormously dear, and house-room
is not to be had for love or money, so that if you were to fit up your
ship for the purpose you could fill it at once.  At the various hotels
in the city an ordinary meal at the _table d'hote_ costs from two to
three dollars--eight and twelve shillings of our money--and there are
some articles that bear fabulous prices.  It's a fact that eggs at this
moment sell at a shilling each, and onions and potatoes at the same
price; but then wages are enormously high.  How long this state of
things will last no one can tell; in the meantime, hundreds of men are
making fortunes.  Only the other day a ship arrived from New York, and
one of the passengers, a `'cute' fellow, had brought out fifteen hundred
copies of several newspapers, which he sold for a dollar each in less
than two hours!  Then, rents are tremendous.  You will scarcely believe
me when I tell you that the rent paid by the landlord of one of the
hotels here is 110,000 dollars--about 22,000 pounds--a year, and it is
but a poor building too.  My own warehouse, which is a building of only
one storey, with a front of twenty feet, is rented to me at 40,000
dollars--8000 pounds a year--and rents are rising."

Ned and the captain leaned back in their chairs aghast at such
statements, and began to entertain some doubts as to the sanity of their
host; but the worthy merchant was a grave, quiet man, without a particle
of romance in his composition, and he went on coolly telling them facts
which Ned afterwards said made his hair almost stand on end, when he
thought of how little money he possessed, and how much he would have to
pay for the bare necessaries of life.

After some further converse on men and things in general, and on
prospects at the mines, Mr Thompson said, "And now, Captain Bunting,
I'll tell you what I'll do.  I will go down to your ship, overhaul the
cargo, and make you an offer for the whole in the lump, taking the
saleable with the unsaleable.  This will, at any rate, put you in funds
at once, and enable you to follow what course seems best.  Will that
suit you?"

"It will," said the captain, "and thank 'ee.  As for turning a
boardin'-house keeper, I don't think I'm cut out for it.  Neither is my
friend Sinton, eh?"

"Certainly not," answered Ned, laughing: "we might as well become
washerwomen."

"You'd make a pretty good thing of it if you did," retorted Mr
Thompson; "would they not, Lizette? you know more about these things
than I do."

"Indeed, I cannot tell, papa, as I do not know the capabilities of our
friends in that way; but I think the few washerwomen in the city must be
making fortunes, for they charge two shillings a-piece for everything,
large and small."

"Now, then, gentlemen," said the merchant, rising, "if you have quite
finished, we will walk down to the harbour and inspect the goods."

An arch smile played round Lizette's lips as she shook hands with Ned at
parting, and she seemed on the point of speaking, but checked herself.

"I beg pardon," said Ned, pausing, "did you--"

"Oh, it was nothing!" said Lizette; "I was only going to remark that--
that if you set up in the washing line, I shall be happy to give you all
the work I can."

"Ahem!" coughed Ned gravely, "and if we should set up in the _other_
line, will you kindly come and board with us?"

"Hallo, Ned, what's keeping you?" roared the captain.

"Coming," shouted Ned, as he ran after him.  "Where has Larry O'Neil
gone?"

"He's away down before us to have a look at the town.  We shall find
him, I doubt not, cruising about the quay."

In a few minutes the three friends were wending their way through the
crowded streets back to the shore.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE FATE OF THE ROVING BESS--GAMBLING SCENES--MR. SINTON MAKES A NEW
FRIEND--LARRY O'NEIL MAKES MONEY IN STRANGE WAYS--A MURDER, AND A
BEGGAR'S DEATH--NED BECOMES A POOR MAN'S HEIR.

The remnant of the cargo of the _Roving Bess_ proved to be worth
comparatively little--less even than had been anticipated.  After a
careful inspection, Mr Thompson offered to purchase it "in the slump"
for 1000 dollars--about 200 pounds sterling.  This was a heavy blow to
poor Captain Bunting, who had invested his all--the savings of many
years--in the present unfortunate venture.  However, his was not a
nature to brood over misfortunes that could not be avoided, so he
accepted the sum with the best grace he might, and busied himself during
the next few days in assisting the merchant to remove the bales.

During this period he did not converse much with any one, but meditated
seriously on the steps he ought to take.  From all that he heard, it
seemed impossible to procure hands to man the ship at that time, so he
began to entertain serious thoughts of "taking his chance" at the
diggings after all.  He was by nature averse to this, however; and had
nearly made up his mind to try to beat up recruits for the ship, when an
event occurred that settled the matter for him rather unexpectedly.
This event was the bursting out of a hurricane, or brief but violent
squall, which, before assistance could be procured, dragged the _Roving
Bess_ from her moorings, and stranded her upon the beach, just below the
town.  Here was an end to sea-faring prospects.  The whole of his
limited capital would not have paid for a tenth part of the labour
necessary to refloat the ship, so he resolved to leave her on the beach,
and go to the diggings.

Mr Thompson advised him to sell the hull, as it would fetch a good
price for the sake of the timber, which at that time was much wanted in
the town, but the captain had still a lurking hope that he might get his
old ship afloat at some future period, and would not hear of it.

"What," said he, "sell the _Roving Bess_, which stands _A1_ at Lloyd's,
to be broken up to build gold-diggers houses?  I trow not.  No, no; let
her lie where she is in peace."

On the day after the squall, as Ned and the captain were standing on the
shore regarding their late floating, and now grounded, home in sad
silence, a long-legged, lantern-jawed man, in dirty canvas trousers,
long boots, a rough coat, and broad straw hat, with an enormous cigar in
his mouth, and both hands in his trousers-pockets, walked up and
accosted them.  It did not require a second glance to know that he was a
Yankee.

"Guess that 'ere's pretty wall fixed up, stranger," he said, addressing
the captain, and pointing with his nose to the stranded vessel.

"It is," answered the captain, shortly.

"Fit for nothin' but firewood, I calculate."

To this the captain made no reply.

"I say, stranger," continued the Yankee, "I wouldn't mind to give 'e
1000 dollars for her slick off."

"I don't wish to sell her," replied the captain.

"Say 1500," replied the man.

"I tell you, I _won't_ sell her."

"No!  Now that _is_ kurous.  Will 'e loan her, then!"

Here Ned whispered a few words to the captain, who nodded his head, and,
turning to the Yankee, said--

"How much will you give?"

"Wall, I reckon, she's too far out to drive a screamin' trade, but I
don't mind sayin' 100 dollars a month."

After some consultation with Ned, and a little more talk with the
Yankee, Captain Bunting agreed to this proposal, only stipulating that
the bargain should hold good for a year, that the hull should not be cut
or damaged in any way, and that the rent should be paid in advance into
the hands of Mr Thompson, as he himself was about to proceed to the
gold-fields.  Having sealed and settled this piece of business at a
neighbouring tavern, where the Yankee--Major Whitlaw--ordered a
"brandy-smash" for himself and two "gin-slings" for his companions,
(which they civilly declined, to his intense amazement,) the contracting
parties separated.

"That's rather a sudden transfer of our good ship," said Ned, laughing,
as they walked towards the Plaza, or principal square of the town, where
some of the chief hotels and gambling-houses were situated.

"I feel half sorry for havin' done it," replied the captain; "however,
it can't be helped now, so I'll away to our friend Thompson's office,
and tell him about it."

"Then I shall wander about here until you return.  It will be dinner
time at the hotels two hours hence.  Suppose we meet at the Parker
House, and talk over our future plans while we discuss a chop?"

To this the captain agreed, and then hurried off to his friend's office,
while Ned entered the hotel.  A large portion of this building was
rented by gamblers, who paid the enormous sum of 60,000 dollars a year
for it, and carried on their villainous and degrading occupation in it
night and day.  The chief games played were monte and faro, but no
interest attached to the games _as such_, the winning or losing of money
was that which lent fascination to the play.

Ned had intended to stroll through the hotel and observe the various
visitors who thronged the bar, but the crash of a brass band in the
gambling-saloons awakened his curiosity, and induced him to enter.  The
scene that met his eyes was, perhaps, the strangest and the saddest he
had ever looked upon.  The large saloon was crowded with representatives
of almost every civilised nation under the sun.  English, Scotch, Irish,
Yankees, French, Russians, Turks, Chinese, Mexicans, Indians, Malays,
Jews, and negroes--all were there in their national costumes, and all
were, more or less, under the fascinating influence of the reigning vice
of California, and especially of San Francisco.  The jargon of excited
voices can neither be conceived nor described.  Crowds surrounded the
monte tables, on which glittering piles of gold and silver coin were
passing from hand to hand according to varying fortune.  The
characteristics--and we may add the worst passions--of the various
nations were ever and anon brought strongly out.  The German and
Spaniard laid down their money, and lost or won without a symptom of
emotion; the Turk stroked his beard as if with the view of keeping
himself cool; the Russian looked stolid and indifferent; the Frenchman
started, frowned, swore, and occasionally clutched his concealed pistol
or bowie-knife; while the Yankee stamped and swore.  But, indeed, the
men of all nations cursed and swore in that terrible place.

Those who dwelt in the city staked gold and silver coin, while the men
just returned from the mines staked gold-dust and nuggets.  These last
were conspicuous from their rough clothing, rugged, bronzed, and
weather-worn countenances.  Many of them played most recklessly.
Several successful diggers staked immense sums, and either doubled or
lost, in two or three throws, the hard earnings of many months of toil,
and left the rooms penniless.

At one end of the saloon there was a counter, with a plentiful supply of
stimulants to feed the excitement of the wretched gamblers; and the
waiter here was kept in constant employment.  Ned had never been within
the unhallowed precincts of a gambling-house before, and it was with a
feeling of almost superstitious dread that he approached the table, and
looked on.  A tall, burly, bearded miner stepped forward at the moment
and placed a huge purse of gold-dust on the table--

"Now, then," he cried, with a reckless air, "here goes--neck or
nothin'."

"Nothin'!" he muttered with a fearful oath, as the president raked the
purse into his coffers.

The man rose and strode sullenly from the room, his fingers twitching
nervously about the hilt of his bowie-knife; an action which the
president observed, but heeded not, being prepared with a concealed
revolver for whatever might occur.  Immediately another victim stepped
forward, staked five hundred dollars--and won.  He staked again a
thousand dollars--and won; then he rose, apparently resolved to tempt
fickle fortune no more, and left the saloon.  As he retired his place
was filled by a young man who laid down the small sum of two dollars.
Fortune favoured this man for a long time, and his pile of dollars
gradually increased until he became over-confident and staked fully half
of his gains--and lost.

Ned's attention was drawn particularly to this player, whom he thought
he had seen before.  On looking more fixedly at him, he recognised the
young porter who had carried up the box to the merchant's house.  His
next stake was again made recklessly.  He laid down all he possessed--
and lost.  Then he rose suddenly, and drawing a pistol from his breast,
rushed towards the door.  None of the players who crowded the saloon
paid him more than momentary attention.  It mattered not to them whether
he meditated suicide or murder.  They made way for him to pass, and
then, closing in, were deep again in the all-absorbing game.

But our hero was not thus callous.  A strong feeling of sympathy filled
his breast, prompting him to spring through the doorway, and catch the
youth by the shoulder just as he gained the street.  He turned round
instantly, and presented the revolver at Ned's breast, but the latter
caught his right arm in his powerful grasp and held it in the air.

"Be calm, my poor fellow," he said, "I mean you no harm; I only wish to
have a word of conversation with you.  You are an Englishman, I
perceive."

The young man's head fell on his breast, and he groaned aloud.

"Come, come," said Ned, releasing his arm, "don't give way like that."

"I'm lost," said the youth, bitterly.  "I have struggled against this
passion for gaming, but it has overcome me again and again.  It is vain
to fight against it any longer."

"Not a bit of it, man," said Ned, in a cheering tone, as he drew the arm
of the young man within his own, and led him slowly along the street.
"You are excited just now by your disappointments.  Let us walk together
a while, for I have something to say to you.  I am quite a stranger
here, and it's a comfort to have a countryman to talk with."

The kind words, and earnest, hearty manner of our hero, had the effect
of soothing the agitated feelings of his new friend, and of winning his
confidence.  In the course of half-an-hour, he drew from him a brief
account of his past history.

His name, he said, was Collins; he was the son of a clergyman, and had
received a good education.  Five years before the period of which we now
write, he had left his home in England, and gone to sea, being at that
time sixteen years of age.  For three years he served before the mast in
a South-Sea whale-ship, and then returned home to find his father and
mother dead.  Having no near relations alive, and not a sixpence in the
world, he turned once more towards the sea, with a heavy heart and an
empty pocket, obtained a situation as second mate in a trading vessel
which was about to proceed to the Sandwich Islands.  Encountering a
heavy gale on the western coast of South America, his vessel was so much
disabled as to be compelled to put into the harbour of San Francisco for
repairs.  Here the first violent attack of the gold-fever had set in.
The rush of immigrants was so great, that goods of all kinds were
selling at fabulous prices, and the few bales that happened to be on
board the ship were disposed off for twenty times their value.  The
captain was in ecstasies, and purposed sailing immediately to the
nearest civilised port for a cargo of miscellaneous goods; but the same
fate befell him which afterwards befell Captain Bunting, and many
hundreds of others--the crew deserted to the mines.  Thereupon the
captain and young Collins also betook themselves to the gold-fields,
leaving the ship to swing idly at her anchor.  Like most of the first
arrivals at the mines, Collins was very successful, and would soon--in
diggers' parlance--have "made his pile,"--i.e. his fortune, had not
scurvy attacked and almost killed him; compelling him to return to San
Francisco in search of fresh vegetables and medicine, neither of which,
at that time, could be obtained at the mines for love or money.  He
recovered slowly; but living in San Francisco was so expensive that, ere
his health was sufficiently recruited to enable him to return to the
gold-fields, his funds were well-nigh exhausted.  In order to recruit
them he went, in an evil hour, to the gaming-saloons, and soon became an
inveterate gambler.

In the providence of God he had been led, some years before, to become
an abstainer from all intoxicating drinks, and, remaining firm to his
pledge throughout the course of his downward career, was thus saved from
the rapid destruction which too frequently overtook those who to the
exciting influences of gambling added the maddening stimulus of alcohol.
But the constant mental fever under which he laboured was beginning to
undermine a naturally-robust constitution, and to unstring the nerves of
a well-made, powerful frame.  Sometimes, when fortune favoured him, he
became suddenly possessor of a large sum of money, which he squandered
in reckless gaiety, often, however, following the dictates of an
amiable, sympathetic disposition, he gave the most of it away to
companions and acquaintances in distress.  At other times he had not
wherewith to pay for his dinner, in which case he took the first job
that offered in order to procure a few dollars.  Being strong and
active, he frequently went down to the quays and offered his services as
a porter to any of the gold-hunters who were arriving in shoals from all
parts of the world.  It was thus, as we have seen, that he first met
with Ned Sinton and his friends.

All this, and a great deal more, did Ned worm out of his companion in
the course of half-an-hour's stroll in the Plaza.

"Now," said he, when Collins had finished, "I'm going to make a proposal
to you.  I feel very much interested in all that you have told me; to be
candid with you, I like your looks, and I like your voice--in fact, I
like _yourself_, and--but what's your Christian name?"

"Tom," replied the other.

"Very well; then I'll call you Tom in future, and you'll call me Ned.
Now, Tom, you must come with me and Captain Bunting to the gold-fields,
and try your fortune over again--nay, don't shake your head, I know what
you would say, you have no money to equip yourself, and you won't be
indebted to strangers, and all that sort of stuff; but that won't do, my
boy.  I'm not a stranger; don't I know all your history from first to
last?"

Tom Collins sighed.

"Well, perhaps I don't know it all, but I know the most of it, and
besides, I feel as if I had known you all my life--"

"Ned," interrupted the other, in an earnest tone of voice, "I feel your
kindness very much--no one has spoken to me as you have done since I
came to the diggings--but I cannot agree to your proposal to-day.  Meet
me at the Parker House to-morrow, at this time, and I shall give you a
final answer."

"But why not give it now?"

"Because--because, I want to--to get paid for a job I expect to get--"

"Tom," said Ned, stopping and laying his hand on the shoulder of his
companion, while he looked earnestly into his face, "let us begin our
friendship with mutual candour.  Do you not intend to make a few
dollars, and then try to increase them by another throw at the
gaming-table!"

The youth's brow flushed slightly as he answered, "You are right, I had
half an intention of trying my fortune for the last time--"

"Then," said Ned firmly and emphatically, "you shall do nothing of the
sort.  Gambling for money is a mean, pitiful, contemptible thing--don't
frown, my dear fellow, I do not apply these terms to _you_, I apply them
to the principle of gambling--a principle which you do not hold, as I
know from your admission, made to me not many minutes ago, that you have
often striven against the temptation.  Many men don't realise the full
extent of the sinfulness of many of their practices, but although that
renders them less culpable, it does not render them innocent, much less
does it justify the evil practices.  Gambling is all that I have styled
it, and a great deal worse; and you _must_ give it up--I insist on it.
Moreover, Tom, I insist on your coming to dine with me at the Parker
House.  I shall introduce you to my friend Captain Bunting, whom you
already know by sight--so come along."

"Well, I will," said Tom, smiling at his friend's energy, but still
hanging back; "but you must permit me to go to my lodgings first.  I
shall be back immediately."

"Very good.  Remember, we dine in the course of an hour, so be
punctual."

While Tom Collins hurried away to his lodgings, Ned Sinton proceeded
towards the shores of the bay in a remarkably happy frame of mind,
intending to pass his leisure hour in watching the thousands of
interesting and amusing incidents that were perpetually taking place on
the crowded quays, where the passengers from a newly-arrived brig were
looking in bewildered anxiety after their luggage, and calling for
porters; where traffic, by means of boats, between the fleet and the
land created constant confusion and hubbub; where men of all nations
bargained for the goods of all climes in every known tongue.

While he gazed in silence at the exciting and almost bewildering scene,
his attention was attracted to a group of men, among whose vociferating
tones he thought he distinguished familiar voices.

"That's it; here's your man, sir," cried one, bursting from the crowd
with a huge portmanteau on his shoulder.  "Now, then, where'll I steer
to?"

"Right ahead to the best hotel," answered a slim Yankee, whose black
coat, patent-leather boots, and white kids, in such a place, told
plainly enough that a superfine dandy had mistaken his calling.

"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Bill Jones, as he brushed past Ned, in his new
capacity of porter.

"Faix, ye've cotched a live Yankee!" exclaimed a voice there was no
mistaking, as the owner slapped Bill on the shoulder.  "He'll make yer
fortin', av ye only stick by him.  He's just cut out for the diggin's,
av his mother wos here to take care of him."

Larry O'Neil gave a chuckle, slapped his pockets, and cut an elephantine
caper, as he turned from contemplating the retreating figure of his
shipmate's employer, and advanced towards the end of the quay.

"Now, thin, who's nixt?" cried he, holding out both arms, and looking
excited, as if he were ready to carry off any individual bodily in his
arms to any place, for mere love, without reference to money.  "Don't
all spake at wance.  Tshoo dollars a mile for anythin' onder a ton, an'
yerself on the top of it for four!  Horoo, Mister Sinton, darlint, is it
yerself?  Och, but this is the place intirely--goold and silver for the
axin' a'most!  Ah, ye needn't grin.  Look here!"

Larry plunged both hands into the pockets of his trousers, and pulled
them forth full of half and quarter dollars, with a few shining little
nuggets of gold interspersed among them.

Ned opened his eyes in amazement, and, taking his excited comrade apart
from the crowd, asked how he had come by so much money.

"Come by it!" he exclaimed; "ye could come by twice the sum, av ye
liked.  Sure, didn't I find that they wos chargin' tshoo dollars--aiqual
to eight shillin's, I'm towld--for carryin' a box or portmanter the
length o' me fut; so I turns porter all at wance, an' faix I made six
dollars in less nor an hour.  But as I was comin' back, I says to
myself, says I, `Larry, ye'll be the better of a small glass o'
somethin'--eh!'  So in I goes to a grog-shop, and faix I had to pay
half-a-dollar for a thimbleful o' brandy, bad luck to them, as would
turn the stomik o' a pig.  I almost had a round wi' the landlord; but
they towld me it wos the same iverywhere.  So I wint and had another in
the nixt shop I sees, jist to try; and it was thrue.  Then a Yankee
spies my knife,--the great pig-sticker that Bob Short swopped wi' me for
my junk o' plum-duff off the Cape.  It seems they've run out o' sich
articles just at this time, and would give handfuls o' goold for wan.
So says I, `Wot'll ye give?'

"`Three dollars, I guess,' says wan.

"`Four,' says another; `he's chaitin' ye.'

"`Four's bid,' says I, mountin' on a keg o' baccy, and howldin up the
knife; `who says more?  It's the rale steel, straight from Manchester or
Connaught, I misremimber which.  Warranted to cut both ways, av ye only
turn the idge round, and shove with a will.'

"I begood in joke; but faix they took me up in arnest, an' run up the
price to twinty dollars--four pounds, as sure as me name's Larry--before
I know'd where I wos.  I belave I could ha' got forty for it, but I
hadn't the heart to ax more, for it wasn't worth a brass button."

"You've made a most successful beginning, Larry.  Have you any more
knives like that one?"

"Sorrow a wan--more's the pity.  But that's only a small bit o' me
speckilations.  I found six owld newspapers in the bottom o' me chist,
and, would ye belave it, I sowld 'em, ivery wan, for half-a-dollar the
pace; and I don't rightly know how much clear goold I've got by standin'
all mornin' at the post-office."

"Standing at the post-office!  What do you mean?"

"Nother more or less nor what I say.  I suppose ye know the mail's comed
in yisterday morning; so says I to myself this mornin', `Ye've got no
livin' sowl in the owld country that's likely to write to ye, but ye
better go, for all that, an' ax if there's letters.  Maybe there is; who
knows?'  So away I wint, and sure enough I found a row o' men waitin'
for their letters; so I crushes for'ard--och! but I thought they'd ha'
hung me on the spot,--and I found it was a rule that `first come first
sarved--fair play and no favour.'  They wos all standin' wan behind
another in a line half-a-mile long av it wos a fut, as patient as could
be; some readin' the noosepapers, and some drinkin' coffee and tay and
grog, that wos sowld by men as went up an' down the line the whole
mornin'.  So away I goes to the end o' the line, an' took my place,
detarmined to stand it out; and, in three minutes, I had a tail of a
dozen men behind me.  `Faix, Larry,' says I, `it's the first time ye
iver comminced at the end of a thing in order to git to the beginnin'.'

"Well, when I wos gittin' pretty near the post-office windy, I hears the
chap behind me a-sayin' to the fellow behind him that he expected no
letters, but only took up his place in the line to sell it to them what
did.  An' sure enough I found that lots o' them were there on the same
errand.  Just then up comes a miner, in big boots and a wide-awake.

"`Och,' says he, `who'll sell me a place?' and with that he offered a
lot o' pure goold lumps.

"`Guess it's too little,' says the man next me.

"`Ah, ye thievin' blackguard!' says I.  `Here, yer honer, I'll sell ye
my place for half the lot.  I can wait for me letter, more be token I'm
not sure there is wan.'  For, ye see, I wos riled at the Yankee's greed.
So out I steps, and in steps the miner, and hands me the whole he'd
offered at first.

"`Take them, my man,' says he; `you're an honest fellow, and it's a
trate to meet wan here.'"

"Capital," cried Ned, laughing heartily; "and you didn't try for a
letter after all?"

"Porter there?" shouted a voice from the quay.

"That's me, yer honer.  Here ye are," replied the Irishman, bounding
away with a yell, and shouldering a huge leathern trunk, with which he
vanished from the scene, leaving Ned to pursue the train of thought
evoked by his account of his remarkable experiences.

We deem it necessary here to assure the reader that the account given by
Larry O'Neil of his doings was by no means exaggerated.  The state of
society, and the eccentricities of traffic displayed in San Francisco
and other Californian cities during the first years of the gold-fever,
beggars all description.  Writers on that place and period find
difficulty in selecting words and inventing similes in order to convey
anything like an adequate idea of their meaning.  Even eye-witnesses
found it almost impossible, to believe the truth of what they heard and
saw; and some have described the whole circle of life and manners there
to have been more like to the wild, incongruous whirl of a pantomime
than to the facts of real life.

Even in the close and abrupt juxtaposition of the ludicrous and the
horrible this held good.  Ned Sinton had scarcely parted from his
hilarious shipmate, when he was attracted by shouts, as if of men
quarrelling, in a gaming-house; and, a few moments later, the report of
a pistol was heard, followed by a sharp cry of agony.  Rushing into the
house, and forcing his way through the crowd, he reached the table in
time to see the bloody corpse of a man carried out.  This unfortunate
had repeatedly lost large sums of money, and, growing desperate, staked
his all on a final chance.  He lost; and, drawing his bowie-knife, in
the heat of despair, rushed at the president of the table.  A dozen arms
arrested him, and rendered his intended assault abortive; nevertheless,
the president coolly drew a revolver from under the cloth, and shot him
dead.  For a few minutes there was some attempt at disturbance, and some
condemned, while others justified the act.  But the body was removed,
and soon the game went on again as if nothing had occurred.

Sickened with the sight, Ned hurried from the house, and walked rapidly
towards the shores of the bay, beyond the limits of the canvas town,
where he could breathe the free ocean air, and wander on the sands in
comparative solitude.

The last straggling tent in that quarter was soon behind bun, and he
stopped by the side of an old upturned boat, against which he leaned,
and gazed out upon the crowded bay with saddened feelings.  As he stood
in contemplation, he became aware of a sound, as if of heaving,
plethoric breathing under the boat.  Starting up, he listened intently,
and heard a faint groan.  He now observed, what had escaped his notice
before, that the boat against which he leaned was a human habitation.  A
small hole near the keel admitted light, and possibly, at times, emitted
smoke.  Hastening round to the other side, he discovered a small
aperture, which served as a doorway.  It was covered with a rag of
coarse canvas, which he lifted, and looked in.

"Who's there?" inquired a voice, as sharply as extreme weakness would
allow.  "Have a care!  There's a revolver pointing at your head.  If you
come in without leave, I'll blow out your brains."

"I am a friend," said Ned, looking towards the further end of the boat,
where, on a couch of straw, lay the emaciated form of a middle-aged man.
"Put down your pistol, friend; my presence here is simply owing to the
fact that I heard you groan, and I would relieve your distress, if it is
in my power."

"You are the first that has said so since I lay down here," sighed the
man, falling back heavily.

Ned entered, and, advancing as well as he could in a stooping posture,
sat down beside the sick man's pallet, and felt his pulse.  Then he
looked anxiously in his face, on which the hand of death was visibly
placed.

"My poor fellow!" said Ned, in a soothing tone, "you are very ill, I
fear.  Have you no one to look after you?"

"Ill!" replied the sick man, almost fiercely, "I am dying.  I have seen
death too often, and know it too well, to be mistaken."  His voice sank
to a whisper as he added, "It is not far off now."

For a few seconds Ned could not make up his mind what to say.  He felt
unwilling to disturb the last moments of the man.  At last he leaned
forward, and repeated from memory several of the most consoling passages
of Scripture.  Twice over he said, "Though thy sins be as scarlet, they
shall be white as wool," and, "Him that cometh unto Me, (Christ), I will
in no wise cast out."

The man appeared to listen, but made no reply.  Suddenly he started up,
and, leaning on his elbow, looked with an awfully earnest stare into
Ned's face.

"Young man, gold is good--gold is good--remember that, _if you don't
make it your god_."

After a pause, he continued, "_I_ made it my god.  I toiled for it night
and day, in heat and cold, wet and dry.  I gave up everything for it; I
spent all my time in search of it--and I got it--and what good can it do
me _now_?  I have spent night and day here for weeks, threatening to
shoot any one who should come near my gold--Ha!" he added, sharply,
observing that his visitor glanced round the apartment, "you'll not find
it _here_.  No, look, look round, peer into every corner, tear up every
plank of my boat, and you'll find nothing but rotten wood, and dust, and
rusty nails."

"Be calm, my friend," said Ned, who now believed that the poor man's
mind was wandering, "I don't want your gold; I wish to comfort you, if I
can.  Would you like me to do anything for you after--"

"After I'm dead," said the man, abruptly.  "No, nothing.  I have no
relations--no friends--no enemies, even, _now_.  Yes," he added,
quickly, "I have one friend.  _You_ are my friend.  You have spoken
kindly to me--a beggar.  You deserve the name of friend.  Listen, I want
you to be my heir.  See here, I have had my will drawn up long ago, with
the place for the name left blank I had intended--but no matter--what is
your name?"

"Edward Sinton."

"Here, hand me that ink-horn, and the pen.  There," continued the man,
pushing the paper towards him, "I have made over to you the old boat,
and the ground it lies on.  Both are mine.  The piece of ground is
marked off by four posts.  Take care of the--"

The man's voice sank to a mere whisper; then it ceased suddenly.  When
Ned looked at him again, he started, for the cold hand of death had
sealed his lips for ever.

A feeling of deep, intense pity filled the youth's heart, as he gazed on
the emaciated form of this friendless man--yet he experienced a
sensation approaching almost to gladness, when he remembered that the
last words he had spoken to him were those of our blessed Saviour to the
chief of sinners.

Spreading the ragged piece of canvas that formed a quilt over the dead
man's face, he rose, and left the strange dwelling, the entrance to
which he secured, and then hastened to give information of the death to
the proper authorities.

Ned was an hour too late for dinner when he arrived at the hotel, where
he found Captain Bunting and his new friend awaiting him in some
anxiety.  Hastily informing them of the cause of his detention, he
introduced them to each other, and forgot for a time the scene of death
he had just witnessed, in talking over plans for the future, and in
making arrangements for a trip to the diggings.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

OUR HERO AND HIS FRIENDS START FOR THE DIGGINGS--THE CAPTAIN'S
PORTRAIT--COSTUMES, AND SCENERY, AND SURPRISES--THE RANCHE BY THE
ROAD-SIDE--STRANGE TRAVELLERS--THEY MEET WITH A NEW FRIEND, AND ADOPT
HIM--THE HUNTER'S STORY--LARRY OFFERS TO FIGHT A YANKEE--HIGH PRICES AND
EMPTY PURSES.

Ovid never accomplished a metamorphosis more striking or complete than
that effected by Captain Bunting upon his own proper person.  We have
said, elsewhere, that the worthy captain was a big, broad man, with a
shaggy head of hair, and red whiskers.  Moreover, when he landed in San
Francisco, he wore a blue coat, with clear brass buttons, blue vest,
blue trousers, and a glazed straw hat; but in the course of a week he
effected such a change in his outward man, that his most intimate friend
would have failed to recognise him.

No brigand of the Pyrenees ever looked more savage--no robber of the
stage ever appeared more outrageously fierce.  We do not mean to say
that Captain Bunting "got himself up" for the purpose of making himself
conspicuous.  He merely donned the usual habiliments of a miner; but
these habiliments were curious, and the captain's figure in them was
unusually remarkable.

In order that the reader may have a satisfactory view of the captain, we
will change the scene, and proceed at once to that part of the road to
the gold-fields which has now been reached by our adventurers.

It is a wide plain, or prairie, on which the grass waves like the waters
of the sea.  On one side it meets the horizon, on another it is bounded
by the faint and far-distant range of the Sierra Nevada.  Thousands of
millions of beautiful wild-flowers spangle and beautify the soft green
carpet, over which spreads a cloudless sky, not a whit less blue and
soft than the vaunted sky of Italy.  Herds of deer are grazing over the
vast plain, like tame cattle.  Wild geese and other water-fowl wing
their way through the soft atmosphere, and little birds twitter joyously
among the flowers.  Everything is bright, and green, and beautiful; for
it is spring, and the sun has not yet scorched the grass to a
russet-brown, and parched and cracked the thirsty ground, and banished
animal and vegetable life away, as it will yet do, ere the hot summer of
those regions is past and gone.

There is but one tree in all that vast plain.  It is a sturdy oak, and
near it bubbles a cool, refreshing spring, over which, one could fancy,
it had been appointed guardian.  The spot is hundreds of miles from San
Francisco, on the road to the gold-mines of California.  Beneath that
solitary oak a party of weary travellers have halted, to rest and
refresh themselves and their animals; or, as the diggers have it, to
take their "nooning."  In the midst of that party sits our captain, on
the back of a long-legged mule.

On his head is, or, rather, was--for he has just removed it, in order to
wipe the perspiration from his forehead--a brown felt wide-awake, very
much battered in appearance, suggesting the idea that the captain had
used it constantly as a night-cap, which, indeed, is the fact.  Nothing
but a flannel shirt, of the brightest possible scarlet, clothes the
upper portion of his burly frame, while brown corduroys adorn the lower.
Boots of the most ponderous dimensions engulf, not only his feet, but
his entire legs, leaving only a small part of the corduroys visible.  On
his heels, or, rather, just above his heels, are strapped a pair of
enormous Mexican spurs, with the frightful prongs of which he so
lacerated the sides of his unfortunate mule, during the first part of
the journey, as to drive that animal frantic, and cause it to throw him
off at least six times a day.  Dire necessity has now, however, taught
the captain that most difficult and rarely-accomplished feat of
horsemanship, to ride with the toes well in, and the heels well out.

Round Captain Bunting's waist is a belt, which is of itself quite a
study.  It is made of tough cow-hide, full two and a half inches broad,
and is fastened by a brass buckle that would cause the mouth of a
robber-chief to water.  Attached to it in various ways and places are
the following articles:--A bowie-knife of the largest size--not far
short of a small cutlass; a pair of revolving pistols, also large, and
having six barrels each; a stout leathern purse; and a leathern bag of
larger dimensions for miscellaneous articles.  As the captain has given
up shaving for many weeks past, little of his face is visible, except
the nose, eyes, and forehead.  All besides is a rugged mass of red hair,
which rough travel has rendered an indescribable and irreclaimable
waste.  But the captain cares not: as long as he can clear a passage
through the brushwood to his mouth, he says, his mind is easy.

Such is Captain Bunting, and such, with but trifling modifications, is
every member of his party.  On Ned Sinton and his almost equally
stalwart and handsome friend, Tom Collins, the picturesque costume of
the miner sits well; and it gives a truly wild, dashing look to the
whole party, as they stand beneath the shade of that lovely oak,
preparing to refresh themselves with biscuit and jerked beef, and pipes
of esteemed tobacco.

Besides those we have mentioned, Larry O'Neil is there,--busy carrying
water in a bucket to the horses, and as proud of his Mexican spurs as if
they were the golden spurs of the days of chivalry.  Bill Jones is
there, with a blue instead of a red-flannel shirt, and coarse canvas
ducks in place of corduroys.  Bill affects the sailor in other respects,
for he scorns heavy boots, and wears shoes and a straw hat; but he is
compelled to wear the spurs, for reasons best known to his intensely
obstinate mule.  There is also among them a native Californian,--a
_vaquero_, or herd,--who has been hired to accompany the party to the
diggings, to look after the pack-mules, of which there are two, and to
assist them generally with advice and otherwise.  He is a fine athletic
fellow--Spanish-like, both in appearance and costume; and, in addition
to bad Spanish, gives utterance to a few sounds, which _he_ calls
"Encleesh."  The upper part of his person is covered by the _serape_, or
Mexican cloak, which is simply a blanket, with a hole in its centre,
through which the head of the wearer is thrust, the rest being left to
fall over the shoulders.

Our travellers had reached the spot on which we now find them by means
of a boat voyage of more than a hundred miles, partly over the great bay
of San Francisco, and partly up the Sacramento River, until they reached
the city of Sacramento.  Here they purchased mules and provisions for
the overland journey to the mines--a further distance of about a hundred
and fifty miles,--and also the picks, shovels, axes, pewter plates,
spoons, pans, and pannikins, and other implements and utensils that were
necessary for a campaign among the golden mountains of the Sierra
Nevada.  For these the prices demanded were so enormous, that when all
was ready for a start they had only a few dollars left amongst them.
But being on their way to dig for gold, they felt little concern on this
head.

As the Indians of the interior had committed several murders a short
time before, and had come at various times into collision with the
gold-diggers, it was deemed prudent to expend a considerable sum on arms
and ammunition.  Each man, therefore, was armed with a rifle or carbine,
a pistol of some sort, and a large knife or short sword.  Captain
Bunting selected a huge old bell-mouthed blunderbuss, having, as he
said, a strong partiality for the weapons of his forefathers.  Among
other things, Ned, by advice of Tom Collins, purchased a few simple
medicines; he also laid in a stock of drawing-paper, pencils, and
water-colours, for his own special use, for which he paid so large a sum
that he was ashamed to tell it to his comrades; but he was resolved not
to lose the opportunity of representing life and scenery at the
diggings, for the sake of old Mr Shirley, as well as for his own
satisfaction.  Thus equipped they set forth.

Before leaving San Francisco, the captain, and Ned, and Tom Collins had
paid a final visit to their friend the merchant, Mr Thompson, and
committed their property to his care--i.e. the hull of the good ship
_Roving Bess_--the rent of which he promised to collect monthly--and
Ned's curious property, the old boat and the little patch of barren
sand, on which it stood.  The boat itself he made over, temporarily, to
a poor Irishman who had brought out his wife with him, and was unable to
proceed to the diggings in consequence of the said wife having fallen
into a delicate state of health.  He gave the man a written paper
empowering him to keep possession until his return, and refused to
accept of any rent whereat the poor woman thanked him earnestly, with
the tears running down her pale cheeks.

It was the hottest part of an exceedingly hot day when the travellers
found themselves, as we have described, under the grateful shade of what
Larry termed the "lone oak."

"Now our course of proceeding is as follows," said Ned, at the
conclusion of their meal--"We shall travel all this afternoon, and as
far into the night as the mules can be made to go.  By that time we
shall be pretty well off the level ground, and be almost within hail of
the diggings--"

"I don't belave it," said Larry O'Neil, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe in an emphatic manner; "sure av there _was_ goold in the country we
might have seed it by this time."

Larry's feelings were a verification of the words, "hope deferred maketh
the heart sick."  He had started enthusiastically many days before on
this journey to the gold regions, under the full conviction that on the
first or second day he would be, as he expressed it, "riding through
fields of goold dust;" instead of which, day after day passed, and night
after night, during which he endured all the agonies inseparable from a
_first_ journey on horseback, and still not a symptom of gold was to be
seen, "no more nor in owld Ireland itself."  But Larry bore his
disappointments like an Irishman, and defied "fortin' to put him out of
timper by any manes wotiver."

"Patience," said Bill Jones, removing his pipe to make room for the
remark, "is a wirtue--that's wot I says.  If ye can't make things
better, wot then? why, let 'em alone.  W'en there's no wind, crowd all
canvas and ketch wot there is.  W'en there _is_ wind, why then, steer
yer course; or, if ye can't, steer as near it as ye can.  Anyhow, never
back yer fore-topsail without a cause--them's my sentiments."

"And very good sentiments they are, Bill," said Tom Collins, jumping up
and examining the girth of his horse; "I strongly advise you to adopt
them, Larry."

"Wot a bottle o' wisdom it is," said O'Neil, with a look of affected
contempt at his messmate.  "Wos it yer grandmother, now, or yer great
wan, that edicated ye?--Arrah, there ye go!  Oh, morther, ye'll break me
heart!"

The latter part of this remark was addressed to his mule, which at that
moment broke its laryat, and gambolled gaily away over the flowering
plain.  Its owner followed, yelling like a madman.  He might as well
have chased the wind; and it is probable that he would never have
mounted his steed again had not the vaquero come to his aid.  This man,
leaping on his own horse, which was a very fine one, dashed after the
runaway, with which he came up in a few minutes; then grasping the long
coil of line that hung at his saddle-bow, he swung it round once or
twice, and threw the lasso, or noose, adroitly over the mule's head, and
brought it up.

"Yer a cliver fellow," said Larry, as he came up, panting; "sure ye did
it be chance?"

The man smiled, and without deigning a reply, rode back to the camp,
where the party were already in the saddle.  In a few minutes they were
trotting rapidly over the prairie.

Before evening closed, the travellers arrived at one of the road-side
inns, or, as they were named, ranches, which were beginning at this time
to spring up in various parts of the country, for the accommodation of
gold-hunters on their way to the mines.  This ranche belonged to a man
of the name of Dawson, who had made a few hundred dollars by digging,
and then set up a grog-shop and house of entertainment, being wise
enough to perceive that he could gain twice as much gold by supplying
the diggers with the necessaries of life than he could hope to procure
by digging.  His ranche was a mere hovel, built of sun-dried bricks, and
he dealt more in drinks than in edibles.  The accommodation and
provisions were of the poorest description, but, as there was no other
house of entertainment near, mine host charged the highest possible
prices.  There was but one apartment in this establishment, and little
or no furniture.  Several kegs and barrels supported two long pine
planks which constituted at different periods of the day the counter,
the gaming-table, and the _table d'hote_.  A large cooking stove stood
in the centre of the house, but there were no chairs; guests were
expected to sit on boxes and empty casks, or stand.  Beds there were
none.  When the hour for rest arrived, each guest chose the portion of
the earthen floor that suited him best, and, spreading out his blankets,
with his saddle for a pillow, lay down to dream of golden nuggets, or,
perchance, of home, while innumerable rats--the bane of California--
gambolled round and over him.

The ranchero, as the owner of such an establishment is named, was said
to be an escaped felon.  Certainly he might have been, as far as his
looks went.  He was surly and morose, but men minded this little, so
long as he supplied their wants.  There were five or six travellers in
the ranche when our party arrived, all of whom were awaiting the
preparation of supper.

"Here we are," cried the captain, as they trotted into the yard, "ready
for supper, I trow; and, if my nose don't deceive me, supper's about
ready for us."

"I hope they've got enough for us all," said Ned, glancing at the party
inside, as he leaped from the saddle, and threw the bridle to his
vaquero.  "Halloo, Boniface! have ye room for a large party in there?"

"Come in an' see," growled Dawson, whose duties at the cooking stove
rendered him indifferent as to other matters.

"Ah, thin, ye've got a swate voice," said Larry O'Neil, sarcastically,
as he led his mule towards a post, to which Bill Jones was already
fastening his steed.  "I say, Bill," he added, pointing to a little tin
bowl which stood on an inverted cask outside the door of the ranche,
"wot can that be for?"

"Dunno," answered Bill; "s'pose it's to wash in."

At that moment a long, cadaverous miner came out of the hut, and
rendered further speculation unnecessary, by turning up his shirt
sleeves to the elbow, and commencing his ablutions in the little tin
bowl, which was just large enough to admit both his hands at once.

"Faix, yer mouth and nose ought to be grateful," said Larry, in an
undertone, as he and Jones stood with their arms crossed, admiring the
proceedings of the man.

This remark had reference to the fact that the washer applied the water
to the favoured regions around his nose and mouth, but carefully avoided
trespassing on any part of the territory lying beyond.

"Oh! morther, wot nixt?" exclaimed Larry.

Well might he inquire, for this man, having combed his hair with a
public comb, which was attached to the door-post by a string, and
examined himself carefully in a bit of glass, about two inches in
diameter, proceeded to cleanse his teeth with a _public tooth-brush_
which hung beside the comb.  All these articles had been similarly used
by a miner ten minutes previously; and while this one was engaged with
his toilet, another man stood beside him awaiting his turn!

"W'en yer in difficulties," remarked Bill Jones, slowly, as he entered
the ranche, and proceeded to fill his pipe, "git out of 'em, if ye can.
If ye can't, why wot then? circumstances is adwerse, an' it's o' no use
a-tryin' to mend 'em.  Only my sentiments is, that I'll delay washin'
till I comes to a river."

"You've come from San Francisco, stranger?" said a rough-looking man, in
heavy boots, and a Guernsey shirt, addressing Captain Bunting.

"Maybe I have," replied the captain, regarding his interrogator through
the smoke of his pipe, which he was in the act of lighting.

"Goin' to the diggin's, I s'pose?"

"Yes."

"Bin there before?"

"No."

"Nor none o' your party, I expect?"

"None, except one."

"You'll be goin' up to the bar at the American Forks now, I calc'late?"

"Don't know that I am."

"Perhaps you'll try the northern diggin's?"

"Perhaps."

How long this pertinacious questioner might have continued his attack on
the captain is uncertain, had he not been suddenly interrupted by the
announcement that supper was ready, so he swaggered off to the corner of
the hut where an imposing row of bottles stood, demanded a
"brandy-smash," which he drank, and then, seating himself at the table
along with the rest of the party, proceeded to help himself largely to
all that was within his reach.

The fare was substantial, but not attractive.  It consisted of a large
junk of boiled salt beef, a mass of rancid pork, and a tray of broken
ship-biscuit.  But hungry men are not particular, so the viands were
demolished in a remarkably short space of time.

"I'm a'most out o' supplies," said the host, in a sort of apologetic
tone, "an' the cart I sent down to Sacramento some weeks ago for more's
not come back."

"Better than nothin'," remarked a bronzed, weatherbeaten hunter, as he
helped himself to another junk of pork.  "If ye would send out yer boy
into the hills with a rifle now an' again, ye'd git lots o' grizzly
bars."

"Are grizzly-bears eaten here?" inquired Ned Sinton, pausing in the act
of mastication, to ask the question.

"Eaten!" exclaimed the hunter, in surprise, "in coorse they is.  They're
uncommon good eatin' too, I guess.  Many a one I've killed an' eaten
myself; an' I like 'em better than beef--I do.  I shot one up in the
hills there two days agone, an' supped off him; but bein' in a hurry, I
left the carcase to the coyotes."  (Coyotes are small wolves.)

The men assembled round the rude _table d'hote_ were fifteen in number,
including our adventurers, and represented at least six different
nations--English, Scotch, Irish, German, Yankee, and Chinese.  Most of
them, however, were Yankees, and all were gold-diggers; even the hunter
just referred to, although he had not altogether forsaken his former
calling, devoted much of his time to searching for gold.  Some, like our
friends, were on their way to the diggings for the first time; others
were returning with provisions, which they had travelled to Sacramento
city to purchase; and one or two were successful diggers who had made
their "piles,"--in other words, their fortunes--and were returning home
with heavy purses of gold-dust and nuggets.

Good humour was the prevailing characteristic of the party, for each man
was either successful or sanguinely hopeful, and all seemed to be
affected by a sort of undercurrent of excitement, as they listened to,
or related, their adventures at the mines.  There was only one serious
drawback to the scene, and that was, the perpetual and terrible swearing
that mingled with the conversation.  The Americans excelled in this
wicked practice.  They seemed to labour to invent oaths, not for the
purpose of venting angry feelings, but apparently with the view of
giving emphasis to their statements and assertions.  The others swore
from _habit_.  They had evidently ceased to be aware that they were
using oaths--so terribly had familiarity with sinful practices blunted
the consciences of men who, in early life, would probably have trembled
in this way to break the law of God.

Yes, by the way, there was one other drawback to the otherwise
picturesque and interesting group, and this was the spitting propensity
of the Yankees.  All over the floor--that floor, too, on which other men
besides themselves were to repose--they discharged tobacco-juice and
spittle.  The _nation_ cannot be too severely blamed and pitied for this
disgusting practice, yet we feel a tendency, not to excuse, but to deal
gently with _individuals_, most of whom, having been trained to spitting
from their infancy, cannot be expected even to understand the abhorrence
with which the practice is regarded by men of other nations.

Nevertheless, brother Jonathan, it is not too much to expect that you
ought to respect the universal condemnation of your spitting
propensities--by travellers from all lands--and endeavour to _believe_
that ejecting saliva promiscuously is a dirty practice, even although
you cannot _feel_ it.  We think that if you had the moral courage to
pass a law in Congress to render spitting on floors and carpets a
capital offence, you would fill the world with admiration and your own
bosoms with self-respect, not to mention the benefit that would accrue
to your digestive powers in consequence thereof!

All of the supper party were clad and armed in the rough-and-ready style
already referred to, and most of them were men of the lower ranks, but
there were one or two who, like Ned Sinton, had left a more polished
class of mortals to mingle in the promiscuous crowd.  These, in some
cases, carried their manners with them, and exerted a modifying
influence on all around.  One young American, in particular, named
Maxton, soon attracted general attention by the immense fund of
information he possessed, and the urbane, gentlemanly manner in which he
conveyed it to those around him.  He possessed in an eminent degree
those qualities which attract men at once, and irresistibly good nature,
frankness, manliness, considerable knowledge of almost every subject
that can be broached in general conversation, united with genuine
modesty.  When he sat down to table he did not grasp everything within
his reach; he began by offering to carve and help others, and when at
length he did begin to eat, he did not gobble.  He "guessed" a little,
it is true, and "calculated" occasionally, but when he did so, it was in
a tone that fell almost as pleasantly on the ear as the brogue of old
Ireland.

Ned happened to be seated beside Maxton, and held a good deal of
conversation with him.

"Forgive me, if I appear inquisitive," said the former, helping himself
to a handful of broken biscuit, "but I cannot help expressing a hope
that our routes may lie in the same direction--are you travelling
towards Sacramento city or the mines?"

"Towards the mines; and, as I observed that your party came from the
southward, I suppose you are going in the same direction.  If so, I
shall be delighted to join you."

"That's capital," replied Ned, "we shall be the better of having our
party strengthened, and I am quite certain we could not have a more
agreeable addition to it."

"Thank you for the compliment.  As to the advantage of a strong party, I
feel it a safeguard as well as a privilege to join yours, for, to say
truth, the roads are not safe just now.  Several lawless scoundrels have
been roving about in this part of the country committing robberies and
even murder.  The Indians, too, are not so friendly as one could wish.
They have been treated badly by some of the unprincipled miners; and
their custom is to kill two whites for every red-man that falls.  They
are not particular as to whom they kill, consequently the innocent are
frequently punished for the guilty."

"This is sad," replied Ned.  "Are, then, all the Indian tribes at enmity
with the white men?"

"By no means.  Many tribes are friendly, but some have been so severely
handled, that they have vowed revenge, and take it whenever they can
with safety.  Their only weapons, however, are bows and arrows, so that
a few resolute white men, with rifles, can stand against a hundred of
them, and they know this well.  I spent the whole of last winter on the
Yuba River; and, although large bands were in my neighbourhood, they
never ventured to attack us openly, but they succeeded in murdering one
or two miners who strayed into the woods alone."

"And are these murders passed over without any attempt to bring the
murderers to justice?"

"I guess they are not," replied Maxton, smiling; "but justice is
strangely administered in these parts.  Judge Lynch usually presides,
and he is a stern fellow to deal with.  If you listen to what the
hunter, there, is saying just now, you will hear a case in point, if I
mistake not."

As Maxton spoke, a loud laugh burst from the men at the other end of the
table.

"How did it happen?" cried several.

"Out wi' the yarn, old boy."

"Ay, an' don't spin it too tight, or, faix, ye'll burst the strands,"
cried Larry O'Neil, who, during the last half-hour, had been listening,
open-mouthed, to the marvellous anecdotes of grizzlies and red-skins,
with which the hunter entertained his audience.

"Wall, boys, it happened this ways," began the man, tossing off a
gin-sling, and setting down the glass with a violence that nearly
smashed it.  "Ye see I wos up in the mountains, near the head waters o'
the Sacramento, lookin' out for deer, and gittin' a bit o' gold now an'
again, when, one day, as I was a-comin' down a gully in the hills, I
comes all of a suddint on two men.  One wos an Injun, as ugly a sinner
as iver I seed; t'other wos a Yankee lad, in a hole diggin' gold.
Before my two eyes were well on them, the red villain lets fly an arrow,
and the man fell down with a loud yell into the hole.  Up goes my rifle
like wink, and the red-skin would ha' gone onder in another second, but
my piece snapped--cause why? the primin' had got damp; an' afore I could
prime agin, he was gone.

"I went up to the poor critter, and sure enough it wos all up with him.
The arrow went in at the back o' his neck.  He niver spoke again.  So I
laid him in the grave he had dug for himself, and sot off to tell the
camp.  An' a most tremendous row the news made.  They got fifty
volunteers in no time, and went off, hot-fut, to scalp the whole nation.
As I had other business to look after, and there seemed more than
enough o' fightin' men, I left them, and went my way.  Two days after, I
had occasion to go back to the same place, an' when I comed in sight o'
the camp, I guess there was a mighty stir.

"`Wot's to do?' says I to a miner in a hole, who wos diggin' away for
gold, and carin' nothin' about it.

"`Only scraggin' an Injun,' he said, lookin' up.

"`Oh,' says I, `I'll go and see.'

"So off I sot, and there wos a crowd o' about two hundred miners round a
tree; and, jest as I come up, they wos puttin' the rope round the neck
of a poor wretch of an old grey-haired red-skin, whose limbs trembled so
that they wos scarce able to hold him up.

"`Heave away now, Bill,' cried the man as tied the noose.

"But somethin' was wrong with the hitch o' the rope round the branch o'
the tree, an' it wouldn't draw, and some time wos spent in puttin' it
right.  I felt sorter sorry for the old man, for his grave face was bold
enough, and age more than fear had to do with the tremblin' o' his legs.
Before they got it right again, my eye fell on a small band o'
red-skins, who were lookin' quietly on; and foremost among them the very
blackguard as shot the man in the galley.  I knew him at once by his
ugly face.  Without sayin' a word, I steps for'ard to the old Injun, and
takes the noose off his neck.

"`Halloo!' cried a dozen men, jumpin' at me.  `Wot's that for?'  `Scrag
the hunter,' cries one.  `Howld yer long tongues, an' hear what he's got
to say,' shouts an Irishman.

"`Keep your minds easy,' says I, mountin' a stump, `an' seize that
Injun, or I'll have to put a ball into him before he gits off'--for, ye
see, I obsarved the black villain took fright, and was sneakin' away
through the crowd.  They had no doubt who I meant, for I pinted straight
at him; and, before ye could wink, he was gripped, and led under the
tree, with a face paler than ever I saw the face o' a red-skin before.

"`Now,' says I, `wot for are ye scraggin' this old man?'  So they told
me how the party that went off to git the murderer met a band o' injuns
comin' to deliver him up to be killed, they said, for murderin' the
white man.  An' they gave up this old Injun, sayin' he wos the murderer.
The diggers believed it, and returned with the old boy and two or three
others that came to see him fixed off.

"`Very good,' says I, `ye don't seem to remimber that I'm the man what
saw the murder, and told ye of it.  By good luck, I've come in time to
point him out--an' _this is him_.'  An' with that I put the noose round
the villain's neck and drawed it tight.  At that he made a great start
to shake it off, and clear away; but before you could wink, he was
swingin' at the branch o' the tree, twinty feet in the air.

"Sarved him right," cried several of the men, emphatically, as the
hunter concluded his anecdote.

"Ay," he continued, "an' they strung up his six friends beside him."

"Sarved 'em right too," remarked the tall man, whose partiality for the
tin wash-hand basin and the tooth-brush we have already noticed.  "If I
had my way, I'd shoot 'em all off the face o' the 'arth, I would, right
away."

"I'm sorry to hear they did that," remarked Larry O'Neil looking
pointedly at the last speaker, "for it only shewed they was greater
mortherers nor the Injuns--the red-skins morthered wan man, but the
diggers morthered six.

"An' who are _you_ that finds fault wi' the diggers?" inquired the tall
man, turning full round upon the Irishman, with a tremendous oath.

"Be the mortial," cried the Irishman, starting up like a
Jack-in-the-box, and throwing off his coat, "I'm Larry O'Neil, at yer
sarvice.  Hooroo! come on, av' ye want to be purtily worked off."

Instantly the man's hand was on the hilt of his revolver; but, before he
could draw it, the rest of the company started up and overpowered the
belligerents.

"Come, gentlemen," said the host of the ranche, stepping forward, "it's
not worth while quarrelling about a miserable red-skin."

"Put on your coat, Larry, and come, let's get ready for a start," said
Ned; "you can't afford to fight till you've made your fortune at the
diggings.  How far is it to the next ranche, landlord?"

This cool attempt to turn the conversation was happily successful.  The
next ranche, he was told, was about ten miles distant, and the road
comparatively easy; so, as it was a fine moonlight night, and he was
desirous of reaching the first diggings on the following day as early as
possible, the horses and mules were saddled, and the bill called for.

When the said bill was presented, or rather, announced to them, our
travellers opened their eyes pretty wide; they had to open their purses
pretty wide too, and empty them to such an extent that there was not
more than a dollar left among them all!

The supper, which we have described, cost them two and a half dollars--
about ten shillings and sixpence a head, including a glass of bad
brandy; but not including a bottle of stout which Larry, in the
ignorance and innocence of his heart, had asked for, and which cost him
_three dollars_ extra!  An egg, also, which Ned had obtained, cost him a
shilling.

"Oh, morther!" exclaimed Larry, "why didn't ye tell us the price before
we tuck them?"

"Why didn't ye ax?" retorted the landlord.

"It's all right," remarked Maxton.  "Prices vary at the diggings, as you
shall find ere long.  When provisions run short, the prices become
exorbitant; when plentiful, they are more moderate, but they are never
_low_.  However, men don't mind much, for most diggers have plenty of
gold."

Captain Bunting and Bill Jones were unable to do more than sigh out
their amazement and shake their heads, as they left the ranche and
mounted their steeds; in doing which the captain accidentally, as usual,
drove both spurs into the sides of his mule, which caused it to execute
a series of manoeuvres and pirouettes that entertained the company for a
quarter of an hour, after which they rode away over the plain.

It was a beautiful country through which they now ambled pleasantly.
Undulating and partially wooded, with fine stretches of meadow land
between, from which the scent of myriads of wild-flowers rose on the
cool night air.  The moon sailed low in a perfectly cloudless sky,
casting the shadows of the horsemen far before them as they rode, and
clothing hill and dale, bush and tree, with a soft light, as if a cloud
of silver gauze had settled down upon the scene.  The incident in the
ranche was quickly banished, and each traveller committed himself
silently to the full enjoyment of the beauties around him--beauties
which appeared less like reality than a vision of the night.



CHAPTER NINE.

A NIGHT RIDE IN THE WOODS--THE ENCAMPMENT--LARRY'S FIRST ATTEMPT TO DIG
FOR GOLD--AN ALARM--A SUSPICIOUS STRANGER--QUEER CREATURES.

In less than two hours the travellers reached the second ranche, which
was little better, in appearance or accommodation, than the one they had
left.  Having no funds, they merely halted to water their cattle, and
then pushed forward.

The country became more and more undulating and broken as they advanced,
and beyond the second ranche assumed the appearance of a hill country.
The valleys were free from trees, though here and there occurred dense
thickets of underwood, in which Maxton told them that grizzly-bears
loved to dwell--a piece of information that induced most of the party to
carry their rifles in a handy position, and glance suspiciously at every
shadow.  Large oaks and bay-trees covered the lower slopes of the hills,
while higher up the white oak and fir predominated.

About an hour after midnight the moon began to descend towards the
horizon, and Ned Sinton, who had been unanimously elected commander of
the little band, called a halt in the neighbourhood of a rivulet, which
flowed round the base of an abrupt cliff whose sides were partially
clothed with scrubby bushes.

"We shall encamp here for the night, comrades," said he, dismounting;
"here is water and food for our nags, a fine piece of greensward to
spread our blankets on, and a thick-leaved oak to keep the dew off us.
Now, Maxton, you are an old campaigner, let us see how soon you'll have
a fire blazing."

"I'll have it ready before you get the camp kettles and pans out,"
answered Maxton, fastening his horse to a tree, seizing an axe, and
springing into the woods on the margin of the stream.

"And, Captain Bunting," continued Ned, "do you water the horses and
mules: our vaquero will help you.  Jones will unpack the provender.  Tom
Collins and I will see to getting supper ready."

"An', may I ax, commodore," said Larry O'Neil, touching his hat, "wot
_I'm_ to do?"

"Keep out of everybody's way, and do what you pleases, Larry."

"Which manes, I'm to make myself ginerally useful; so here goes."  And
Larry, springing through the bushes, proceeded to fulfil his duties, by
seizing a massive log, which Maxton had just cut, and, heaving it on his
powerful shoulder, carried it to the camp.

Each was immediately busied with his respective duties.  Bustling
activity prevailed for the space of a quarter of an hour, the result of
which was that, before the moon left them in total darkness, the ruddy
glare of a magnificent fire lighted up the scene brilliantly, glanced
across the sun-burnt faces and vivid red shirts of our adventurers, as
they clustered round it, and threw clouds of sparks in among the leaves
of the stout old oak that overspread the camp.

"Now, this is what I call uncommon jolly," said Captain Bunting, sitting
down on his saddle before the cheerful blaze, rubbing his hands, and
gazing round, with a smile of the utmost benignity on his broad, hairy
countenance.

"It is," replied Maxton, with an approving nod.  "Do you know, I have
often thought, captain, that an Indian life must be a very pleasant
one--"

"Av coorse it must," interrupted Larry, who at that moment was
luxuriating in the first rich, voluminous puffs of a newly-filled
pipe--"av coorse it must, _if_ it's always like this."

"Ay," continued Maxton, "but that's what I was just going to remark
upon--it's _not_ always like this.  As a general rule, I have observed,
men who are new to backwoods life, live _at first_ in a species of
terrestrial paradise.  The novelty and the excitement cause them to
revel in all that is enjoyable, and to endure with indifference all that
is disagreeable; sometimes, even, to take pleasure in shewing how
stoically they can put up with discomfort.  But after a time the novelty
and excitement wear away, and then it is usual to hear the praises of
Indian life spoken of immediately before and immediately after supper.
Towards midnight--particularly if it should rain, or mosquitoes be
numerous--men change their minds, and begin to dream of home, if they
can sleep, or to wish they were there, if they can't."

"Get out! you horrid philosopher," cried Tom Collin as he gazed
wistfully into the iron pot, whose savoury contents, (i.e. pork, flour,
and beans), he was engaged in stirring.  "Don't try to dash the cup of
romance from our lips ere we have tasted it.  Believe me, comrades, our
friend Maxton is a humbug.  I am an old stager myself; have lived the
life of an Indian for months and months together, and I declare to you,
I'm as jolly and enthusiastic _now_ as ever I was."

"That may be quite true," observed Maxton, "seeing that it is possible
you may have never been jolly or enthusiastic at all; but even taking
your words as you mean them to be understood, they only tend to enforce
what I have said, for, you know, the exception proves the rule."

"Bah! you sophisticator," ejaculated Tom, again inspecting the contents
of the pot.

"Och, let him spake, an' be aisy," remarked Larry, with a look of
extreme satisfaction on his countenance; "we're in the navelty an'
excitement stage o' life just now, an faix we'll kape it up as long as
we can.  Hand me a cinder, Bill Jones, an' don't look as if ye wos
meditatin' wot to say, for ye know that ye can't say nothin'."

Bill took no further notice of this remark than to lift a glowing piece
of charcoal from the fire with his fingers, as deliberately as if they
were made of iron, and hand it to O'Neil, who received it in the same
cool manner, and relighted his pipe therewith.

"It strikes me we shall require all our jollity and enthusiasm to keep
up our spirits, if we don't reach the diggings to-morrow," said Ned
Sinton, as he busied himself in polishing the blade of a superb
hunting-knife, which had been presented to him by a few college friends
at parting; "you all know that our funds are exhausted, and it's awkward
to arrive at a ranche without a dollar to pay for a meal--still more
awkward to be compelled to encamp beside a ranche and unpack our own
provisions, especially if it should chance to be a wet night.  Do you
think we shall manage to reach the diggings to-morrow, Maxton?"

"I am certain of it.  Twelve miles will bring us to Little Creek, as it
is called, where we can begin to take initiative lessons in
gold-washing.  In fact, the ground we stand on, I have not a doubt, has
much gold in it.  But we have not the means of washing it yet."

Larry O'Neil caught his breath on hearing this statement.  "D'ye mane to
tell me," he said, slowly and with emphasis, "that I'm maybe sittin' at
this minute on the top o' rale goold?"

"You may be," answered Maxton, laughing.

"W'en ye don't know," remarked Bill Jones, sententiously, removing the
pipe from his lips, and looking fixedly at his messmate, "W'en ye don't
know _wot's_ under ye, nor the coorse o' nature, w'ich is always more or
less a-doin' things oncommon an' out o' the way, ye shouldn't ought to
speckilate on wot ye know nothin' about, until ye find out how's her
head, an' w'ich way the land lies.  Them's my sentiments."

"Halloo!  Larry," cried the captain and Tom Collins simultaneously,
"look out for the kettle.  It'll boil over."

Larry's feelings had been deeply stirred at that moment, so that the
union of the sudden shout, with the profundity of Bill's remark, had the
effect of causing him to clutch at the tea-kettle with such haste that
he upset it into the fire.

"Oh! bad luck to ye!"

"Clumsy fellow!" ejaculated Ned.  "Off with you to the creek, and refill
it."

Larry obeyed promptly, but the mischance, after all, was trifling, for
the fire was fierce enough to have boiled a twenty-gallon caldron in a
quarter of an hour.  Besides, the contents of the iron pot had to be
discussed before the tea was wanted.  In a few minutes supper was ready,
and all were about to begin, when it was discovered that O'Neil was
missing.

"Ho!  Larry, come to supper!" shouted one.

"Hi! where are you?" cried another.

But there was no reply, until the captain put both hands to his mouth,
and gave utterance to the nautical halloo with which, in days gone by,
he was wont to hail the look-out at the main-top.

"Ay, ay, comin' sir-r," floated back on the night wind; and, shortly
afterwards, the Irishman stumbled into camp with his hands, his face,
and his clothes plentifully bedaubed with mud.

"Why, what have you been about?" inquired Ned.

"Diggin' for goold, sure.  I've made a hole in the banks o' the creek
with me two hands that ye might bury a young buffalo in, an' sorrow a
bit o' goold have I got for me pains."

A general laugh greeted the enthusiastic digger, as he wiped his hands
and sat down to supper.

"Musha! av I didn't git goold, I've dug up a mortial big appetite,
anyhow.  Hand me the wooden spoon, Mister Collins; it's more the gauge
o' me pratie-trap than the pewter wans.  D'ye know, comrades, I'm a'most
sure I seed an Injun in the bush.  Av it wasn't, it was a ghost."

"What like was he?"

"Look there, and judge for yourselves," cried O'Neil, jumping suddenly
to his feet, and pointing towards the wood, where a solitary figure was
seen dimly against the dark background.

Every man leaped up and seized his weapons.

"Who goes there?" shouted Ned, advancing towards the edge of the circle
of light.

"A friend," was the reply, in English.

Relieved to find that he was not the advance-guard of a band of savages,
Ned invited the stranger to approach, and immediately he stepped within
the sacred circle of the camp-fire's light.  This unexpected addition to
the party was by no means a pleasant one.  His complexion was
exceedingly dark, and he wore a jet-black beard.  In manners he was
coarse and repulsive--one of those forbidding men who seem to be born
for the purpose of doing evil, in whatever position of life or part of
the world they happen to be placed.  The rude garments of the miner
harmonised with the rugged expression of his bearded and bronzed face,
and the harsh voice in which he addressed the party corresponded
therewith.

"I s'pose ye'll not object to let me rest by yer fire, strangers?" he
said, advancing and seating himself without waiting for a reply.

"You're welcome," answered Ned, curtly, for he neither liked the manners
nor the aspect of the man.

"Ye might ha' wished us the top o' the mornin', I think," suggested
Larry.  "Here, try an' soften yer sperrits with a sup," he added,
pushing a pewter plate of soup and a spoon towards him.

The man made no reply, but ate ravenously, as if he had been starving.
When he had finished, he lighted his pipe, and drew his knees up to his
chin as he warmed his hands before the blaze.  Little information of any
kind could be drawn out of this taciturn wanderer.  To Ned's questions,
he replied that he had been at the diggings on the Yuba River, which he
described as being rich; that he had made enough gold to satisfy all his
wants, and was on his way to San Francisco, where he intended to ship
for England.  His name, he said, was Smith.

He carried a short rifle, with a peculiarly large bore, and a heavy
hunting-knife, the point of which was broken off.  This last Bill Jones
observed, as the man laid it down, after cutting up some tobacco,
preparatory to refilling his pipe.

"A good knife!  How did ye break it?" inquired Bill, taking up the
weapon and examining it.

"Never you mind," answered the man, snatching it rudely from him, and
sheathing it.

At this O'Neil regarded him with an angry expression.

"Faix, av ye wasn't livin', so to spake, in me own house, I'd make ye
change yer tone."

"I don't mean no offence," said Smith, endeavouring to speak a little
less gruffly.  "The fact is, gents, I'm out o' sorts, 'cos I lost a
grizzly bar in the hills an hour or two agone.  I shot him dead, as I
thought, and went up and drove my knife into his side, but it struck a
rib and broke the pint, as ye see; and a'most afore I could get up a
tree, he wos close up behind me.  He went away after a while, and so I
got clear off."

To the immense satisfaction of every one, this disagreeable guest arose
after finishing his pipe, knocked the ashes out, shouldered his rifle,
and, bidding his entertainers good-night, re-entered the forest, and
disappeared.

"You're well away," remarked Tom Collins, looking after him; "I couldn't
have slept comfortably with such a fellow in camp.  Now, then, I'm going
to turn in."

"So am I," said Maxton, rolling himself in a blanket, and pillowing his
head on a saddle, without more ado.

In a few minutes the camp was as silent as it had previously been noisy.
Captain Bunting's plethoric breathing alone told that human beings
rested on that wild spot; and this, somewhat incongruously united with
the tinkling of the rivulet hard by, and the howling of coyotes,
constituted their lullaby.  During the night the most of the travellers
were awakened once or twice by a strange and very peculiar sensation,
which led them to fancy the earth on which they reposed was possessed of
life.  The lazy members of the party lay still, and dreamily wondered
until they fell asleep; those who were more active leaped up, and,
lifting their blankets, gazed intently at the sward, which darkness
prevented them from seeing, and felt it over with their hands, but no
cause for the unwonted motion could be discovered, until the light of
dawn revealed the fact that they had made their beds directly above the
holes of a colony, of ground-squirrels, which little creatures, poking
upwards with their noses in vain attempts to gain the upper world, had
produced the curious sensations referred to.

Rough travelling, however, defies almost all disadvantages in the way of
rest.  Tired and healthy men will sleep in nearly any position, and at
any hour, despite all interruptions, so that when our friends rose at
daybreak to resume their journey, they were well refreshed and eager to
push on.



CHAPTER TEN.

GAME AND COOKERY--ARRIVAL AT THE DIGGINGS--LITTLE CREEK--LAW AND ORDER
IN THE MINES--NOONING AT LITTLE CREEK--HARD-UP--OUR ADVENTURERS GET
CREDIT AND BEGIN WORK--A YANKEE OUTWITTED.

Deer, hares, crows, blackbirds, magpies, and quails, were the creatures
that bounded, scampered, hopped, and flew before the eyes of the
travellers at every step, as they wended their way pleasantly, beneath a
bright morning sun, over the hills and through the lesser valleys of the
great vale of the Sacramento.  And all of these creatures, excepting the
crows and magpies, fell before the unerring and unexpectedly useful
blunderbuss of Captain Bunting, passed a temporary existence in the maw
of the big iron pot, and eventually vanished into the carnivorous jaws
of Ned Sinton and his friends.

Crows were excluded from their bill of fare, because the whole party had
an unconquerable antipathy to them; and Larry said he had "aiten many
pies in his lifetime, but he had niver aiten magpies, and he'd be shot
av he wos goin' to begin now."

The duties of chief hunter devolved upon the captain,--first, because he
was intensely fond of shooting; and, secondly, because game was so
plentiful and tame, that it was difficult to avoid hitting _something_,
if one only fired straight before one.  For the same reasons the
blunderbuss proved to be more effectual than the rifle.  The captain
used to load it with an enormous charge of powder and a handful of
shot--swan-shot, two sizes of duck-shot, and sparrow-hail, mixed, with
an occasional rifle-ball dropped in to the bargain.  The recoil of the
piece was tremendous, but the captain was a stout buffer--if we may be
permitted the expression--and stood the shock manfully.

Stewed squirrels formed one of their favourite dishes, it was frequently
prepared by Tom Collins, whose powers in the culinary department proved
to be so great that he was unanimously voted to the office of _chef de
cuisine_--Bill Jones volunteering, (and being accepted), to assist in
doing the dirty work; for it must be borne in mind that the old
relations of master and man no longer subsisted amongst any of the
travellers now--excepting always the native vaquero.  All were equal at
starting for the diggings, and the various appointments were made by,
and with the consent of the whole party.

Little Creek diggings were situated in a narrow gorge of the mountains,
through which flowed a small though turbulent stream.  The sides of the
hills were in some places thickly clothed with trees, in others they
were destitute not only of vegetation but of earth, the rock on the
steeper declivities of the hills having been washed bare by the
periodical heavy rains peculiar to those regions.  Although wild and
somewhat narrow, this little valley was, nevertheless, a cheerful spot,
in consequence of its facing almost in a southerly direction: while,
towards the east, there were several wide and picturesque gaps in the
hills which seemed to have been made for the express purpose of letting
the sun shine the greater part of the day upon the diggers while they
were at work--an advantage, no doubt, when the weather was cool, but
rather the reverse when it was hot.

The entrance to Little Creek was about two miles wide, undulating, and
beautifully diversified, resembling pleasure grounds rather than a
portion of the great wilderness of the far west; but the vale narrowed
abruptly, and, about three miles further into the mountains, became a
mere gap or ravine through which the streamlet leaped and boiled
furiously.

It was an hour before noon when our travellers came suddenly upon the
wide entrance to the valley.

"How beautiful!" exclaimed Ned, as he reined up to gaze in admiration
over the flowering plain, with its groups of noble trees.

"Ay," said Maxton, enthusiastically, "you may well say that.  There may
be, perchance, as grand, but I am certain there is not a grander country
in the world than America--the land of the brave and free."

Ned did not assent at once to the latter part of this proposition.

"You forget," he said, hesitatingly, as if disinclined to hurt the
feelings or prejudices of his new friend, "you forget that it is the
land of _slaves_!"

"I confess that I did forget that at the moment," answered Maxton, while
the blood mounted to his forehead.  "It is the foulest blot upon my
country's honour; but I at least am guiltless of upholding the accursed
institution, as, also, are thousands of my countrymen.  I feel assured,
however, that the time is coming when that blot shall be wiped away."

"I am glad, my friend," said Ned, heartily, "to hear you speak thus; to
be frank with you, I could not have prevailed upon myself to have held
out to you the hand of intimate friendship had you proved to be a
defender of slavery."

"Then you'll form few friendships in this country," said Tom Collins,
"for many of the Yankees here have been slave-holders in their day, and
almost all defend the custom."

The conversation was interrupted at this point by Larry O'Neil uttering
a peculiarly Hibernian exclamation, (which no combination of letters
will convey,) and pointing in an excited manner to an object a few
hundred yards in advance of them.

"What d'ye see, lad!" inquired Bill Jones, shading his eyes with his
hand.

The whole party came to a halt, and gazed earnestly before them for a
few minutes in silence.

"Och!" said O'Neil, slowly, and with trembling earnestness, "av me two
eyes are spakin' truth, it's--it's a _goold digger_!--the first o' the
goold-diggers!"--and Larry followed up the discovery with a mingled
cheer and war-whoop of delight that rang far and wide over the valley.

At such an unwonted, we might almost say, appalling, sound, the "first
o' the goold-diggers,"--who was up to his waist in a hole, quietly and
methodically excavating the earth on the river's bank with a pick-axe--
raised his head, and, leaning on the haft of his pick, scrutinised the
new arrivals narrowly.

"Hooray, my hearty!" shouted Larry, as he advanced at a gallop, followed
by his laughing comrades.  "The top o' the mornin' to ye--it's good luck
I'm wishin' ye, avic.  How are ye gittin' on in the goold way, honey?"

The rough-looking, dusty, and bearded miner, smiled good-humouredly, as
he replied, in a gentle tone of voice that belied his looks--"Pretty
well, friend; though not quite so well as some of my neighbours.  I
presume that you and your friends have just arrived at the mines?"

"Tear an' ages! it's a gintleman, I do belave," cried Larry, turning to
his companions with a look of surprise.

The miner laughed at the remark, and, leaping out of the hole, did his
best to answer the many questions that were put to him in a somewhat
excited tone by the party.

"Where's the gold?" inquired Jones, gravely, going down on his knees at
the side of the excavation, and peering into it.  "I don't see none,
wotsomediver."

"The dust is very fine here," answered the miner, "and not easily
detected until washed.  Occasionally we come upon nuggets and pockets in
the dry parts of the river's bed, and the _canons_ of the hills, but I
find it most profitable to work steadily down here where the whole
earth, below the surface, is impregnated with fine particles of gold.
Many of the diggers waste their time in _prospecting_, which word, I
suppose you know, means looking out for new diggings; but, according to
the proverb of my country, I prefer to remain `contented wi' little, and
cantie wi' mair.'"

"Are we far-distant from the other miners in this creek?" inquired Ned.

"No; you are quite close.  You will come upon the colony after passing
that bluff of trees ahead of you," answered the Scotchman; "but come, I
will shew you the way; it is not far from nooning-time, when I usually
cease work for a couple of hours."

So saying, the miner threw his pick-axe and shovel into the hole, and
led the way towards the colony of Little Creek.

"Ain't you afraid some of the bad-looking scoundrels in these parts may
take a fancy to your pick and shovel?" inquired the captain, as they
rode along at a foot pace.

"Not in the least.  Time was when I would have feared to leave them; for
at one time neither life nor property was safe here, where so many
ruffians congregated from all parts of the world; but the evil wrought
its own cure at last.  Murders and robberies became so numerous, that
the miners took to Lynch law for mutual protection.  Murderers and
thieves were hanged, or whipped almost to death, with such promptitude,
that it struck terror into the hearts of evil-doers; and the consequence
is, that we of this valley are now living in a state of perfect peace
and security, while in other districts, where the laws of Judge Lynch
are not so well administered, murders and thefts are occasionally heard
of.  Here, if a man takes a fancy to go prospecting for a time, he has
only to throw his pick and shovel into his claim, or upon his heap of
dirt, [see note 1] and he will be sure to find them there untouched on
his return, even though he should be absent several weeks.  Our tents,
too, are left unwatched, and our doors unfastened, with perfect safety,
though it is well-known that hundreds and thousands of dollars in
gold-dust lie within.  I do not mean to assert that we have attained to
absolute perfection--a murder and a theft do occasionally occur, but
such are the exceptions, security is the rule."

"Truly," said Ned Sinton, "you seem to live in a golden age in all
respects."

"Not in all," answered the Scot; "the terrors of the law deter from open
violence, but they do not enforce morality, as the language and
deportment of miners generally too plainly shew.  But here we are at the
colony of Little Creek."

They rounded the projecting spur of one of the hills as he spoke, and
the whole extent of the little valley opened up to view.  It was indeed
a romantic and curious sight.  The vale, as we have said, was narrow,
but by no means gloomy.  The noontide sun shed a flood of light over the
glistening rocks and verdant foliage of the hills on the left, and cast
the short, rounded shadows of those on the right upon the plain.
Through the centre of this the Little Creek warbled on its course; now
circling round some wooded knoll, until it almost formed an island; anon
dropping, in a quiet cascade, over the edge of a flat rock; in some
places sweeping close under the base of a perpendicular cliff; in others
shooting out into a lake-like expanse of shallow water across a
bright-green meadow, as it murmured on over its golden bed towards the
Sacramento.

Higher up the valley the cliffs were more abrupt.  Dark pines and
cedars, in groups or singly, hung on their sides, and gave point to the
landscape, in the background of which the rivulet glittered like a
silver thread where the mountains rose in peaks towards the sky.

Along the whole course of this rivulet, as far as the eye could trace
it, searchers for gold were at work on both banks, while their white
tents, and rude wooden shanties, were scattered, singly or in clusters
of various extent, upon the wooded slopes, in every pleasant and
suitable position.  From the distance at which our party first beheld
the scene, it appeared as if the miners were not men, but little animals
grubbing in the earth.  Little or no sound reached their ears; there was
no bustle, no walking to and fro, as if the hundreds there assembled had
various and diverse occupations.  All were intently engaged in one and
the same work.  Pick-axe and shovel rose and fell with steady regularity
as each individual wrought with ceaseless activity within the narrow
limits of his own particular claim, or rocked his cradle beside it.
Dig, dig, dig; rock, rock, rock; shovel, shovel, shovel, was the order
of the day, as long as day lasted; and then the gold-hunters rested
until recruited strength and dawning light enabled them again to go down
into the mud and dig, and rock, and shovel as before.

Many, alas! rocked themselves into a fatal sleep, and dug and shovelled
their own graves among these golden hills.  Many, too, who, although
they dug and toiled for the precious metal, had neither made it their
god nor their chief good, were struck down in the midst of their heavy
toils, and retired staggering to their tents, and there, still clad in
their damp garments, laid their fevered heads on their saddles--not
unfrequently on their bags of gold-dust--to dream of the distant homes
and the loved faces they were doomed to see no more; and thus, dreaming
in solitude, or watched, mayhap, by a rough though warm-hearted mate,
breathed out their spirits to Him who gave them, and were laid in their
last resting-place with wealth untold beneath them, and earth
impregnated with gold-dust for their winding-sheet.  Happy, thrice
happy, the few who in that hour could truly say to Jesus, "Whom have I
in heaven but Thee? and there is _none upon earth_ that I desire beside
Thee."

Just as our travellers approached the nearest and largest cluster of
huts and tents, a sudden change came over the scene.  The hour of noon
had arrived, and, as if with one consent, the miners threw down their
tools, and swarmed, like the skirmishers of an invading host, up from
the stream towards the huts--a few of the more jovial among them singing
at the full pitch of their lungs, but most of them too wearied to care
for aught save food and repose.

Noon is the universal dinner-hour throughout the gold-mines, an hour
which might be adopted with profit in every way, we venture to suggest,
by those who dig for gold in commercial and legal ledgers and cash-books
in more civilised lands.  When the new-comers reached a moderately-sized
log-cabin, which was the chief hotel of the colony, they found it in all
the bustle of preparation for an immediate and simple, though
substantial, meal.

"Can we have dinner!" inquired Ned, entering this house of
entertainment, while his companions were unsaddling and picketing their
horses and mules.

"To be sure ye can, my hearty," answered the smiling landlord, "if ye
pay for it."

"That's just the reason I asked the question," answered Ned, seating
himself on a cask--all available chairs, stool; and benches having been
already appropriated by mud-bespattered miners, "because, you must know,
I _can't_ pay for it."

"Ho!" ejaculated mine host, with a grin, "hard-up, eh! got cleaned out
with the trip up, an' trust to diggin' for the future?  Well, I'll give
ye credit; come on, and stick in.  It's every man for himself here, an'
no favour."

Thus invited, Ned and his friends squeezed themselves into seats beside
the long _table d'hote_--which boasted a canvas table-cloth, and had
casks for legs--and made a hearty meal, in the course of which they
obtained a great deal of useful information from their friend McLeod the
Scotchman.

After dinner, which was eaten hurriedly, most of the miners returned to
their work, and Ned with his friend; under the guidance of McLeod, went
down to the river to be initiated into the mysteries of gold-digging and
washing.  As they approached several of the claims which their owners
were busy working, a Yankee swaggered up to them with a cigar in his
mouth, an impudent expression on his face, and a pick-axe on his
shoulder.

"Guess you've just come to locate in them diggin's, strangers," he said,
addressing the party at large, but looking at Ned, whose superior height
and commanding cast of countenance proved him unmistakeably to be a
leader.

"We have," replied Ned, who disliked the look of the man.

"Thought so.  I'm jest goin' to quit an' make tracks for the coast.
'Bliged to cut stick on business that won't wait, I calc'late.  It's
plaguey unlucky, too, for my claim's turnin' out no end o' dollars, but
I must sell it slick off so I don't mind to let ye have it cheap."

"Is your claim better than the others in the neighbourhood?" inquired
Ned.

"Wall, I jest opine it is.  Look here," cried the Yankee, jumping into
his claim, which was a pit of about eight feet square and three deep,
and delving the shovel into the earth, while Ned and his friends,
besides several of the other miners, drew near to witness the result.
Maxton and Tom Collins, however, winked knowingly at each other, and,
with the Scotchman, drew back to the rear of the group.

The first shovelful of earth thrown up was absolutely full of glittering
particles of gold, and the second was even more richly impregnated with
the precious metal.

Ned and the captain stood aghast with amazement, and Bill Jones opened
mouth and eyes to their utmost extent.

"Hooroo! och! goold galore! there it is at last!" shouted Larry O'Neil,
tossing up his arms with delight.  "Do buy it, Mr Ned, darlint."

"I needn't turn up more, I guess," said the Yankee, carelessly throwing
down his shovel, and filling the earth into a tin bowl or pan; "I'll
jest wash it out an' shew ye what it's like."

So saying he dipped the pan into the stream gently, and proceeded to
wash out the gold.  As this was done in the way usually practised by
diggers, we shall describe it.

Setting down the tin pan of earth and water, the Yankee dipped both
hands into it and stirred its contents about until it became liquid mud,
removing the stones in the operation.  It was then moved round quickly
with a peculiar motion which caused some off the top to escape over the
edge of the pan with each revolution; more water was added from time to
time, and the process continued until all the earthy matter was washed
away, and nothing but a kind of black sand, in which the gold is usually
contained, remained at the bottom.

"There you are," cried the man, exultingly, lifting up a handful of the
heavy and shining mixture; "fifteen dollars at least in two shovelfuls.
I'll sell ye the claim, if ye like, for two hundred dollars."

"I would give it at once," said Ned, feeling at the moment deeply
troubled on account of his poverty; "but, to say truth, I have not a
farthing in the world."

A peculiar grin rested on the faces of the miners who looked on as he
spoke, but before he could inquire the cause, Tom Collins stepped
forward, and said:

"That's a first-rate claim of yours.  What did ye say was your charge
for it?"

"Three hundred dollars down."

"I'll tell ye what," rejoined Tom, "I'll give you _six_ hundred dollars
for it, if you take out another shovelful of dirt like _that_!"

This remark was greeted by a general laugh from, the bystanders, which
was joined in by the Yankee himself as he leaped out of the hole, and,
shouldering his shovel, went off with his friends, leaving Ned and some
others of his party staring at each other in astonishment.

"What _does_ it all mean?" he inquired, turning to Tom Coffins, whose
laughing countenance shewed that he at least was not involved in
mystery.

"It means simply that we were all taken for green-horns, which was quite
a mistake, and that we were to have been thoroughly cheated--a
catastrophe which has happily been prevented.  Maxton and I determined
to let the rascally fellow go as far as he could, and then step in and
turn the laugh against him, as we have done."

"But explain yourself.  I do not yet understand," repeated Ned, with a
puzzled look.

"Why, the fact is, that when strangers arrive at the diggings, full of
excitement and expectation, there are always a set of sharpers on the
look-out, who offer to sell their claims, as they often say, `for a mere
song,' and in order to prove their worth, dig out a little dirt, and
wash it, as you have just seen done; taking care beforehand, however, to
mingle with it a large quantity of gold-dust, which, of course, comes to
light, and a bargain is generally struck on the spot, when the sharper
goes off with the price, and boasts of having `done' a green-horn, for
which he is applauded by his comrades.  Should the fraud be detected
before the completion of the bargain, as in our case, he laughs with the
rest, and says, probably, he `warn't so 'cute as usual.'"

"Och, the scoundrels!" cried Larry; "an' is there no law for sich
doin's?"

"None; at least in most diggings men are left to sharpen their own wits
by experience.  Sometimes, however, the biter is pretty well bitten.
There was a poor Chilian once who was deceived in this way, and paid
four hundred dollars for a claim that was scarcely worth working.  He
looked rather put out on discovering the imposture, but was only laughed
at by most of those who saw the transaction for his softness.  Some
there were who frowned on the sharper, and even spoke of lynching him,
but they were a small minority, and had to hold their peace.  However,
the Chilian plucked up heart, and, leaping into his claim, worked away
like a Trojan.  After a day or two he hit upon a good layer of blue
clay, and from that time he turned out forty dollars a day for two
months."

"Ah! good luck to him," cried Larry.

"And did the sharper hear of it?" inquired the captain.

"That he did, and tried to bully the poor fellow, and get his claim back
again; but there was a strong enough sense of justice among the miners
to cause such an outcry that the scoundrel was fain to seek other
diggings."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note 1.  "Dirt" is the name given among miners, to the soil in which
gold is found.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

GOLD-WASHING--OUR ADVENTURERS COUNT THEIR GAINS, AND ARE SATISFIED--THE
"R'YAL BANK O' CALYFORNY" BEGINS TO PROSPER--FRYING GOLD--NIGHT VISIT TO
THE GRAVE OF A MURDERED MAN--A MURDERER CAUGHT--THE ESCAPE AND PURSUIT.

Having escaped from the Yankee land-shark, as has been related, our
adventurers spent the remainder of the day in watching the various
processes of digging and washing out gold, in imbibing valuable lessons,
and in selecting a spot for their future residence.

The two processes in vogue at Little Creek at that time were the _pan_
and the _cradle_ washing.  The former has been already adverted to, and
was much practised because the ground at that time was rich in the
precious metal and easily wrought; the extreme simplicity, too, of the
operation, which only required that the miner should possess a pick, a
shovel, and a tin pan, commended it to men who were anxious to begin at
once.  An expert man, in favourable ground, could gather and wash a
panful of "dirt," as it is called, every ten minutes; and there were few
places in Little Creek that did not yield half-a-dollar or more to the
panful, thus enabling the digger to work out gold-dust to the value of
about twenty-five dollars, (five pounds sterling), every day, while
occasionally he came upon a lump or nugget, equal, perhaps, to what he
could produce by the steady labour of a week or more.

Many of the more energetic miners, however, worked in companies and used
cradles, by means of which they washed out a much larger quantity of
gold in shorter time; and in places which did not yield a sufficient
return by the pan process to render it worth while working, the
cradle-owners obtained ample remuneration for their toil.

The cradle is a very simple machine, being a semicircular trough,
hollowed out of a log, from five to six feet long by sixteen inches in
diameter.  At one end of this is a perforated copper or iron plate, with
a rim of wood round it, on which the "dirt" is thrown, and water poured
thereon by one man, while the cradle is rocked by another.  The gold and
gravel are thus separated from the larger stones, and washed down the
trough, in which, at intervals, two transverse bars, half-an-inch high,
are placed; the first of these arrests the gold, which, from its great
weight, sinks to the bottom, while the gravel and lighter substances are
swept away by the current.  The lower bar catches any particles of gold
that, by awkward management, may have passed the upper one.  Three men
usually worked together at a rocker, one digging, one carrying the
"dirt" in a bucket, and one rocking the cradle.

The black sand, which, along with the gold, is usually left after all
the washing and rocking processes are completed, is too heavy to be
separated by means of washing.  It has therefore to be blown away from
the gold after the mass has been dried over a fire, and in this
operation great care is requisite lest the finer particles of gold
should be blown off along with it.

The spot fixed on as the future residence of our friends was a level
patch of greensward about a stone-cast from the banks of the stream, and
twice that distance from the lowest cabin of the colony, which was
separated and concealed from them by a group of wide-spreading oaks and
other trees.  A short distance behind the spot the mountains ascended in
steep wooded slopes, and, just in front, the cliffs of the opposite
hills rose abruptly from the edge of the stream, but a narrow ravine,
that split them in a transverse manner, afforded a peep into the hills
beyond.  At evening, when the rest of the vale of Little Creek was
shrouded in gloom, this ravine permitted the last beams of the setting
sun to stream through and flood their encampment with rosy light.

Here the tent was pitched, and a fire kindled by Tom Collins, he being
intrusted with the command of the party, whose duty it was to prepare
the camp.  This party included Bill Jones, Maxton, and the vaquero.
Ned, the captain, and Larry O'Neil went, under the guidance of McLeod,
to select a claim, and take lessons in washing.

"This seems a likely spot," said the Scotchman, as he led his new
acquaintances down to the stream, a few yards below their encampment.
"You may claim as much ground as you please, for there is room enough
and to spare for all at the Creek yet.  I would recommend a piece of
ground of ten or twelve feet square for each to begin with."

"Here is a level patch that I shall appropriate, then," said Ned,
smiling at the idea of becoming so suddenly and easily a landed
proprietor--and to such an extent.

"I suppose we don't require to make out title-deeds!" remarked the
captain.

"There's _my_ title dade," cried Larry, driving his pick into the earth.

"You are right, Larry," said McLeod, laughing, "no other deed is
required in this delightfully-free country."

"Ah! thin, it's quite to my taste; sure I niver thought to see the swate
spot where I could pick out me property an' pick up me fortin' so aisy."

"Don't count your chickens quite so fast," said Ned, "may be it won't be
so easy as you think.  But let us begin and ascertain the value of our
claims; I vote that Larry shall have the honour of washing out the first
panful of gold, as a reward for his enthusiasm."

"A very proper obsarvation," remarked the Irishman, as he commenced work
without further delay.

In the course of ten minutes part of the layer of surface-earth was
removed, revealing the bluish-clay soil in which gold was usually found;
the pan was filled with this "pay-dirt," as it was called, in
contradistinction to the "surface-dirt," which didn't "pay," and was
taken down to the stream, where Larry washed it out under the eye of
McLeod; but he did it clumsily, as might be expected, and lost a
considerable amount of valuable material.  Still, for a first attempt,
it was pretty well done, and his companions watched the result with
feelings of excited earnestness, that they felt half-ashamed to admit
even to themselves.  There was mingled with this feeling a sort of vague
incredulity, and a disposition to ridicule the idea that they were
actually endeavouring to wash gold out of the ground; but when Larry's
panful began to diminish, and the black sand appeared, sparkling with
unmistakeably-brilliant particles of reddish-yellow metal, they felt
that the golden dream was in truth becoming a sober reality.

As the process proceeded, and the precious metal began to appear,
Larry's feelings found vent in abrupt remarks.

"Och! av me tshoo eyes--musha! there it is--goold intirely--av it isn't
brass.  Ah ye purty little stars!--O Larry, it's yerself as'll buy yer
owld mother a pig, an' a coach to boot.  Hooroo!  Mr Scotchman, I
misremimber yer name, wot's that?"

Larry started up in excitement, and held up between his fore-finger and
thumb what appeared to be a small stone.

"Ha! friend, you're in luck.  That's a small nugget," replied McLeod,
examining the lump of gold.  "It's worth ten dollars at least.  I have
worked often two or three weeks at a time without coming on such a chunk
as that."

"Ye don't mane it! eh!  Och! give it me.  Hooray!" and the Irishman,
seizing the little lump with trembling eagerness, rushed off, shouting
and yelling, towards the camp to make his good fortune known to Bill
Jones, leaving the pan of black sand unheeded.  This Ned took up, and
tried his hand at the work of washing.  When done, the residue was found
to be exceedingly rich, so he and the captain proceeded without loss of
time to test their separate claims.  Soon after, their obliging friend,
the miner, returned to his own claim further down the valley, leaving
them hard at work.

That night, when the bright stars twinkled down upon the camp at Little
Creek, our gold-hunters, wet and tired, but hearty and hopeful,
assembled round the fire in front of their little tent among the
oak-trees.

The entire party was assembled there, and they were gazing earnestly, as
might be expected of hungry men, into the frying-pan.  But they did not
gaze at _supper_.  No, that night the first thing they fried was a
mixture of black sand and gold.  In fact, they were drying and blowing
the result of their first day's work at the diggings, and their friend
the Scotch miner was there to instruct them in the various processes of
their new profession, and to weigh the gold for them, in his little pair
of scales, when it should be finally cleared of all grosser substances.

As each panful was dried and blown, the gold was weighed, and put into a
large white breakfast cup, the bottom of which was soon heaped up with
shining particles, varying in size from the smallest visible speck, to
little lumps like grains of corn.

"Bravo!" exclaimed McLeod, as he weighed the last pan, and added the
gold to that already in the cup.  "I congratulate you, gentlemen, on
your success.  The day's work is equal to one hundred and eighty
dollars--about thirty dollars per man.  Few men are so lucky their first
day, I assure you, unless, as has been the case once or twice they
should hit upon a nugget or two."

"That being the case, we shall have supper," cried Ned Sinton; "and
while we are about it, do you go, Larry, to mine host of the hotel, and
pay for the dinner for which he gave us credit.  I don't wish to remain
an hour in debt, if I can avoid it."

"Mister McLeod," slowly said Bill Jones--who, during the whole operation
of drying and weighing the gold, had remained seated on a log, looking
on with an expression of imbecile astonishment, and without uttering a
word--"Mister McLeod, if I may make bold to ax, how much is one hundred
and eighty dollars?"

Bill's calculating powers were of the weakest possible character.

"About thirty-six pounds sterling," replied McLeod.  Bill's eyes were
wide open before, but the extent to which he opened them on hearing this
was quite alarming, and suggested the idea that they would never close
again.  The same incapacity to calculate figures rendered him unable to
grasp correlative facts.  He knew that thirty-six pounds in one day was
a more enormous and sudden accumulation of wealth than had ever entered
into his nautical mind to conceive of.  But to connect this with the
fact that a voyage and journey of many months had brought him there;
that a similar journey and voyage would be required to reconduct him
home; and that in the meantime he would have to pay perhaps five pounds
sterling for a flannel shirt, and probably four pounds or more for a
pair of boots, and everything else in proportion, was to his limited
intellectual capacity a simple impossibility.  He contented himself with
remarking, in reference to these things, that "w'en things in gin'ral
wos more nor ord'nar'ly oncommon, an' w'en incomprehensibles was blowin'
a reg'lar hurricane astarn, so that a man couldn't hold on to the
belayin'-pins he'd bin used to, without their breakin' short off an'
lettin' him go spin into the lee-scuppers,--why wot then? a wise man's
course wos to take in all sail, an' scud before it under bare poles."

Next day all the miners in the colony were up and at work by dawn.  Ned
and his friends, you may be sure, were not last to leave their beds and
commence digging in their separate claims, which they resolved to work
out by means of pan-washing, until they made a little ready cash, after
which they purposed constructing two rockers, and washing out the gold
more systematically and profitably.

They commenced by removing the surface-soil to the depth of about three
feet, a work of no small labour, until the subsoil, or "pay-dirt," was
reached.  Of this they dug out a small quantity, and washed it; put the
produce of black sand and gold into leathern bags, and then, digging out
another panful, washed it as before.  Thus they laboured till noon, when
they rested for an hour and dined.  Then they worked on again until
night and exhaustion compelled them to desist; when they returned to
camp, dried and blew away the sand, weighed the gold, which was put
carefully into a general purse--named by Larry the "R'yal Bank o'
Calyforny"--after which they supped, and retired to rest.

The gold was found at various depths, the "dirt" on the bed-rock being
the richest, as gold naturally, in consequence of its weight, sinks
through all other substances, until arrested in its downward career by
the solid rock.

Of course, the labour was severe to men unaccustomed to the peculiar and
constant stooping posture they were compelled to adopt, and on the
second morning more than one of the party felt as if he had been seized
with lumbago, but this wore off in the course of a day or two.

The result of the second day was about equal to that of the first; the
result of the third a good deal better, and Bill, who was fortunate
enough to discover a small nugget, returned to camp with a
self-satisfied swagger that indicated elation, though his visage
expressed nothing but stolidity, slightly tinged with surprise.  On the
fourth day the cradles were made, and a very large portion of their
gains thereby swept away in consequence of the unconscionable prices
charged for every article used in their construction.  However, this
mattered little, Maxton said, as the increased profits of their labour
would soon repay the outlay.  And he was right.  On the fifth day their
returns were more than trebled, and that evening the directors of the
"R'yal Bank o' Calyforny" found themselves in possession of capital
amounting to one thousand one hundred and fifty dollars, or, as Tom
Collins carefully explained to Bill, about 230 pounds.

On the sixth day, however, which was Saturday, Larry O'Neil, who was
permitted to work with the pan in the meantime, instead of assisting
with the cradles, came up to dinner with a less hearty aspect than
usual, and at suppertime he returned with a terribly lugubrious visage
and a totally empty bag.  In fact his claim had become suddenly
unproductive.

"Look at that," he cried, swaggering recklessly into camp, and throwing
down his bag; "I haven't got a rap; faix the bag's as empty as my
intarior."

"What! have you worked out your claim already!" inquired Maxton.

"Troth have I, and almost worked out me own body too."

"Well, Larry, don't lose heart," said Ned, as he dried the last panful
of sand over the fire, "there are plenty more claims beside your present
one.  We, too, have not been as successful as before.  I find the result
is only fifty dollars amongst us all."

"That's a sudden falling off," remarked Tom Collins; "I fear the
`pay-dirt' is not deep near us, nevertheless it pays well enough to keep
us going for some time to come.  I shall mark off a new space on
Monday."

"By the way, Maxton," asked Ned, handing over the frying-pan to Collins,
who soon filled it with a less valuable, but at that time not less
needful commodity than gold-dust--namely, pork and beef--"how do the
miners spend the Sabbath here?  I suppose not much better than in the
cities."

"Here comes McLeod, who will be better able to answer than I am,"
replied Maxton.

The Scot strode into the camp as he spoke, and, saluting the party,
seated himself beside the fire.

"I've come to tell you a piece of news, and to ask advice," he said;
"but before doing so, I may tell you, in answer to your question, that
the Sabbath here is devoted to drinking, gambling, and loafing about."

"I am not surprised to hear it," said Captain Bunting; "but pray what's
i' the wind?  Any new diggin's discovered?"

"A new digging certainly has been discovered," replied McLeod, with a
peculiar smile, "but not precisely such a digging as one is wont to
search for.  The fact is, that in prospecting along the edge of the
woods about a mile from this to-day, I came upon the body of a murdered
man.  It was covered with stones and branches of trees, which I removed,
and I immediately recognised it to be that of a poor man who used to
work not far from my own claim.  I had missed him for more than a week
past, but supposed that he had either gone to other diggings, or was
away prospecting."

"Poor fellow!" said Ned; "but how, in such a matter, can _we_ help you
with advice?"

"Well, you see I'm in difficult circumstances," rejoined the Scot, "for
I feel certain that I could point out the murderer, yet I cannot _prove_
him to be such, and I want your advice as to what I should do."

"Let it be known at once that you have discovered the murdered man at
any rate," said Maxton.

"That I have done already."

"Who do you think was the murderer?" inquired Ned.

"A man who used to live in the same tent with him at one time, but who
quarrelled with him frequently, and at last went off in a rage.  I know
not what was the cause, but I heard him vow that he would be revenged.
He was a great coarse fellow, more like a brute than a man, with a black
beard, and the most forbidding aspect I think I ever saw."

"Wot wos his name?" inquired Bill Jones, while the party looked at each
other as if they knew of such a character.

"Smith was the name he went by oftenest, but the diggers called him
Black Jim sometimes."

"Ha!  Smith--black beard--forbidding aspect!  It strikes me that I too
have seen the man," said Ned Sinton, who related to McLeod the visit
paid to them in their camp by the surly stranger.  While he was
speaking, Larry O'Neil sat pondering something in his mind.

"Mister McLeod," said he, when Ned concluded, "will ye shew me the body
o' this man? faix, I'm of opinion I can prove the murder; but, first of
all, how is the black villain to be diskivered?"

"No difficulty about that.  He is even now in the colony.  I saw him in
a gambling-house half-an-hour since.  My fear is that, now the murder's
out, he'll bolt before we can secure him."

"It's little trouble we'd have in preventin' that," suggested Larry.

"The consequences might be more serious, however, than you imagine.
Suppose you were to seize and accuse him, and fail to prove the murder,
the jury would acquit him, and the first thing he would do, on being set
free, would be to shoot you, for which act the morality of the miners
would rather applaud him than otherwise.  It is only on cold-blooded,
unprovoked murder and theft that Judge Lynch is severe.  It is a
recognised rule here, that if a man, in a row, should merely make a
_motion_ with his hand towards his pistol, his opponent is entitled to
shoot him first if he can.  The consequence is, that _bloody_ quarrels
are very rare."

"Niver a taste do I care," cried Larry; "they may hang me tshoo times
over, but I'll prove the murder, an' nab the murderin' blackguard too."

"Have a care," said Ned; "you'll get yourself into a scrape."

"Make sure you are right before you act," added Maxton.  Larry O'Neil
paid no attention to these warnings.  "Are ye ready to go, Mister
McLeod?" said he, impatiently.

"Quite," replied the other.

"Then come along."  And the two left the camp together, armed with their
rifles, knives, revolvers, and a shovel.

It was a dark night.  Heavy clouds obscured the face of the sky, through
which only one or two stars struggled faintly, and rendered darkness
visible.  The two men passed rapidly along the little footpath that led
from the colony to the more open country beyond.  This gained, they
turned abruptly to the right, and, entering a narrow defile, proceede

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