And everyone well knows it will be in gold-dust; since banks have not yet been established, and there are not obtainable notes enough in San Francisco to cover a tenth part of the amount. He had tried to convert it thus—as more convenient for carriage and safety—but failed.

In fine, after confiding his fears to Silvestre, and taking counsel from him, he decides upon the plan, already in part communicated to Captain Lantanas—of having the endangered gold-dust secretly conveyed to the Condor that very night. Don Tomas will provide the boat, with a trusty sailor-servant he has attached to his establishment, to assist in the removal and rowing. They can take it aboard without passing through the town, or at all touching at the port. The boat can be brought to the beach below Don Gregorio's house, and the gold quietly carried down to it. Thence they can transport it direct to the ship. Once there, Lantanas will know how to dispose of it; and surely it will be safe in his custody—at all events, safer there than anywhere else in San Francisco. So thinks Don Gregorio, the ship-agent agreeing with him.

Soon everything is settled; for they spend not many minutes in discussing the matter. The ex-ganadero knows that by this time his house will be empty, excepting the servants: for the ride on which his girls have gone was arranged by himself, to gratify his expected visitors. He thinks apprehensively of the unprotected treasure, and longs to be beside it. So, remounting the stout cob that brought him to town, he rides hastily home.

On arrival there, he retires to his sleeping apartment; where he spends the remainder of the day, having given strict orders not to be called, till the party of equestrians comes back.

But although confining himself to the chamber, he does not go to bed, nor otherwise take repose. On the contrary, he is busy throughout the whole afternoon, getting ready his treasure for surreptitious transport, for it is there in the room—has been ever since it came into his possession. Almost fearing to trust it out of his sight, he sleeps beside it.

Some of it is in bags, some in boxes; and he now rearranges it in the most convenient form for carriage to the Chilian ship, and safe stowage in her cabin-lockers.

He has not yet completed his task, when he hears the trampling of hoofs on the gravelled sweep outside. The riding-party has returned.

The saguan bell rings; the heavy door grates back on its hinges; and, soon after, the horses, with the riders still on their backs, stand panting in the patio.

The master of the house sallies forth to receive his guests. He sees them hastening to assist the ladies in dismounting. But before either cavalier can come near them, both leap lightly out of their saddles; then, gliding into the corridor, fling their arms around Don Gregorio's neck—daughter and grand-daughter alike calling him "papa."

They are effusively affectionate—more than usually so—for this night both have a favour to ask of him. And he knows, or can guess, what it is. He has not been blind to what has been passing between them, and the young English officers. He suspects that vows have been exchanged— a double proposal made—and anticipates a demand upon himself to sanction it.

In both cases he is prepared to do this. For he is not unacquainted with either the character, or social standing, of those seeking an alliance with him. He has been aboard the British frigate, and from Captain Bracebridge obtained information on these points. Satisfactory in every sense. Both the young officers bear an excellent reputation. Though differing in other respects, they are alike skilled in their profession—each "every inch a seaman," as their commander worded it. Besides, both are of good family—Cadwallader moderately rich—Crozier in prospect of being immensely so—either of them fit mate for the proudest senora in Spain. Don Gregorio's reason for supposing that on this day engagements have been entered into, is, that the young officers are about to take departure from the port. The Crusader is under Admiralty orders to sail for the Sandwich Islands, soon as a corvette coming thence reaches San Francisco. Captain Bracebridge has been commissioned by the British Government to transact some diplomatic business with King Kamehameha. That done, he is to look in at the ports of Panama and Callao; then home—afterwards to join the Mediterranean squadron. As the Crusader, on her way to the Mediterranean, will surely call at Cadiz, the vows this day exchanged on the shore of the Pacific, can be thus conveniently renewed on the other side of the Atlantic.

At dinner—which is served soon after and in sumptuous style—Don Gregorio makes his guests aware of the fact, that he has secured passages for Panama, and may leave San Francisco soon as they. He confides to them the secret of his having chartered the Chilian ship—in short, telling them all he has told her captain—echoing the lament made by the latter about his difficulty in obtaining a crew.

"Perhaps," rejoins Crozier, after hearing this, "I can help your skipper to at least one good sailor. Do you think, Will," he continues, addressing himself to the young Welshman, "that Harry Blew is still in San Francisco, or has he gone off to the diggings?"

"I fancy he's still here," responds Cadwallader. "He was aboard the frigate only the day before yesterday—having a shake hands with his old comrades of the forecastle."

"Who is the Senor Bloo?" inquires their host.

"A true British tar—if you know what that means, Don Gregorio—lately belonging to our ship, and one of the best sailors on our books. He's off them now, as his time was out; and like many another, though not better man, has made up his mind to go gold-seeking on the Sacramento. Still, if he be not gone, I think we might persuade him to take a trip on the craft you speak of. It was once Harry's sinister luck to slip overboard in the harbour of Guaymas—dropping almost into the jaws of a tintorero shark—and my good fortune to be able to rescue him out of his perilous plight. He is not the man to be ungrateful; and, if still in San Francisco, I think you may count upon him for taking service on board this Chilian vessel. True, he's only one, but worth two—ay, ten. He not only knows how to work a ship's sails, but on a pinch could take a lunar, and make good any port in the Pacific."

"A most valuable man!" exclaims Don Gregorio; "would be worth his weight in gold to Captain Lantanas. I'm sure the Chilian skipper would at once make him his mate. Do you suppose you can find him?"

"If in San Francisco, yes. We shall search for him this very night; and, if found, send him either to the Chilian skipper or to the shipping-agent you've spoken of—Silvestre. By the way, what's his address?"

"Here," answers Don Gregorio, drawing forth a card, and handing it across the table to Crozier. "That's the place where Don Tomas transacts business. It's but a poor little shed down by the beach, near the new pier, lately constructed. Indeed, I believe he sleeps there— house-rent in San Francisco being at present something fabulous."

"This will do," says Crozier, putting the card into his pocket. "If Henry Blew can be found, he won't be far from Silvestre's office—if not this night, by early daybreak to-morrow morning."

It is not the custom of either Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans, to tarry long over the dinner-table. The cloth once removed, and the ladies gone, a glass or two of Port, Xeres, or Pedro Ximenes, and the gentlemen also retire; not for business, but recreation out of doors, so pleasant in southern climes.

Dona Carmen and her niece have ascended to the azotea, to enjoy the sweet twilight of a Californian summer; whither they are soon followed by Crozier and Cadwallader.

The master of the house has for a time parted with them—under the excuse of having affairs to attend to. It is to complete the packing of his gold-dust. But before leaving the sala de comer, and while emptying their last glass together, he has been approached by his sailor-guests on that subject uppermost in their thoughts, and dearest to their hearts. Asked if he be agreeable to become the father-in-law of one, and the—Cadwallader had difficulty in finding a word for it—grandfather-in-law of the other, to both interrogatories he has given the same answer—"Yes."

No wonder that, with bright faces and bounding step, the young officers rush out, and up to the azotea, there to rejoin the senoritas.

Their tale told to the latter—who have been awaiting them in anxious expectation—will save both a world of confusion and blushes. No need now for them to talk to "papa." His consent has been obtained—they are aware he will keep his word.

Again the four, now formally betrothed, separate into twos, taking opposite sides of the aerial garden.

They converse about the far future—that awaiting them at Cadiz. But the ladies cannot overlook, or forget, some perils more proximate. The retrospect of the day throws a shadow over the morrow. That encounter with De Lara and Calderon cannot end without further action. Not likely; and both aunt and niece recall it, questioning their now affianced lovers—adjuring them to refrain from fighting.

These reply, making light of the matter, declaring confidence in their own strength and skill, whatever be the upshot—at length, so assuring their sweethearts, that both believe them invincible, invulnerable. What woman who does not believe the same of him who holds her heart?

Time passes; the last moments speed silently, sweetly, in the old, old ecstasy of all-absorbing, time-killing love.

Then the inevitable "Adios!" though sounding less harshly by favour of the appended phrase—"Hasta Cadiz!"



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

ON PLEASURE BENT.

The clocks of San Francisco are striking the hour of ten. The moon has risen over Monte Diablo, and sends her soft mellow beams across the waters of the bay, imparting to their placid surface a sheen as of silver. The forms of the ships at anchor are reflected as from a mirror; their hulls, with every spar, stay, and brace, even to the most delicate rope of their rigging, having a duplicated representative in the fictitious counterfeit beneath. On none is there any canvas spread; and the unfurled flags do not display their fields, but hang motionless along masts, or droop dead down over taffrails.

Stillness, almost complete, reigns throughout; scarce a sound proceeding either from the ships inshore, or those out in the offing; not even the rattle of a chain dropping or weighing anchor, the chant of a night-watch at the windlass, or the song of jovial tar entertaining his messmates as they sit squatted around the forecastle stair.

Unusual this silence at such an early hour, though easily accounted for. That there are so few noises from the ships in San Francisco Bay, is explained by the fact of their being but few men to make them—in many cases not a single soul aboard. All have deserted; either for good, and are gone to the "diggings," or only for the night, to take part in the pleasures and dissipations of the town. Now and then a boat may be seen, putting off from, or returning to, the side of some vessel better manned—by its laborious movement, and the unmeasured stroke of oars, telling that even it lacks a full complement of crew.

Inside the town, everything is different. There, noises enough, with plenty of people; crowded streets, flashing lights, and a Babel-like confusion of voices. It is now the hour when iniquity has commenced its nightly career, or, rather, reached its full flush; since in San Francisco certain kinds of it are carried on throughout all hours of the day. Business houses are closed; but these are in small proportion to the places of pleasure, which keep their doors and windows wide open, and where dissipation reigns paramount, as permanent. Into the gambling-saloons go men laden with gold-dust, often coming out with their wallets lighter than when they went in, but their hearts a deal heavier. After toiling for months up to their middle, in the chill waters of streams that course down from the eternal snows of the Sierra Nevada, working, washing—while so occupied, half-starving—they return to San Francisco to scatter in a single night—oft in one hour—the hoarded gatherings of a half-year!

Into this pleasure-seeking city are about to enter two personages of very different appearance from those usually seen loitering in its saloons or hastening through its streets; for they are young officers belonging to a British frigate—Edward Crozier and William Cadwallader. They are returning to their ship; not directly, as they were rowed ashore, but through the town; Crozier having ordered the boat to be brought to one of the rough wooden wharfs recently erected.

They are advancing along the shore-road, afoot; having declined their host's offer of horses—both saying they would prefer to walk; Cadwallader adding, in his favourite sailor phrase, that he wished to "kick the knots out of his legs"—a remark but obscurely comprehensible to Don Gregorio.

For some time after leaving the Spaniard's house, not a word passes between them. Each is occupied with his own thoughts, the sacredness of which keeps him silent; absorbed in reflections, about that tender, but painful parting, speculating on what may be before them in the far uncertain future.

For a time, nought intrudes upon their reverie, to disturb its natural course. The sough of the tidal surf breaking upon the beach, the occasional cry of a soaring sea-bird, or the more continuous and melancholy note of the chuck-will's-widow, do not attract their attention. They are sounds in consonance with their thoughts, still a little sad.

As they draw nearer to the city, see its flashing lights, and hear its hum of voices, other and less doleful ideas come uppermost, leading to conversation. Crozier commences it:

"Well, Will, old fellow, we've made a day of it!"

"That we have—a rousing, jolly day. I don't think I ever enjoyed one more in my life."

"Only for its drawbacks."

"You mean our affair with those fellows? Why, that was the best part of it—so far as fun. To see the one in the sky-blue wrap, after I'd dirked his horse, go off like a ship in a gale, with nobody at the helm! By Jove! it was equal to old Billy Button in the circus. And then the other, you bundled over in the road, as he got up looking like a dog just out of a dust-bin! Oh! 'twas delicious! The best shore adventure I've had since leaving home—something to talk about when we get aboard the ship."

"Ay, and something to do besides talking. We've got a little writing to do; at least I have—a bit of a letter to this swaggerer, Mr Francisco de Lara."

"But, surely, you don't intend challenging him—after what's happened?"

"Surely I do. Though, to say the truth, I've no great stomach for it, seeing the sort he is. It's infra dig having to fight one's inferior, though it be with sword or pistol. It feels like getting into a row with roughs in some slum of a seaport."

"You're right there; and as to calling the fellow out, I'd do nothing of the kind, Ned. He's a bad lot; so is the other. Blackguards both, as their behaviour has shown them. They don't deserve to be treated as gentlemen."

"But we're in California, Will; where the code of the duello takes in such as they. Here even thieves and cut-throats talk about protecting their honour, as they term it; ay, and often act up to their talk. I've been told of a duel that took place not long since between two professional gamblers, in which one of them was shot dead in his tracks. And only the other day a judge was called out by a man he had tried, and convicted, of some misdemeanour! Well, the judge not only went, but actually killed the cad who'd stood before him as a criminal! All that seems very absurd, but so it is. And if this scarlet-cloaked cavalier don't show the white-feather, and back out, I'll either have to kill, or cripple him; though like as not he may do one or the other for me."

"But don't you think, Ned, you've had enough out of him?"

"In what way?"

"Why, in the way of revanche. For my part, I should decidedly say you had by far the best of it. After your first encounter in the morning, I thought differently; and would have so counselled you. Then the insult offered you remained unpunished. The other has put a different face on the affair; and now that he's got more than he gave, I think you should rest satisfied, and let things stand as they are—if he do. Certainly, after that knock and tumble, it's his place to sing out."

"There's something in what you say, Will. And now, on reflection, I'm not so sure that I'll take further trouble about the fellow, unless he insist on it; which he may not, seeing he's unquestionably base coin—as you say, a blackguard. He appears a sort of Californian bravo; and if we hadn't secured his pistol, I suppose he'd have done some shooting with it. Well, we'll see whether he comes to reclaim it. If he don't, I shall have to send it to him. Otherwise, he may have us up before one of these duelling justices on a charge of robbing him!"

"Ha, ha, ha! That would be a rare joke; an appropriate ending to our day's fun."

"Quite the contrary. It might be serious, if it should reach the ears of Bracebridge. The old disciplinarian would never believe but that we'd been in the wrong—taken the fellow's pistol from him for a lark, or something of that sort. True, we could have the thing explained, both to the San Francisco magistrate, and the frigate's captain; but not without an exposure of names and circumstances. That, though it might be proper enough, would be anything but a pleasant finale to our day's fun, as you call it."

"Well, I know what will," rejoins Cadwallader, after listening patiently to his comrade's explanatory speech, "and that's a glass of something good to drink. Those sweet Spanish wines of Don Gregorio have made me thirsty as a fish. Besides, parting with dear Inez has got my heart down, and I need something to stir it up again."

"All right, my hearty!" exclaims Crozier; for the jest's sake, talking sailor-slang—"I'm with you in that way. For this day at least we've had enough of war, and, shall I say, women?"

"No—no!" protests Cadwallader; "that would be an ungallant speech, after what's passed. We could never have enough of them—at least, not I."

"Why, Will, we've grown wonderfully sentimental, and in such a short time! Well, let's drop the subject of woman, and end our day with the third of three w's—wine."

"Agreed!" responds the young Welshman. "But, for my part, I'd prefer ending it with a different tipple, which has also a w for its initial letter—that's whisky. If we could only get a glass of good Scotch or Irish malt in this mushroom city, it would make a new man of me—which just now I need making. As I tell you, Ned, my heart's down—dead down to the heels of my boots. I can't say why, but there it is; and there I suppose, it'll stay, unless Dutch courage come to the rescue."

"Well, you'll soon have an opportunity of getting that. As you see, we are in the suburbs of this grand city, partly constructed of canvas; where, though food may be scarce, and raiment scanty, there's liquor in abundance. In the Parker House, which is, I believe, its best hotel, we'll be sure of finding almost every beverage brewed upon the earth— among them your favourite whisky, and mine—'Bass's Bitter.'"

"Again the Spanish saw, 'Cada uno a su gusto,' as just now my sweetheart said, after I had kissed the dear girl six times in succession. But let us step out."

"Don't be in such hot haste. You forget we've something to do; which must be done first—before everything else."

"What?"

"Look up Harry Blew; find him, if we can; and coax him to take service in this Chilian ship."

"He won't require much coaxing, once you say the word. The old salt is anything but ungrateful. Indeed, his regard for you, ever since you saved him from that shark, is more like real gratitude than anything I ever saw. He fairly worships you, Ned. He told me the day before he left the Crusader, that parting with you was the only thing which greatly grieved him. I saw the tears trickling down his cheeks, as you shook hands with him over the rail. Even then, if you'd said stay, I believe he'd have turned back into his old berth."

"I didn't, because I wished him to do better. You know he'd have a splendid chance here in California—to get rich by gold-digging, which no doubt he might, like a great many other humble sailors as himself. But now, this other chance has turned up in his favour, which I should say is surer. Don Gregorio has told us he can get from the Chilian captain almost any pay he may please to ask; besides, a fair likelihood of being made his first mate. That would suit Harry to a hair; in my opinion, answering his purpose far better than any gold-washing speculation. Though a man of first rating aboard ship, he's a mere child when ashore; and would be no more able to protect himself against the land-sharks of San Francisco, than he was to get out of the way of that sea-skimmer at Guaymas. Even if he should succeed in growing rich up the Sacramento River, I'd lay large odds, he'd be back here in port, and poor as ever, within a week. We must save him from that if we can. His natural element is the ocean. He has spent the greater part of his life on it, and here's a fine opportunity for him to return to, and stay upon it. That for life, if he likes, with better prospects than he could ever have had on board a man-o'-war. The question is, how we shall be able to find him in this rookery of a place. Did he say anything, when you saw him, about where he was sojourning!"

"By Jove! he just did. Now, I recall our conversation, I remember him telling me that he was staying at a sort of a boarding-house, or restaurant, called the 'Sailor's Home,' though he made no mention of the street. But, if I mistake not, I know the place, and can steer pretty straight for it."

"Straight or crooked, let's set head for it at once. We've plenty of time, if that were all. I told the coxswain not to come for us till well after eleven. I want to see something of this queer Californian life, of which I haven't had much experience yet."

"The same with myself."

"Well, we may never again get such a chance. Indeed, it's not likely we'll be allowed another night ashore, before the Crusader sails. Therefore, let us make hay while the sun shines, or, to speak less figuratively, a little merriment by the light of the moon. We've been either savage, or sentimental, all the day, and need changing our tune."

"You're right about that; but the music is not likely to be made by moonlight—not much of it. See those great clouds rolling up yonder! They'll be all over the sky in ten minutes' time, making it black as a pot of pitch."

"No matter; for what we want, gas-light will serve as well; and there's plenty of that in San Francisco. Now for Harry Blew. After him, whisky punches at the Parker."

"And after that?"

"A Hell, if you feel that way inclined."

"Surely, Ned, you don't want to go gambling!"

"I want to see life in San Francisco, as I've said; and, as you know, gambling's an important part of it. Yes; I wish to inspect the elephant, and I don't mind making an attempt to draw the teeth of the tiger. Allons! or, as I should say, in the softer language of Andalusia, Nos vamos!"

Thus jocosely terminating the conversation, the young officers continue on at increased speed, and are soon threading the streets of San Francisco in search of the "Sailor's Home."



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

A TAR OF THE OLDEN TYPE.

Harry Blew is a tar of the true man-o'-war type; this of the time when sailors were sailors, and ships were oak, not iron. Such ships are scarce now; but scarcer still the skilled men who handled their ropes, and kept everything taut and trim—in short, the true tars.

Than Harry, a finer specimen of the foremast-man never reefed topsail, or took his glass of grog according to allowance. Of dark complexion naturally, exposure to sun, sea, and storm has deepened it, till his cheeks and throat are almost copper-coloured; somewhat lighter in tint upon Sundays, after they have had their hebdomadal shave. His face is round, with features fairly regular, and of cheerful cast, their cheerfulness heightened by the sparkle of keen grey eyes, and two rows of sound white teeth, frequently, if not continuously shown in smile. A thick shock of curling brown hair, with a well-greased ringlet drooping down over each eyebrow, supports a round-rimmed, blue-ribboned hat, well aback on his head. His shaven chin is pointed and prominent, with a dimple below the lip; while the beardless jaws curve smoothly down to a well-shaped neck, symmetrically set upon broad shoulders, that give token of strength almost herculean. Notwithstanding an amplitude of shirt-collar, which falls back full seven inches, touching the shoulder-tips, the throat and a portion of the expansive chest are habitually exposed to view; while on the sun-browned skin of the latter may be seen a tattooed anchor. By its side, but not so openly exhibited, is the figure of a damsel done in dark blue—no doubt a souvenir, if not the exact similitude, of a sweetheart—some Poll of past time, or perhaps far-off port.

But there is a doubt whether Harry's heart has been true to her. Indeed, a suspicion of its having been false cannot fail to strike any one seeing him with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, since upon the flat of his right fore-arm is the image of another damsel, done more recently, in lighter blue, while on the left is a Cupid holding an unbent bow, and hovering above a pair of hearts, which his arrow has just pierced, impaling them through and through!

All those amorous emblems would seem to argue our true tar inconstant as the wind, with which he has so oft to contend. But no, nothing of the kind. Those well acquainted with him and his history can vouch for it, that he has never had a sweetheart save one—she represented in that limning of light blue; and to her he has been true as steel, up to the hour of her death, which occurred just as she was about to become Mrs Blew.

And that sad event has kept him a bachelor up to the present hour of his life. For the girl on his breast in dark blue is a merely mythical personage, though indelibly stained into his skin by a needle's point and a pinch of gunpowder—done by one of his man-o'-war shipmates while he was still only a sailor-lad.

He is now forty years of age, nearly thirty of which he has passed upon the sea, being off it only in short spells while his ship lay in port. And he has seen service on several vessels—corvettes, frigates, double and treble deckers—all men-of-war, in which he has thrice circumnavigated the globe.

For all, he is yet hale, hearty, and in the perfect plenitude of his strength; only with a slight stoop in the shoulders, as if caught from continually swarming up shrouds, or leaning over the yard while stowing sails. This gives him the appearance of being shorter than he really is: for when straightened up, with back well braced, he stands six feet in his stockings. And his limbs show symmetrical proportion. His duck trousers, fitting tightly over the hips, display a pair of limbs supple and muscular, with thighs that seem all sinew from skin to bone.

In spite of his sterling qualities as a seaman, and noble character as a man, Harry has never risen to any rank in the service. With him has it been literally true, "Once a sailor, still a sailor;" and though long ago rated an A.B. of the first order, above this he has not ascended a single step. Were he to complain, which he rarely ever does, he would in all probability say, that his non-promotion has been due to independence of spirit, or, shaping it in his own phraseology, owing to his not having "bootlicked the swabs above him." And there is some truth in this, though another reason might be assigned by those disposed to speak slightingly of him; this, that although liking salt water, he has a decided antipathy to that which is fresh, unless when taken with an admixture of rum. Then he is too fond of it. But it is his only fault, barring which, a better man than Harry Blew—and, when sober, a steadier—never trod the deck of ship.

As already said, he has trod many, the latest being that of the Crusader, in which vessel he has spent five years of his life. His engagement terminating almost on the very day she dropt anchor before San Francisco, he has been set free, either to stay in the ship, by entering his name upon her books for a fresh period of service, or step out of her, and go cruising on his own account, whithersoever he may wish.

Taking into consideration the state of things in San Francisco just at this time, it is not strange his having elected to leave the ship. It would be stranger if he had even hesitated about it, though this he had indeed done, for some days lingering with mind only half made up. But the golden lure proved at length too temptingly attractive, and, yielding to it, he took a last leave of his old shipmates, was rowed ashore, and has since been sojourning at the "Sailor's Home"—for he is still there, as Cadwallader rightly surmised—there in a very miserable state of mind, not knowing how his wretchedness will be relieved.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE SAILOR'S HOME.

There is a "Sailor's Home," or "Snug Harbour" tavern in every seaport town, often anything but home, or harbour, in a pleasant sense. This of San Francisco, 1849, is a hostelry, half eating-house, half drinking-saloon, of somewhat unpretentious appearance—being a rough, weather-boarded building, without planing, or paint, and only two storeys in height. But if low in stature, it is high enough in its charges, as Harry Blew has learnt long since; these being out of all proportion to the outside appearance of the place, or its interior accommodation; though quite in keeping with the prices of other like houses of entertainment in the Pacific seaport.

Harry's original intention was to make only a short stay at the "Sailor's Home"—just long enough to put him through a bit of a spree; for which twelve months' pay, received from the frigate's purser at parting, had amply provided him. Then he would start off for the Feather River, or some other tributary stream of the Sacramento, where gold was being gathered, or dug for.

The first part of this programme he has already carried out, with something besides; that something being the complete expenditure of all his pay—every shilling he received from the ship, and in an incredibly short space of time. He had been scarcely six days ashore when he discovers his cash exchequer quite cleared out. As for credit, there is no such thing in San Francisco. A shop parcel sent home always comes conspicuously marked C.O.D.—"Cash on Delivery."

Since landing, he has not very carefully kept his dead-reckoning, and is at first somewhat surprised to find himself so far out in it. He has plunged his hands into his pockets without encountering coin. He searches in his sea-chest and every other receptacle where he has been accustomed to carry, with similar disappointing result. What can have become of his twelve months' wage, drawn on the day he left the Crusader? It has all disappeared!

No wonder he is unable to account for its disappearance; for ever since that day he has been anything but himself—in short, has given way to dissipation of longer continuance than ever before in his life. It has lasted six days, with most part of six nights, at the end of which time he has only pulled up for want of the wherewith to continue it—credit being denied him at the very counter over which he has passed all his pay.

Impecuniosity is an unpleasant predicament in any country, and at all times; but in the San Francisco of 1849 it was a positive danger—where six dollars were demanded, and obtained, for the most meagre of meals; the same for sleeping on a blanketless bed, in a chilly night, within a rough weather-boarded room, or under the yet thinner shelter of a canvas tent. It was a boon to be allowed to lie on the lee-side of a wooden-walled stable; but cost money for the privilege of sleeping in a stall, with straw litter for couch, and the radiating heat from the horses in lieu of coverlet.

In the necessity of seeking some such indifferent accommodation, Harry Blew finds himself, on the seventh night after having received his discharge from the Crusader. And as he has now got somewhat sobered, with brain clear enough to think, it occurs to him that the time is come for carrying out the second part of his programme—that is, going on to the gold-diggings.

But how to get off, and get there? These are separate questions, to neither of which can he give a satisfactory answer. Passage to Sacramento, by steamer, costs over a hundred dollars, and still more by stage-coach. He has not a shilling—not a red cent; and his sea-kit sold would not realise a sum sufficient to pay his fare, even if it (the kit) were free. But it is not. On the contrary, embargoed, "quodded," by the keeper of the "Sailor's Home," against a couple of days' unpaid board and lodging—with sundry imbibings across the counter, scored on the slate.

The discharged man-o'-war's man sees himself in a nasty dilemma—all the more from its having a double horn. He can neither go to the gold-diggings, nor stay in the "Sailor's Home." Comparatively cheap as may be this humble hostelry, it is yet dear enough to demand ten dollars a day for indifferent bed and board. Both have been thought bad enough by Harry Blew, even though only a foremast-man. But he is threatened with a still worse condition of things. Inappropriate the title bestowed on his house, for the owner of the "Home" has not the slightest hospitality in his heart. He has discovered that his English guest is "dead broke," drawing his deductions from the two days' board, and as many nights' bed, remaining unpaid.

There is a notice conspicuously posted above the bar that "scores must be settled daily." And Harry having disregarded this, has received private, but positive, notice of another kind; to the effect that he is forthwith to discontinue taking a seat at the table-d'hote, as also to surrender up his share of the bed he has been occupying, for he has not had a complete couch to himself. At this the discharged man-o'-war's man has shown no anger, nor does he feel in any way affronted. He has that correct sense common to sailors, with most others trained by travel in strange lands, and knows that when cash is not forthcoming, credit cannot be expected. In California, as elsewhere, such is the universal and rigorous custom, to which man must resign himself. The English sailor is only a bit sorry to think he has expended his cash so freely; a little repentant at having done it so foolishly; and, on the whole, a good deal downhearted.

But there is a silver lining to the cloud. The Crusader is still in port, and not expected to sail for some days. He may once more place his name upon the frigate's books, and rejoin her. He knows he will not only be received back by her commander, but welcomed by all his old officers and shipmates. A word spoken to the first boat coming ashore, and all will be well. Shall he speak such word? That has become the question. For in this, as every other step in life, there is a pro and contra. Humiliating the thought of going back to service on the ship, after taking leave of everybody aboard; returning to a dingy forecastle hard, and the handling of tarry ropes, after the bright dreams he had been indulging in; to forego the gathering of gold-dust, and the exchanging it for doubloons or dollars; in short, turning his back upon fortune—the prospect of a life competence, perhaps plenitude of wealth, with its resulting ease and idleness—and once more facing stormy seas, with only hard knocks and laborious work in store for him the remainder of his life!

While the sovereigns were still clinking in his pockets, this was the dark side of the picture—towards Sacramento, the bright one. Now that the pockets are empty, everything seems changed, and the golden sheen lies on the side of the ship.

Still the sailor hesitates how to decide. Despite the pressure upon him, he ponders and reflects; as he does so, plunging his hands into his pockets, apparently searching for coin. It is merely mechanical, for he knows he has not a shilling.

While thus occupied, he is seated in the little sanded bar-room of the "Home" alone with the bar-keeper; the latter eyeing him with anything but a sympathetic air. For the book is before him, showing that indebtedness for bed and board—to say nothing of the unsettled bar-score—and the record makes a bar-sinister between them. Another drink could not be added now, even though but a bottle of ginger-beer. The door of credit is closed, and only cash could procure an extension of that hospitality hitherto scant enough.

The sailor thinks. Must he surrender? Give up his dreams of fingering yellow gold, and return to clutching black shrouds? A glance at the grim, unrelaxed, and unrelenting visage of the bar-keeper decides him.

His decision is expressed in characteristic speech, not addressed to the drink-dispenser, nor aloud, but in low, sad soliloquy:

"Wi' me, I see, the old sayin's to stan' good—'Once a sailor, still a sailor.' Harry Blew, there be no help for't, ye maun steer back for the Crusader!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

OPPORTUNE VISITORS.

Having resolved upon returning to his ship—and that very night, if he can but get a boat—Harry Blew is about to sally forth into the street, when his egress is unexpectedly prevented. Not by the landlord of the "Sailor's Home," nor his representative behind the bar. These would only be too glad to get rid of a guest with two days' reckoning in arrear. For they have surreptitiously inspected his sea-chest, and found it to contain a full suit of "Sunday go-ashores," with other effects, which they deemed sufficient collateral security for the debt. And as it has been already hypothecated for this, both Boniface and bar-keeper would rather rejoice to see their sailor-guest clear out of the "Home" for good, leaving the chest behind him. On this condition they would be willing to wipe out the debt, both boarding and bar-score. Harry has no thought of thus parting with his kit. Now that he has made up his mind to return to the Crusader, a better prospect is opened up to him. He has hopes that on his making appearance aboard, and again entering his name on the frigate's books, the purser will advance him a sum sufficient to release his retained chattels. Or, he can in all likelihood collect the money among his old messmates. Not for this reason is he so anxious to reach the ship that night, but because he has no other chance of having any place to sleep in—save the street. The tavern-keeper has notified him, in plain terms, that he must peremptorily leave; and he is about to act upon the notification, and take departure, when prevented, as already said.

What now hinders him from going out of the "Home" is a man coming into it; or rather two—since two shadows have suddenly darkened the door, and are projected across the sanded floor of the bar-room. Not like shadows in the eyes of Harry Blew, but streaks of brightest sunlight! For in the individuals entering he recognises two of his officers; one of them his best friend, who saved his life. Crozier and Cadwallader have discovered him.

At sight of them the discharged sailor salutes promptly, and with as much respect as if all were on the quarterdeck of the Crusader. But with much more demonstration; for their well-timed appearance draws from him an exclamation of joy. Jerking off his straw hat, and giving a twitch to one of his brow-locks, he bobs his head several times in succession, with a simultaneous back-scrape of his foot upon the floor.

His obeisance ended, he stands silently awaiting whatever communication the young officers have to make. He is already aware that their business is with himself: for the bar-room is but dimly lit, and Crozier, while crossing its threshold, not at once recognising him, had called out:

"Is there a sailor staying here, by name Harry Blew!"

"Ay, ay, sir!" was the prompt response, the sailor himself giving it, along with the salutation described.

During the short interval of silence that succeeds, Harry's heart can be distinctly heard beating. Lately depressed—"Down in the dumps," as he himself would word it—it is now up in his throat. The sight of his patron, the saver of his life, is like having it saved a second time. Perhaps they have come to ask him to rejoin the ship? If so, 'tis the very thing he was thinking of. He will not anticipate, but waits for them to declare their errand.

"Well, Harry, old boy," says Crozier, after warmly shaking the sailor's hand, "I'm right glad to find you here. I was afraid you'd gone off to the diggings."

"True, Master Ed'ard; I did intend standin' on that tack, but ha'n't been able to get under way, for want o' a wind."

"Want of a wind? I don't quite understand you."

"Why, you see, sir, I've been a little bit spreeish since comin' ashore, and my locker's got low—more'n that, it's total cleared out. Though I suppose there be plenty of gold in them diggin's, it takes gold to get there; and as I ha'n't any, I'm laid up here like an old hulk foul o' a mud bank. That's just how it be, gen'lemen."

"In which case, perhaps you mightn't feel indisposed to go to sea again?"

"Just the thing I war thinkin' o', Master Ed'ard. I'd a'most made up my mind to it, sir, an' war 'bout startin' to try get aboard the old Crusader, and askin' your honour to ha' my name entered on her books again. I'm willin' to join for a fresh tarm, if they'll take me."

"They'd take, and be glad to get you, Harry; you may be sure of that. Such a skilled sailor need never be without a ship, where there's a British man-of-war within hailing distance. But we don't want you to join the Crusader."

"How is that, sir?"

"Because we can help you to something a little better. At least, it will be more to your advantage in a pecuniary sense. You wouldn't mind shipping in a merchant-vessel, with wages three or four times as much as you can get in a man-of-war? How would you like that, Harry?"

"I'd like it amazin'ly, sir. And for the matter o' being a merchanter, that's neither here nor there, so long's you recommend it. I'll go as cook, if you tell me to."

"No, no, Harry, not that," laughingly replies the young officer. "That would never do. I should pity those who had to eat the dishes you'd dress for them. Besides, I should be sorry to see you stewing your strength away in front of a galley-fire. You must do better than that; and it chances I'm authorised to offer you something better. It's a berth on board a trading-ship, and one with some special advantages. She's a Chilian vessel, and her captain is, I believe, either Chilian or Spanish. That won't make any difference to you?"

"Not a doit, sir. I don't care what the ship's colours be, nor what country her skipper, so long's he allows good wages an' plenty o' grub."

"And plenty of grog too, Harry?"

"Ay, ay, sir. I confess to a weakness for that—leastways the reg'lar three times a day."

"No doubt you'll get it, as often as you've a mind. But, Harry, I have a word to say about that. Besides my interest in your own welfare, I've another and more selfish one in this Chilian ship. So has Mr Cadwallader. We both want you to be on your best behaviour during the trip you're to take in her. On board will be two lady passengers, as far as Panama; for the ship is bound thither, and for ports beyond—I believe as far as Valparaiso. But the ladies are to land at Panama; and, so long as they're with you, you must do everything in your power to make things agreeable for them. If they should ever be in any danger—from storm, shipwreck, or otherwise—you'll stand by them?"

"Yes, Harry," adds Cadwallader, "you'll do that, won't you?"

"Lor', your honours!" exclaims the sailor, showing surprise. "Sure ye needn't put sich a questin to me—a British man-o'-war's man? I'd do that much, anyhow, out o' sheer starn sense o' duty. But when it comes to takin' care o' two ladies—to say nothin' about theer bein' so young, and so beautiful—"

"Avast, Harry! How do you know they are either one or the other?" asks Crozier, surprised; Cadwallader repeating the question.

"Lor' love ye, masters! Do ye think a common sailor han't got eyes in his head, for anythin' but ropes an' tar? You forget I war o' the boat's crew as rowed two sweet creeturs on board the Crusader, the night o' the grand dancin'; and arterward took the same ashore, along wi' two young gen'lemen, as went to see 'em home. Sure, sirs, actin' cox on that occasion, I couldn't help hearin' some o' the speeches as passed in the starn-sheets—tho' they wur spoken in the ears of the senoritas, soft as the breeze that fanned their fair cheeks, an' brought the colour out on 'em red as Ribston pippins."

"Avast again, you rascal! So you've been eavesdropping, have you? I quite forgot you understood Spanish."

"Only a trifle, Master Ed'ard."

"Too much for that occasion."

"Ah! well, your honour, it may stand me in good stead now—aboard the ship you speak o'."

"Well, Harry, I'm not going to scold you, seeing that you couldn't help hearing what you did. And now, I may as well tell you that the young ladies you saw that night in the boat are the same who are to be the passengers in the Chilian ship. You'll take good care of them, I know."

"That you may depend on, sir. Any one as touches hair o' their heads, to do 'em an injury, 'll have to tear the whole o' his off the head o' Harry Blew. I'll see 'em safe to Panama, or never show myself there. I promise that; an' I think both your honours 'll take the word of a British man-o'-war's man."

"That's enough—perfectly satisfactory! Now to give you the necessary directions about joining this ship. She's lying at anchor somewhere about in the bay. I didn't think of getting her name, but you'll find her easily enough. An' you needn't go in search of her till you've seen the gentleman whose name is upon this card. You see: 'Don Tomas Silvestre,' a ship-agent. His office is down in one of the streets by the strand. Report yourself to him first thing in the morning. In all likelihood he'll engage you on sight, make out your papers, and give you full directions for getting aboard the ship. It appears she's short of hands; indeed, even without a single sailor. And, by the way, Harry, if you apply soon enough, it's good as certain you'll be made mate— first at that; all the more from your being able to speak Spanish. It's too late for you to do anything about it to-night; but don't oversleep yourself. Be at the ship-agent's to-morrow betimes."

"Ye can trust me for that, sir. I'll show my figurehead there first thing in the mornin'. No fears o' any one getting theer afore me, if they've not gone a'ready."

"I think no one will be before you—I hope not. Send us word how you have succeeded, as the Crusader will likely be in port long enough for us to hear from you. Still, as she may sail on short notice, we may not see you again. Remember, then, what we've said about the senoritas. We shall rely upon your fidelity."

"An' well may ye, masters. You can both trust your lives to Harry Blew, an' those of them as is dear to you."

"All right, old boy!" exclaims Crozier, satisfied. "We must now part; but let's hope we'll meet again. When you get back to England you know where to find me. So, good-bye! Give us a grip of your honest fist, and God bless you!"

Saying this, he grasps the horny hand of the sailor, and warmly presses it. The pressure is returned by a squeeze that gives assurance of more than ordinary friendship. It is the grip of true gratitude; and the look which accompanies it tells of a devoted friendship, bordering on adoration.

Cadwallader also exchanges a like parting salutation; after which, the young officers start off, to continue their cruise through the streets of "Frisko."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

AN INHOSPITABLE HOSTELRY.

Harry Blew stands in the doorway of the "Sailor's Home," watching the two gentlemen as they walk away, his eyes glowing with gratitude and sparkling with joy. And no wonder, considering the change in his situation brought about by their influence. Ten minutes before, his spirits were at the lowest and darkest. But the prospect of treble, or quadruple pay on board a snug ship, though it be a trading-vessel, with the additional chance of being mate instead of foremast-man, has given him a fillip, not only restoring them to their ordinary condition of cheeriness, but raising them to the highest exaltation.

The only damper is regret at parting with the fine young fellow who has done so much for him. But he has passed through that already, when separating from his ship, and can now better bear it under the reflection that, though apart from his patron, he will have an opportunity of doing something to show his gratitude. He knows how much Crozier is interested in the wellbeing of Carmen Montijo—for Harry has been made acquainted with her name, as also that of Inez Alvarez—and to be entrusted with a sort of guardianship over these young ladies is a proud thought to the ex-man-o'-war's man—a fine feather in his cap.

To carry out the confidence thus reposed in him will be a labour of love; and he vows in his heart it shall be done, if need be, at the risk of life.

Indeed, the interview just ended has made a new man of him in more senses than one; for upon the spot he registers a mental resolve to give up dram-drinking for ever, or at all events till he has seen his charge—the two Spanish senoritas—safe landed at Panama, and the Chilian ship snug in the harbour of Valparaiso. After that, he is less sure that he may not again go upon a spree, and possibly a big one.

Heaving a sigh as the English officers pass out of sight, he turns back into the bar-room. It is no longer a question of his going aboard the Crusader. He must remain ashore, to be up betimes in the morning, so that he may be early at the office of the ship-agent.

And now, again, a shadow, though only a slight one, comes over his countenance. He has still before him the undetermined question, where he is to sleep. Notwithstanding his fine prospects for the future, the present is still unchanged, and yet unprovided for.

Unfortunately, he did not think of this while the officers were with him, else a word would have made all well. Either of them, he doubted not, would have relieved his necessities had they been but told of them. Too late now; they are gone out of sight, out of hail, and whether he cannot tell or guess; and to attempt searching for them in such crowded streets would be only a waste of time.

While thus ruefully reflecting, he is confronted by the bar-keeper, whose usually grave countenance is now beset with smiles. The fellow has got it into his head that his sailor-guest is no longer impecunious. The navy gentlemen just gone have no doubt been to engage him for their ship, and perhaps made him an advance of wages.

"Well, my salt," says he, in a tone of jocular familiarity, "I guess you've got the shiners now, an' kin settle up your score?"

"No, indeed, sir," answers Harry, more than ever taken aback; "I'm sorry to say I ha'n't."

"You hain't! Then what hev them gold-buttoned fellers been palaverin' ye about?"

"Not about money, master. Them's two o' the officers belongin' to my old ship—the British frigate Crusader. An' fine young fellows they be too."

"Much good their finikin fineness seems to hev done you! So they hain't gin you nuthin' better than their talk, hev they? Nuthin' besides?"

"Nothing besides," rejoins Blew, restraining his temper, a little touched by the bar-keeper's inquisitiveness, as also his impertinent manner.

"Nuthin' but fine words, eh? Well, thar's plenty o' them 'bout hyar, but they won't butter no parsnips; and let me tell you, my sailor-man, they won't pay your board bill."

"I know that," returns the other, still keeping his temper. "But I hope to have money soon."

"Oh! that's been your story for the last two days; but it won't bamboozle me any longer. You get no more credit here."

"Can't I have supper, and bed for another night?"

"No; that you can't—not so much as a shake-down."

"I'll pay for them first thing in the mornin'."

"You'll pay for 'em this night—now, if you calc'late to get 'em. An' if you've no cash, tain't any use talkin'. What d'ye think we keep a tavern for? 'Twould soon be to let—bar, beds, and all—if we'd only such customers as you. So, the sooner you slope, the better the landlord 'll like it. He's jest gin me orders to tell ye to clar out."

"It's gallows hard, master," says Harry, heaving a sigh; "the more so, as I've got the promise o' a good berth 'board a ship that's down in the harbour. The gentlemen you seed have just been to tell me about it."

"Then why didn't they give you the money to clar your kit?"

"They'd have done that—no doubt of it—if I'd only thought o' askin' them. I forgot all about it."

"Ah, that's all very fine—a likely tale; but I don't believe a word of it. If they cared to have you in their ship, they'd have given you the wherewithal to git there. But, come! it's no use shilly-shallyin' any longer. The landlord won't like it. He's gin his orders sharp: Pay or go."

"Well, I suppose I must go."

"You must; an', as I have already said, the sooner you're off the better."

After delivering this stern ultimatum, the bar-keeper jauntily returns behind his bar, to look more blandly on two guests who have presented themselves at it, called for "brandy smashes," and tossed down a couple of dollars to pay for them.

Harry Blew turns towards the door; and, without saying another word, steps out of the room.

Once on the street, he does not stop or stand hesitating. The hospitality of the so-called "home" has proved a sorry sham; and, indignant at the shabby treatment received, he is but too glad to get away from the place. All his life used to snug quarters in a fine ship's forecastle, with everything found for him, he has never before experienced the pang of having no place to lay his head. He not only feels it now, in all its unpleasantness, but fancies the passers-by can tell all about the humiliating position he is placed in.

Haunted by this fancy—urged on by it—he quickens his steps; nor stays them till out of sight of the "Sailor's Home," out of the street in which the detestable tavern stands. He even dislikes the idea of having to go back for his chest; which, however, he must some time do.

Meanwhile what is to become of him for the remainder of that night? Where is he to obtain supper, and a bed? About the latter he cares the least; and having had no dinner and but a spare breakfast he is hungry— half-famished—and could eat a pound or two of the saltest and toughest junk ever drawn out of a ship's cask.

In this unhappy frame of body as of mind he strays on along the street. There is no lack of food before his eyes, almost within reach of his hand; but only to tantalise, and still further whet the edge of his appetite. Eating-houses are open all around him; and under their blazing gas-jets he can see steaming dishes, and savoury joints, in the act of being set upon tables surrounded by guests seeming hungry as himself, but otherwise better off. He, too, might enter there without fear of being challenged as an intruder; for among the men inside are many in coarse garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as himself. But what would be the use of his going into a restaurant without even a penny in his pockets? He could only gaze at dishes he may not eat, and dare not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture too keenly to risk having it repeated.

Thus reflecting, he turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread, and keeps on along the street.

Again the double question recurs: Where is he to get supper, and where sleep?

And again he regrets not having given his confidence to the young gentlemen, and told them of the "fix" he was in. Either would have relieved him on the instant, without a word. But it is too late now to think of it, or hope seeing them in the streets. By this time, in all likelihood, they have started back to their ship.

How he wishes himself aboard the Crusader! How happy he would feel in her forecastle, among his old shipmates! It cannot be; and therefore it is idle to ponder upon it.

What on earth is he to do?

A thought strikes him.

It is of the ship-agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws the bit of pasteboard out, and holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted with the ship-agent's address. The name he remembers, and needs not that.

Though but a common sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The seaport town where he first saw the light had a public school for the poorer people, in which he was taught to read and write. By the former of these elementary branches—supplemented by a smattering of Spanish, picked up in South American ports—he is enabled to decipher the writing upon the card—for it is in writing—and so gets the correct address, both the street and number.

Having returned it to his pocket, he buttons up his dreadnought; and, taking a fresh hitch at his duck trousers, starts off again—this time with fixed intent: to find Don Tomas Silvestre.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE "HELL" EL DORADO.

A Monte Bank in the city of San Francisco, in the establishment y-cleped "El Dorado"—partly drinking-house, for the rest devoted to gambling on the grandest scale. The two are carried on simultaneously, and in a large oblong saloon. The portion of it devoted to Bacchus is at the end farthest from the entrance-door; where the shrine of the jolly god is represented by a liquor-bar extending from side to side, and backed by an array of shining bottles, glittering glasses, and sparkling decanters; his "worship" administered by half-a-dozen "bartenders," resplendent in white shirts with wrist ruffles, and big diamond breast-pins—real, not paste!

The altar of Fortuna is altogether of a different shape and pattern, occupying more space. It is not compact, but extended over the floor, in the form of five tables, large as if for billiards; though not one of them is of this kind. Billiards would be too slow a game for the frequenters of "El Dorado." These could not patiently wait for the scoring of fifty points, even though the stake were a thousand dollars. "No, no! Monte for me!" would be the word of every one of them; or a few might say "Faro." And of the five tables in the saloon, four are for the former game, the fifth furnished for the latter; though there is but little apparent difference in the furniture of the two; both having a simple cover of green baize, or broadcloth, with certain crossing lines traced upon it, that of the Faro table having the full suite of thirteen cards arranged in two rows, face upwards and fixed; while on the Monte tables but two cards appear thus—the Queen and Knave; or, as designated in the game—purely Spanish and Spanish-American—"Caballo" and "Sota." They are essentially card games, and altogether of chance, just as is the casting of dice.

Other gambling contrivances have place in the "El Dorado;" for it is a "hell" of the most complete kind; but these are of slight importance compared with the great games, Monte and Faro—the real pieces de resistance—while the others are only side-dishes, indulged in by such saunterers about the saloon as do not contemplate serious play. Of all, Monte is the main attraction, its convenient simplicity—for it is simple as "heads or tails"—making it possible for the veriest greenhorn to take part in it, with as much likelihood of winning as the oldest habitus of the hell. Originally Mexican, in many of the western states it has become Americanised.

Of the visible insignia of the game, and in addition to the two cards with their faces turned up, there is a complete pack, with several stacks of circular-shaped and variously coloured pieces of ivory—the "cheques" or counters of the game. These rest upon the table to the right or left of the dealer—usually the "banker" himself—in charge of his "croupier," who pays them out, or draws them in, as the bank loses or wins, along with such coin as may have been staked upon the albur.

Around the table's edge, and in front of each player, is his own private pile, usually a mixture of doubloons, dollars, and ivory cheques, with bags or packets of gold-dust and nuggets. Of bank-notes there are few, or none—the currency of California being through the medium of metal; at this date, 1849, most of it unminted, and in its crude state, as it came out of the mine, or the river's mud. By the croupier's hand is a pair of scales with weights appertaining; their purpose being to ascertain the value of such little gold packages as are "punted" upon the cards—this only needed to be known when the bank is loser. Otherwise, they are ruthlessly raked in alongside the other deposits, without any note made of the amount.

The dealer sits centrally at the side of the table, in a grand chair, cards in hand. After shuffling, he turns their faces up, one by one, and with measured slowness. He interrupts himself at intervals as the face of a card is exposed, making a point for or against him in the game. Calling this out in calm voice and long-drawn monotone, he waits for the croupier to square accounts; which the latter does by drawing in, or pushing out, the coins and cheques, with the nimbleness of a presti-digitateur. Old bets are rearranged, new ones made, and the dealing proceeds.

Around the tables sit, or stand, the players, exhibiting a variety of facial types, and national costumes. For there you may see not only human specimens of every known nationality, but of every rank in the social scale, with the callings and professions that appertain to it; an assemblage such as is rarely, if ever, observed elsewhere: gentlemen who may have won university honours; officers wearing gold straps on their shoulders, or bands of lace around the rims of their caps; native Californians, resplendent in slashed and buttoned velveteens; States' lawyers, and doctors, in sober black; even judges, who that same morning were seated upon the bench—may be all observed at the Monte table, mingling with men in red flannel shirts, blanket coats, and trousers tucked into the tops of mud-bedaubed boots; with sailors in pea-jackets of coarse pilot, or Guernsey smocks, unwashed, unkempt, unshorn; not only mingling with, but jostled by them—rudely, if occasion call.

All are on an equality here; no class distinction in the saloon "El Dorado;" for all are on the same errand—to get rich by gambling. The gold gleaming over the table is reflected in their faces. Not in smiles, or cheerfully; but by an expression of hungry cupidity—fixed, as if stamped into their features. No sign of hilarity, or joyfulness; not a word of badinage passing about, or between; scarce a syllable spoken, save the call-words of the dealer, or an occasional remark by the croupier, explanatory of some disputed point about the placing, or payment, of stakes.

And if there be little light humour, neither is there much of ill-manners. Strangely assorted as is the motley crowd—in part composed of the roughest specimens of humanity—noisy speech is exceptional, and rude or boisterous behaviour rare. Either shown would be resented, and soon silenced; though, perhaps, not till after some noises of still louder nature—the excited, angry clamour of a quarrel, succeeded by the cracking of pistols; then a man borne off wounded, in all likelihood to die, or already dead, and stretched along the sanded floor, to be taken unconcernedly up, and carried feet-foremost out of the room.

And yet, in an instant, it will all be over. The gamesters, temporarily attracted from the tables, will return to them; the dealing of the cards will be resumed; and, amidst the chinking of coin, and the rattling of cheques, the sanguinary drama will not only cease to be talked about, but thought of. Bowie-knives and pistols are the police that preserve order in the gambling-saloons of San Francisco.

Although the "El Dorado" is owned by a single individual, this is only as regards the house itself, with the drinking-bar and its appurtenances. The gaming-tables are under separate and distinct proprietorship; each belonging to a "banker," who supplies the cash capital, and other necessaries for the game—in short, "runs" the table, to use a Californian phrase. As a general rule, the owner of a table is himself the dealer, and usually, indeed almost universally, a distinguished "sportsman"—this being the appellation of the Western States' professional gambler, occasionally abbreviated to "sport." He is a man of peculiar characteristics, though not confined to California. His "species" may be met with all over the United States, but more frequently in those of the south and south-west; the Mississippi valley being his congenial coursing-ground, and its two great metropolitan cities, New Orleans and Saint Louis, his chief centres of operation. Natchez, Memphis, Vicksburg, Louisville, and Cincinnati permanently have him; but places more provincial, he only honours with an occasional visit. He is encountered aboard all the big steamboats—those called "crack," and carrying the wealthier class of passengers; while the others he leaves to the more timid and less noted practitioners of his calling.

Wherever seen, the "sport" is resplendent in shirt-front, glittering studs, with a grand cluster of diamonds on his finger sparkling like star, or stalactite, as he deals out the cards. He is, in truth, an elegant of the first water, apparelled and perfumed as a D'Orsay, or Beau Brummell; and, although ranking socially lower than these, with a sense of honour quite as high, perhaps higher than had either.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A MONTE BANK IN FULL BLAST.

In the hell "El Dorado," as already said, there are five gambling tables, side by side, but with wide spaces between for the players. Presiding over the one which stands central is a man of about thirty years of age, of good figure, and well-formed features—the latter denoting Spanish descent—his cheeks clean shaven, the upper lip moustached, the under having a pointed imperial or "goatee," which extends below the extremity of his chin. He has his hat on—so has everybody in the room—a white beaver, set upon a thick shock of black wavy hair, its brim shadowing a face that would be eminently handsome, but for the eyes, these showing sullen, if not sinister. Like his hair, they are coal-black, though he rarely raises their lids, his gaze being habitually fixed on the cards in his hands. Only once has he looked up and around, on hearing a name pronounced bearing an odd resemblance to that of the game he is engaged in, though merely a coincidence. It is "Montijo." Two native Californians standing close behind him are engaged in a dialogue, in which they incidentally speak of Don Gregorio. It is a matter of no moment—only a slight allusion—and, as their conversation is almost instantly over, the Monte dealer again drops his long dark lashes, and goes on with the game, his features resuming their wonted impassibility.

Though to all appearance immobile as those of the Sphinx, one watching him closely could see that there is something in his mind besides Monte. For although the play is running high, and large bets are being laid, he seems regardless about the result of the game—for this night only, since it has never been so before. His air is at times abstracted—more than ever after hearing that name—while he deals out the cards carelessly, once or twice making mistakes. But as these have been trifling, and readily rectified, the players around the table have taken no particular notice of them, nor yet of his abstraction. It is not sufficiently manifest to attract attention; and with the wonderful command he has over himself, none of them suspect that he is at that moment a prey to reflections of the strongest and bitterest kind.

There is one, however, who is aware of it, knowing the cause; this, a man seated on the players' side of the table, and directly opposite the dealer. He is a personage of somewhat squat frame, a little below medium height, of swarth complexion, and straight black hair; to all appearance a native Californian, though not wearing the national costume, but simply a suit of dark broadcloth. He lays his bet, staking large sums, apparently indifferent as to the result; while at the same time eyeing the deposits of the other players with eager, nervous anxiety, as though their losses and gains concerned him more than his own—the former, to all appearance, gladdening, the the latter making him sad!

His behaviour might be deemed strange, and doubtless would, were there any one to observe it. But there is not; each player is absorbed in his own play, and the calculation of chances.

In addition to watching his fellow-gamesters around the table, the seemingly eccentric individual ever and anon turns his eye upon the dealer—its expression at such times being that of intense earnestness, with something that resembles reproof—as if he were annoyed by the latter handling his cards so carelessly, and would sharply rebuke him, could he get the opportunity without being observed. The secret of the whole matter being, that he is a sleeping partner in the Monte bank—the moneyed one too; most of its capital having been supplied by him. Hence his indifference to the fate of his own stakes—for winning or losing is all the same to him—and his anxiety about those of the general circle of players.

His partnership is not suspected; or, if so, only by the initiated. Although sitting face to face with the dealer, no sign of recognition passes between them, nor is any speech exchanged. They seem to have no acquaintance with one another, beyond that begot out of the game.

And so the play proceeds, amidst the clinking of coin, and clattering of ivory pieces, these monotonous sounds diversified by the calls "Sota" this, and "Caballo" that, with now and then a "Carajo!" or it may be "Just my luck!" from the lips of some mortified loser. But, beyond such slight ebullition, ill-temper does not show itself, or, at all events, does not lead to any altercation with the dealer. That would be dangerous, as all are aware. On the table, close to his right elbow, rests a double-barrelled pistol, both barrels of which are loaded. And though no one takes particular notice of it, any more than it were a pair of snuffers on their tray, or one of the ordinary implements of the game, most know well enough that he who keeps this standing symbol of menace before their eyes is prepared to use it on slight provocation.

It is ten o'clock, and the bank is in full blast. Up to this hour the players in one thin row around the tables were staking only a few dollars at a time—as skirmishers in advance of the main army, firing stray shots from pieces of light calibre. Now the heavy artillery has come up, the ranks are filled, and the files become doubled around the different tables—two circles of players, in places three, engaging in the game. And instead of silver dollars, gold eagles and doubloons—the last being the great guns—are flung down upon the green baize, with a rattle continuous as the firing of musketry. The battle of the night has begun.

But Monte and Faro are not the only attractions of the "El Dorado." The shrine of Bacchus—its drinking-bar—has its worshippers as well; a score of them standing in front of it, with others constantly coming and going.

Among the latest arrivals are two young men in the attire of navy officers. At a distance it is not easy to distinguish the naval uniforms of nations—almost universally dark blue, with gold bands and buttons. More especially is it difficult when these are of the two cognate branches of the great Anglo-Saxon race—English and American. While still upon the street, the officers in question might have been taken for either; but once within the saloon, and under the light of its numerous lamps, the special insignia on their caps proclaim them as belonging to a British man-of-war. And so do they—since they are Edward Crozier and Willie Cadwallader.

They have entered without any definite design, further than, as Crozier said, to "have a shy at the tiger." Besides, as they have been told, a night in San Francisco would not be complete without a look in upon "El Dorado."

Soon as inside the saloon, they step towards its drinking-bar, Crozier saying—

"Come, Cad! let's do some sparkling."

"All right," responds the descendant of the Cymri, his face already a little flushed with what they have had at the Parker.

"Pint bottle of champagne!" calls Crozier.

"We've no pints here," saucily responds the bar-tender—a gentleman in shirt-sleeves, with gold buckles on his embroidered braces—too grand to append the courtesy of "sir."

"Nothing less than quarts," he deigns to add.

"A quart bottle, then!" cries Crozier, tossing down a doubloon to pay for it. "A gallon, if you'll only have the goodness to give it us."

The sight of the gold coin, with a closer inspection of his customers, and perhaps some dread of a second sharp rejoinder, secures the attention of the dignified Californian Ganymede, who, re-using his hauteur, condescends to serve them.

While drinking the champagne, the young officers direct their eyes towards that part of the saloon occupied by the gamesters; where they see several clusters of men collected around distinct tables, some sitting, others standing. They know what it means, and that there is Monte in their midst.

Though Cadwallader has often heard of the game, he has never played it, or been a spectator to its play. Crozier, who has both seen and played it, promises to initiate him.

Tossing off their glasses, and receiving the change—not much out of a doubloon—they approach one of the Monte tables—that in the centre of the saloon, around which there are players, standing and sitting three deep.

It is some time before they can squeeze through the two outside concentric rings, and get within betting distance of the table. Those already around it are not men to be pushed rudely apart, or make way for a couple of youngsters, however imposing their appearance, or impatient their manner. A mere officer's uniform is not much there, no matter the nationality. Besides, in the circle are officers of far higher rank than they, though belonging to a different service: naval captains and commanders, and of army men, majors, colonels—even generals. What care these for a pair of boisterous subalterns? Or what reck the rough gold-diggers, and stalwart trappers, seen around the table, for any or all of them? It is a chain, however ill-assorted in its links, not to be severed sans ceremonie; and the young English officers must bide their time. A little patience, and their turn will come too.

Practising this, they wait for it with the best grace they can. And not very long. One after another the more unfortunate of the gamesters get played out; each, as he sees his last dollar swept away from him by the ruthless rake of the croupier, heaving a sigh, and retiring from the table; most of them with seeming reluctance, and looking back, as a stripped traveller at the footpad who has turned his pockets inside out.

Soon the outer ring is broken, leaving spaces between, into one of which slips Crozier, Cadwallader pressing in along side of him.

Gradually they squeeze nearer and nearer, till they are close to the table's edge.

Having, at length, obtained a position, where they can conveniently place bets, they are about plunging their hands into their pockets for the necessary stakes, when all at once the act is interrupted. The two turn towards one another with eyes, attitude, everything expressing not only surprise, but stark, speech-depriving astonishment.

For on the opposite side of the table, seated in a grand chair, presiding over the game, and dealing out the cards, Crozier sees the man who has been making love to Carmen Montijo—his rival of the morning— while, at the same instant. Cadwallader has caught sight of his rival—the suitor of Inez Alvarez!



CHAPTER THIRTY.

FIGHTING THE TIGER.

At sight of De Lara and Calderon, the English officers stand speechless, as if suddenly struck dumb; for a pang has shot through their hearts, bitter as poison itself.

Crozier feels it keenest, since it is an affair which most concerns him. The suitor of Carmen Montijo a "sport"—a common gambler!

Cadwallader is less affected, though he too is annoyed. For although Calderon is in the circle of outside players—apparently a simple punter, like the rest—the companionship of the morning, with the relations existing between the two men, tell of their being socially the same. He already knows his rival to be a blackguard; in all likelihood he is also a blackleg.

Quick as thought itself, these reflections pass through the minds of the young Englishmen; though for some time neither says a word—their looks alone communicating to each other what both bitterly feel.

Fortunately, their surprise is not noted by the players around the table. Each is engrossed in his own play, and gives but a glance at the new-comers, whose naval uniforms are not the only ones there.

But there are two who take note of them in a more particular manner: these, Faustino Calderon and Francisco de Lara. Calderon, looking along the table—for he is on that same side—regards them with glances furtive almost timid. Very different is the manner of De Lara. At sight of Crozier he suspends the deal, his face suddenly turning pale, while a spark of angry light flashes forth from his eyes. The passionate display is to all appearance unobserved; or, if so, attributed to some trifling cause, as annoyance at the game going against him. It is almost instantly over; and the disturbed features of the Monte dealer resume their habitual expression of stern placidity.

The English officers having recovered from their first shock of astonishment, also find restored to them the faculty of speech; and now exchange thoughts, though not about that which so disturbs them. By a sort of tacit understanding it is left to another time, Crozier only saying—

"We'll talk of it when we get aboard ship. That's the place for sailors to take counsel together, with a clear head, such as we will want. At this precious minute, I feel like a fish out of water."

"By Jove! so do I."

"The thing we're both thinking of has raised the devil in me. But let us not bother about it now. I've got something else in my mind. I'm half-mad, and intend fighting the tiger."

"Fighting the tiger! What do you mean by that, Ned? I don't quite comprehend."

"You soon will. If you wish it, I'll give you a little preliminary explanation."

"Yes, do. Perhaps I can assist you."

"No, you can't. There's only one who can."

"Who is he?"

"It is not a he, but a she: the Goddess of Fortune. I intend soliciting her favours; if she but grant them, I'll smash Mr De Lara's Monte bank."

"Impossible! There's no probability of your being able to do that."

"Not much probability, I admit. Still there's a possibility. I've seen such a thing done before now. Bold play and big luck combined will do it. I'm in for the first; whether I have the last, remains to be seen. In any case, I'll either break the bank, or lose all I've got on me— which by chance is a pretty big stake to begin with. So here goes!"

Up to this time their conversation has been carried on in a low tone; no one hearing or caring to listen to it—all being too much absorbed in their own calculations to take heed of the bets or combinations of others. If any one gives a glance at them, and sees them engaged in their sotto-voce dialogue, it is but to suppose they are discussing which card they had best bet upon—whether the Sota or Caballo; and whether it would be prudent to risk a whole dollar, or limit their lay to the more modest sum of fifty cents.

They who may have been thus conjecturing, with everybody else, are taken by surprise, in fact, somewhat startled, when the older of the two officers, bending across the table, tosses a hundred pound Bank of England note upon the baize, with as much nonchalance as if it were but a five-dollar bill!

"Shall I give you cheques for it?" asks the croupier, after examining the crisp note—current over all the earth—and knowing it good as gold.

"No," answers Crozier; "not yet. You can give that after the bet's decided—if I win it. If not, you can take the note. I place it on the Queen, against the Knave."

The croupier, simply nodding assent, places the note as directed.

During the interregnum in which this little episode occurs, the English officers, hitherto scarce noticed, are broadly stared at, and closely scrutinised—Crozier becoming the cynosure of every eye. He stands it with a placid tranquillity, which shows him as careless about what they may think him, as he is of his cash.

Meanwhile, the cards have had a fresh shuffle, and the deal begins anew; all eyes again turning upon the game. In earnest expectancy; those who, like Crozier, have placed upon the Queen, wishing her to show her face first. And she does.

"Caballo en la puerta mozo!" (The Queen in the door wins) cries the dealer, the words drawled out with evident reluctance, while a flash of fierce anger is seen scintillating in his eyes.

"Will you take it in cheques?" asks the croupier addressing himself to Crozier, after settling the smaller bets. "Or shall I pay you in specie?"

"You needn't pay yet. Let the note lie. Only cover it with a like amount. I go it double, and again upon the Queen."

Stakes are re-laid—some changed—others left standing or doubled, as Crozier's, which is now a bet for two hundred pounds.

On goes the game, the piece of smooth pasteboard slipping silently from the jewelled fingers of the dealer, whose eye is bent upon the cards, as if he saw through them—or would, if he could. But whatever his wish, he has no power to change the chances. If he have any professional tricks, there is no opportunity for him to practise them. There are too many eyes looking on; too many pistols and bowie-knives about; too many men ready to stop any attempt at cheating, and punish it, if attempted.

Again he is compelled to call out:

"Caballo en la puerta mozo!"

"Now, sir," says the croupier to Crozier, after settling other scores, "you want your money, I suppose?"

"Not yet. I'm not pressed, and can afford to wait. I again go double, and am still contented with my Queen."

The dealing proceeds; with four hundred pounds lying on the Caballo to Crozier's account—and ten times as much belonging to other bettors. For now that the luck seems to be running with the Englishman, most lay their stakes beside his.

Once again: "Caballo en la puerta mozo!"

And again Crozier declines to take up his bet.

He has now eight hundred pounds sterling upon the card—sixteen hundred on the turn of the game—while the others, thoroughly assured that his luck is on the run, double theirs, till the bets against the bank post up to as many thousands.

De Lara begins to look anxious, and not a little downhearted. Still more anxious, and lower in heart, appears him seated on the opposite side—Calderon; for it is his money that is moving away. He is visibly excited. On the contrary, Crozier is as cool as ever, his features set in a rigid determination to do what he promised—break the bank, or lose all he has got about him. The last, not likely yet, for soon again comes the cry:

"The Queen winner!"

There is a pause longer than usual, for the settling of such a large score; and after it an interval of inaction. The dealer seems inclined to discontinue; for still lying upon the Queen is Crozier's stake, once more doubled, and now counting three thousand two hundred pounds!

Asked if he intends to let it remain, he replies sneeringly:

"Of course I do; I insist upon it. And once more I go for the Queen. Let those who like the Knave better, back him!"

"Go on! Go on!" is the cry around the table, from many voices speaking in tone of demand.

De Lara glances at Calderon furtively, but, to those observing it, with a look of interrogation. Whatever the sign, or answer, it decides him to go on dealing.

The bets are again made; to his dismay, almost everybody laying upon the Queen, and, as before, increasing their stakes. And in like proportion is heightened the interest in the game. It is too intense for any display of noisy excitement now. And there is less throughout the saloon; for many from the other tables, as all the saunterers, have collected round, and standing several deep, gaze over one another's shoulders, with as much eager earnestness as if a man were expiring in their midst.

The ominous call at length comes—not in clear voice, or tone exultant, but feeble, and as if rung reluctantly from the lips of the Monte dealer. For it is again a verdict adverse to the bank:

"Caballo en la puerta mozo!"

As De Lara utters the words, he dashes the cards down, scattering them all over the table. Then rising excitedly from his chair, adds in faltering tone:

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry to tell you the bank's broke!"



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

A PLUCKY "SPORT."

"The bank's broke!"

Three words, that, despite their bad grammar, have oft—too oft— startled the ear, and made woe in many a heart.

At hearing them, the gamesters of the "El Dorado" seated around Frank Lara's Monte table spring to their feet, as if their chairs had suddenly become converted into iron at white heat. They rise simultaneously, as though all were united in a chain, elbow and elbow together.

But while thus gesturing alike, very different is the expression upon their faces. Some simply show surprise; others look incredulous; while not a few give evidence of anger.

For an instant there is silence—the surprise, the incredulity, the anger having suspended speech. This throughout the saloon; for all, bar-drinkers as well as gamesters, have caught the ominous words, and thoroughly understand their import. No longer resounds the chink of ivory cheques, or the metallic ring of doubloons and dollars. No longer the thudding down of decanters, nor the jingle of glasses. Instead, a stillness so profound that one entering at this moment might fancy it a Quakers' meeting, but for the symbols seen around—these, anything but Quakerish. Easier to imagine it a grand gambling-hell, where dealers, croupiers, players, and spectators have all been suddenly turned to stone, or have become figures in wax-work.

The silence is of the shortest—as also the immobility of the men composing the different groups—only for a half-score seconds. Then there is noise enough, with plenty of gesticulation. A roar arises that fills the room; while men rush about wildly, madly, as if in the courtyard of a lunatic asylum. Some show anger—those who are losers by the breaking of the bank. Many have won large bets, their stakes still lying on the table, which they know will not be paid. The croupier has told them so, confessing his cash-box cleared out at the last settlement; even this having been effected with the now protested ivory cheques.

Some gather up their gold or silver, and stow it in safety, growling, but satisfied that things are no worse. Others are not so lenient. They do not believe there is a good cause for the suspension, and insist on being paid in full. They rail at the proprietor of the bank, adding menace. De Lara is the man thus marked. They see him before them, grandly dressed, glittering with diamonds. They talk of stripping him of his bijouterie.

"No, gentlemen!" he exclaims, with a sardonic sneer. "Not that, if you please—not yet. First hear me, and then it will be time for you to strike."

"What have you to say?" demands one, with his fists full of ivory counters, unredeemed.

"Only that I'm not the owner of this bank, and never have been."

"Who is, then?" ask several at the same time.

"Well; that I can't tell you just now; and, what's more, I won't. No, that I won't."

The gambler says this with emphasis, and an air of sullen determination, that has its effect upon his questioners—even the most importunate. For a time it stays their talk, as well as action.

Seeing this, he follows it up with further speech, somewhat mere conciliatory.

"As I've said, gentlemen, I'm not the owner of this concern—only the dealer of the cards. You ask, who's proprietor of the smashed table. It's natural enough you should want to know. But it's just as natural that it ain't my business to tell you. If I did, it would be a shabby trick; and, I take it, you're all men enough to see it in that light. If there's any who isn't, he can have my card, and call upon me at his convenience. My name's Francisco de Lara—or Frank Lara, for short. I can be found here, or anywhere else in San Francisco, at such time as may suit anxious inquirers. And if any wants me now, and can't wait, I'm good this minute for pistols across that bit of board we've just been seated at. Yes, gentlemen! Any of you who'd relish a little amusement of that kind, let him come on! It'll be a change from the Monte. For my part, I'm tired of shuffling cards, and would like to rest my fingers on a trigger. Which of you feels disposed to give me the chance? Don't all speak at once!"

No one feels disposed, and no one speaks; at least in hostile tone, or to take up the challenge. Instead, half a score surround the "sport," and not only express their admiration of his pluck, but challenge him to an encounter of drinks, not pistols.

Turning towards the bar, they vociferate "Champagne."

Contented with the turn things have taken, and proud at the volley of invitations, De Lara accepts; and soon the vintage of France is seen effervescing from a dozen tall glasses, and the Monte dealer stands drinking in the midst of his admirers.

Other groups draw up to the bar-counter, while twos and solitary tipplers fill the spaces between.

The temple of Fortuna is for a time deserted, her worshippers transferring their devotion to the shrine of Bacchus. The losers drink to drown disappointment, while the winners quaff cups in the exhilaration of success.

If a bad night for the bank, it is a good one for the bar. Decanters are speedily emptied, and bottles of many kinds go "down among the dead men."

The excitement in the "El Dorado" is soon over. Occurrences of like kind, but often of more tragical termination, are too common in California to cause any long-sustained interest. Within the hour will arise some new event, equally stirring, leaving the old to live only in the recollection of those who have been active participants in it.

So with the breaking of Frank Lara's bank. A stranger, entering the saloon an hour after, from what he there sees, could not tell, neither would he suspect that an incident of so serious nature had occurred. For in less than this time the same Monte table is again surrounded by gamesters, as if its play had never been suspended. The only difference observable is that quite another individual presides over it, dealing out the cards, while a new croupier has replaced him whose cash receipts so suddenly ran short of his required disbursements.