Larry O'Neil was one of these, and he went about his work whistling violently. We will not take upon us to say how much of his romance was due to the haunch of venison. We would not, if called on to do it, undertake to say how much of the romance and enjoyment of a pic-nic party would evaporate, if it were suddenly announced that "the hamper" had been forgotten, or that it had fallen and the contents been smashed and mixed. We turn from such ungenerous and gross contemplations to the cooking of that haunch of venison, which, as it was done after a fashion never known to Soyer, and may be useful in after-years to readers of this chronicle, whose lot it may be, perchance, to stand in need of such knowledge, we shall carefully describe.

It is not necessary to enlarge upon the preliminaries. We need hardly say that Larry washed off the mud, and that he passed flattering remarks upon his own abilities and prowess, and, in very irreverent tones and terms, addressed Ah-wow, who smoked his pipe and looked at him. All that, and a great deal more, we leave to our reader's well-known and vivid imagination. Suffice it that the venison was duly washed, and a huge fire, with much difficulty, kindled, and a number of large stones put into it to heat. This done, Larry cut off a lump of meat from the haunch—a good deal larger than his own head, which wasn't small—the skin with the hair on being cut off along with the meat. A considerable margin of flesh was then pared off from the lump, so as to leave an edging of hide all round, which might overlap the remainder, and enclose it, as it were, in a natural bag.

At this stage of the process Larry paused, looked admiringly at his work, winked over the edge of it at Ah-wow, and went hastily into the tent, whence he issued with two little tin canisters,—one containing pepper, the other salt.

"Why, you beat the French all to nothing!" remarked the captain, who sat on an upturned tea-box, smoking and watching the proceedings.

"Ah! thin, don't spake, capting; it'll spile yer appetite," said Larry, sprinkling the seasoning into the bag and closing it up by means of a piece of cord. He then drew the red-hot stones and ashes from the fire, and, making a hot-bed thereof, placed the venison-dumpling—if we may be allowed the term—on the centre of it. Before the green hide was quite burned through, the dish was "cooked," as Yankees express it, "to a curiosity," and the tasting thereof would have evoked from an alderman a look, (he would have been past speaking!) of ecstasy, while a lady might have exclaimed, "Delicious!" or a schoolboy have said, "Hlpluhplp," [see note 1], or some such term which ought only to be used in reference to intellectual treats, and should never be applied to such low matters as meat and drink.

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Note 1. Hlpluhplp. As the reader may have some difficulty in pronouncing the above word, we beg to inform him, (or her), that it is easily done, by simply drawing in the breath, and, at the same time, waggling the tongue between the lips.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE RAINY SEASON, AND ITS EFFECTS—DISEASE AND MISERY AT LITTLE CREEK— REAPPEARANCE OF OLD FRIENDS—AN EMIGRANT'S DEATH—AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.

Captain Bunting, after two days' serious consideration, made up his mind to go down alone to San Francisco, in order to clear up the mystery of the letter, and do all that he could personally in the absence of his friend. To resolve, however, was easy; to carry his resolution into effect was almost impracticable, in consequence of the inundated state of the country.

It was now the middle of November, and the rainy season, which extends over six months of the year, was in full play. Language is scarcely capable of conveying, to those who have not seen it, an adequate idea of how it rained at this period of the year. It did not pour—there were no drops—it roared a cataract of never-ending ramrods, as thick as your finger, straight down from the black sky right through to the very vitals of the earth. It struck the tents like shot, and spirted through the tightest canvas in the form of Scotch-mist. It swept down cabin chimneys, and put out the fires; it roared through every crevice, and rent and seam of the hills in mad cataracts, and swelled up the Little Creek into a mighty surging river.

All work was arrested; men sat in their tents on mud-heaps that melted from below them, or lay on logs that well-nigh floated away with them; but there was not so much grumbling as one might have expected. It was too tremendous to be merely annoying. It was sublimely ridiculous,—so men grinned, and bore it.

But there were many poor miners there, alas! who could not regard that season in a light manner. There were dozens of young and middle-aged men whose constitutions, although good, perhaps, were not robust, and who ought never to have ventured to seek their fortunes in the gold-regions. Men who might have lived their full time, and have served their day and generation usefully in the civilised regions of the world, but who, despite the advice of friends, probably, and certainly despite the warnings of experienced travellers and authors, rushed eagerly to California to find, not a fortune, but a grave. Dysentery, scurvy in its worst and most loathsome type, ague, rheumatism, sciatica, consumption, and other diseases, were now rife at the diggings, cutting down many a youthful plant, and blasting many a golden dream.

Doctors, too, became surprisingly numerous, but these disciples of Esculapius failed to effect cures, and as their diplomas, when sought for, were not forthcoming, they were ultimately banished en masse by the indignant miners. One or two old hunters and trappers turned out in the end to be the most useful doctors, and effected a good many cures with the simple remedies they had become acquainted with among the red-men.

What rendered things worse was that provisions became scarce, and, therefore, enormously dear. No fresh vegetables of any kind were to be had. Salt, greasy and rancid pork, bear's-meat, and venison, were all the poor people could procure, although many a man there would have given a thousand dollars—ay, all he possessed—for a single meal of fresh potatoes. The men smitten with scurvy had, therefore, no chance of recovering. The valley became a huge hospital, and the banks of the stream a cemetery.

There were occasional lulls, however, in this dismal state of affairs. Sometimes the rain ceased; the sun burst forth in irresistible splendour, and the whole country began to steam like a caldron. A cart, too, succeeded now and then in struggling up with a load of fresh provisions; reviving a few sinking spirits for a time, and almost making the owner's fortune; but, at the best, it was a drearily calamitous season,—one which caused many a sick heart to hate the sight and name of gold, and many a digger to resolve to quit the land, and all its treasures, at the first opportunity.

Doubtless, too, many deep and earnest thoughts of life, and its aims and ends, filled the minds of some men at that time. It is often in seasons of adversity that God shews to men how mistaken their views of happiness are, and how mad, as well as sinful, it is in them to search for joy and peace apart from, and without the slightest regard for, the Author of all felicity. Yes, there is reason to hope and believe that many seeds of eternal life were sown by the Saviour, and watered by the Holy Spirit, in that disastrous time of disease and death,—seed which, perhaps, is now blessing and fertilising many distant regions of the world.

In one of the smallest and most wretched of the huts, at the entrance of the valley of Little Creek, lay a man, whose days on earth were evidently few. The hut stood apart from the others, in a lonely spot, as if it shrank from observation, and was seldom visited by the miners, who were too much concerned about their own misfortunes to care much for those of others. Here Kate Morgan sat by the couch of her dying brother, endeavouring to soothe his last hours by speaking to him in the most endearing terms, and reading passages from the Word of God, which lay open on her knee. But the dying man seemed to derive little comfort from what she said or read. His restless eye roamed anxiously round the wretched hut, while his breath came short and thick from between his pale lips.

"Shall I read to ye, darlin'?" said the woman, bending over the couch to catch the faint whisper, which was all the poor man had strength to utter.

Just then, ere he could reply, the clatter of hoofs was heard, and a bronzed, stalwart horseman was seen through the doorless entrance of the hut, approaching at a brisk trot. Both horse and man were of immense size, and they came on with that swinging, heavy tread, which gives the impression of irresistible weight and power. The rider drew up suddenly, and, leaping off his horse, cried, "Can I have a draught of water, my good woman?" as he fastened the bridle to a tree, and strode into the hut.

Kate rose hurriedly, and held up her finger to impose silence, as she handed the stranger a can of water. But he had scarcely swallowed a mouthful when his eye fell on the sick man. Going gently forward to the couch, he sat down beside it, and, taking the invalid's wrist, felt his pulse.

"Is he your husband?" inquired the stranger, in a subdued voice.

"No, sir,—my brother."

"Does he like to have the Bible read to him?"

"Sometimes; but before his voice failed he was always cryin' out for the priest. He's a Catholic, sir, though I'm not wan meself and thinks he can't be saved unless he sees the priest."

The stranger took up the Bible, and, turning towards the man, whose bright eyes were fixed earnestly upon him, read, in a low impressive voice, several of those passages in which a free salvation to the chief of sinners is offered through Jesus Christ. He did not utter a word of comment; but he read with deep solemnity, and paused ever and anon to look in the face of the sick man as he read the blessed words of comfort. The man was not in a state either to listen to arguments or to answer questions, so the stranger wisely avoided both, and gently quitted the hut after offering up a brief prayer, and repeating twice the words—

"Jesus says, 'Him that cometh to Me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

Kate followed him out, and thanked him earnestly for his kindness, while tears stood in her eyes.

"Have you no friends or relations here but him!" inquired the stranger.

"Not wan. There was wan man as came to see us often when we stayed in a lonesome glen further up the Creek, but we've not seen him since we came here. More be token he didn't know we were goin' to leave, and we wint off in a hurry, for my poor brother was impatient, and thought the change would do him good."

"Take this, you will be the better of it."

The stranger thrust a quantity of silver into Kate's hand, and sprang upon his horse.

"I don't need it, thank 'ee," said Kate, hurriedly.

"But you may need it; at any rate, he does. Stay, what was the name of the man who used to visit you?"

"O'Neil, sir—Larry O'Neil."

"Indeed! he is one of my mates. My name is Sinton—Edward Sinton; you shall hear from me again ere long."

Ned put spurs to his horse as he spoke, and in another moment was out of sight.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

NED DECIDES ON VISITING SAN FRANCISCO—LARRY PAYS A VISIT, AND RECEIVES A SEVERE DISAPPOINTMENT—THE ROAD AND THE CITY—UNEXPECTED NEWS.

Few joys in this life are altogether without alloy. The delight experienced by Larry O'Neil and Captain Bunting, when they heard the hearty tones of Ned Sinton's voice, and the satisfaction with which they beheld his face, when, in their anxiety to prevent his falling headlong into "the hole," they both sprang out of the tent and rushed into his arms, were somewhat damped on their observing that Tom Collins was not with him. But their anxieties were speedily relieved on learning that Tom was at Sacramento City, and, it was to be hoped, doing well.

As Ned had eaten nothing on the day of his arrival since early morning, the first care of his friends was to cook some food for him; and Larry took special care to brew for him, as soon as possible, a stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water, which, as he was wet and weary, was particularly acceptable.

While enjoying this over the fire in front of the tent, Ned related the adventures of himself and Tom Collins circumstantially; in the course of which narration he explained, what the reader does not yet know, how that, after Tom had recovered from his illness sufficiently to ride, he had conducted him by easy stages to the banks of the great San Joaquin river, down which they had proceeded by boat until they reached Sacramento.

Here Ned saw him comfortably settled in the best room of the best hotel in the town, and then, purchasing the largest and strongest horse he could find, he set off, in spite of the rains, to let his comrades know that they were both safe, and, in Ned's case at least, sound.

"And, now, with reference to that letter."

"Ay, that letter," echoed the captain; "that's what I've bin wantin' you to come to. What can it mean?"

"I am as ignorant of that as yourself," answered Ned; "if it had only been you who were mentioned in the letter, I could have supposed that your old ship had been relaunched and refitted, and had made a successful voyage to China during your absence; but, as I left no property of any kind in San Francisco, and had no speculations afloat, I cannot conceive what it can be."

"Maybe," suggested Larry, "they've heard o' our remarkable talents up here in the diggin's, and they've been successful in gittin' us app'inted to respansible sitivations in the new government I've heared they're sottin' up down there. I wouldn't object to be prime minister meself av they'd only allow me enough clarks to do the work."

"And did you say you were all ready for a start to-morrow, captain?" inquired Ned.

"Quite. We've disposed of the claims and tools for fifteen hundred dollars, an' we sold Ah-wow along with the lot; that's to say, he remains a fixture at the same wage; and the little we meant to take with us is stowed away in our saddle-bags. Ye see, I couldn't foresee that you'd plump down on us in this fashion, and I felt that the letter was urgent, and ought to be acted on at once."

"You did quite right," returned Ned. "What a pity I missed seeing Bill Jones at Sacramento; but the city has grown so much, and become so populous, in a few months, that two friends might spend a week in it, unknown to each other, without chancing to meet. And now as to the gold. Have you been successful since I left?"

"Ay," broke in Larry, "that have we. It's a great country intirely for men whose bones and muscles are made o' iron. We've dug forty thousand dollars—eight thousand pounds—out o' that same hole in the tint; forby sprainin' the ankles, and well-nigh breakin' the legs, o' eight or tin miners. It's sorry I'll be to lave it. But, afther all, it's a sickly place, so I'm contint to go."

"By the way, Larry, that reminds me I met a friend o' yours at the other end of the settlement."

"I belave ye," answered Larry; "ivery man in the Creek's my fri'nd. They'd die for me, they would, av I only axed them."

"Ay, but a particular friend, named Kate, who—"

"Och! ye don't mane it!" cried the Irishman, starting up with an anxious look. "Sure they lived up in the dark glen there; and they wint off wan fine day, an' I've niver been able to hear o' them since."

"They are not very far off," continued Ned, detailing his interview with the brother and sister, and expressing a conviction that the former could not now be in life.

"I'll go down to-night," said Larry, drawing on his heavy boots.

"You'd better wait till to-morrow," suggested the captain. "The poor thing will be in no humour to see any one to-night, and we can make a halt near the hut for an hour or so."

Larry, with some reluctance, agreed to this delay, and the rest of the evening was spent by the little party in making preparations for a start on the following day; but difficulties arose in the way of settling with the purchasers of their claims, so that another day passed ere they got fairly off on their journey towards Sacramento.

On reaching the mouth of the Little Creek, Larry O'Neil galloped ahead of his companions, and turned aside at the little hut, the locality of which Sinton had described to him minutely. Springing off his horse, he threw the reins over a bush and crossed the threshold. It is easier to conceive than to describe his amazement and consternation on finding the place empty. Dashing out, he vaulted into the saddle, and almost galloped through the doorway of the nearest hut in his anxiety to learn what had become of his friends.

"Halloo! stranger," shouted a voice from within, "no thoroughfare this way; an' I wouldn't advise ye for to go an' try for to make one."

"Ho! countryman, where's the sick Irishman and his sister gone, that lived close to ye here?"

"Wall, I ain't a countryman o' yourn, I guess; but I can answer a civil question. They're gone. The man's dead, an' the gal took him away in a cart day b'fore yisterday."

"Gone! took him away in a cart!" echoed Larry, while he looked aghast at the man. "Are ye sure?"

"Wall, I couldn't be surer. I made the coffin for 'em, and helped to lift it into the cart."

"But where have they gone to?"

"To Sacramento, I guess. I advised her not to go, but she mumbled something about not havin' him buried in sich a wild place, an' layin' him in a churchyard; so I gave her the loan o' fifty dollars—it was all I could spare—for she hadn't a rap. She borrowed the horse and cart from a countryman, who was goin' to Sacramento at any rate."

"You're a trump, you are!" cried Larry, with energy; "give us your hand, me boy! Ah! thin yer parents were Irish, I'll be bound; now, here's your fifty dollars back again, with compound interest to boot—though I don't know exactly what that is—"

"I didn't ax ye for the fifty dollars," said the man, somewhat angrily. "Who are you that offers 'em!"

"I'm her—her—friend," answered Larry, in some confusion; "her intimate friend; I might almost say a sort o' distant relation—only not quite that."

"Wall, if that's all, I guess I'm as much a friend as you," said the man, re-entering his cabin, and shutting the door with a bang.

Larry sighed, dropped the fifty dollars into his leather purse, and galloped away.

The journey down to Sacramento, owing to the flooded state of the country, was not an easy one. It took the party several days' hard riding to accomplish it, and during all that time Larry kept a vigilant look-out for Kate Morgan and the cart, but neither of them did he see. Each day he felt certain he would overtake them, but each evening found him trying to console himself with the reflection that a "stern chase" is proverbially a long one, and that next day would do it. Thus they struggled on, and finally arrived at the city of Sacramento, without having set eyes on the wanderer. Poor Larry little knew that, having gone with a man who knew the road thoroughly, Kate, although she travelled slowly, had arrived there the day before him; while Ned had lengthened the road by unwittingly making a considerable and unnecessary detour. Still less did he know that, at the very hour he arrived in the city, Kate, with her sad charge, embarked on board a small river steamer, and was now on her way to San Francisco.

As it was, Larry proposed to start back again, supposing they must have passed them; but, on second thoughts, he decided to remain where he was and make inquiries. So the three friends pushed forward to the City Hotel to make inquiries after Tom Collins.

"Mr Collins?" said the waiter, bowing to Sinton—"he's gone, sir, about a week ago."

"Gone!" exclaimed Ned, turning pale.

"Yes, sir; gone down to San Francisco. He saw some advertisement or other in the newspaper, and started off by the next steamer."

Ned's heart beat freely again. "Was he well when he left?"

"Yes, sir, pretty well. He would have been the better of a longer rest, but he was quite fit to travel, sir."

Captain Bunting, who, during this colloquy, had been standing with his legs apart, and his eyes glaring at the waiter, as if he had been mad, gave a prolonged whistle, but made no further remark. At this moment Larry, who had been conversing with one of the under-waiters, came rushing in with a look of desperation on his countenance.

"Would ye belave it," he cried, throwing himself down on a splendid crimson sofa, that seemed very much out of keeping with the dress of the rough miners whom it was meant to accommodate—"would ye belave it, they're gone!"

"Who are gone, and where to!" inquired Ned.

"Kate an'—an' the caffin. Off to San Francisco, be all that's onlucky; an' only wint little more nor an hour ago."

The three friends looked at each other.

"Waiter," said Captain Bunting, in a solemn voice, "bear-chops for three, pipes and baccy for six, an' a brandy-smash for one; an', d'ye hear, let it be stiff!"

"Yes, sir."

A loud laugh from Ned and Larry relieved their over-excited and pent-up feelings; and both agreed that, under the circumstances, the captain's order was the best that could be given at that stage of their perplexities. Having ascertained that there was not another steamer to San Francisco for a week, they resolved to forget their anxieties as much as possible, and enjoy themselves in the great city of Sacramento during the next few days; while they instituted inquiries as to what had become of their comrade, Bill Jones, who, they concluded, must still be in the city, as they had not met him on the way down.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

GOLD NOT ALL-POWERFUL—REMARKABLE GROWTH OF SACRAMENTO—NEW STYLE OF BRINGING A HOTEL INTO NOTICE—A SURPRISING DISCOVERY—DEATH OF A MEXICAN HORSE-TAMER—THE CONCERT, AND ANOTHER DISCOVERY—MADEMOISELLE NELINA CREATES A SENSATION.

It is said that gold can accomplish anything; and, in some respects, the saying is full of truth; in some points of view, however, the saying is altogether wrong. Gold can, indeed, accomplish almost anything in the material world—it can purchase stone, and metal, and timber; and muscles, bones, thews, and sinews, with life in them, to any extent. It can go a step further—it can purchase brains, intellect, genius; and, throwing the whole together, material and immaterial, it can cut, and carve, and mould the world to such an extent that its occupants of fifty years ago, were they permitted to return to earth, would find it hard to recognise the scene of their brief existence. But there are things and powers which gold cannot purchase. That worn-out old millionnaire would give tons of it for a mere tithe of the health that yonder ploughman enjoys. Youth cannot be bought with gold. Time cannot be purchased with gold. The prompt obedience of thousands of men and women may be bought with that precious metal, but one powerful throb of a loving heart could not be procured by all the yellow gold that ever did or ever will enrich the human family.

But we are verging towards digression. Let us return to the simple idea with which we intended to begin this chapter—the wonder-working power of gold. In no country in the wide world, we venture to affirm, has this power been exemplified so strikingly as in California. The knowledge of the discovery of gold was so suddenly and widely disseminated over the earth, that human beings flowed into the formerly-uninhabited wilderness like a mighty torrent, while thousands of ships flooded the markets with the necessaries of life. Then gold was found to be so abundant, and, at first, so easily procured, that the fever was kept up at white-heat for several years. The result of this was, as we have remarked elsewhere, that changes, worthy of Aladdin's lamp or Harlequin's wand, were wrought in the course of a few weeks, sometimes in a few days.

The city of Sacramento was one of the most remarkable of the many strange and sudden growths in the country. The river on which it stands is a beautiful stream, from two to three hundred yards wide, and navigable by large craft to a few miles above the city. The banks, when our friends were there, were fringed with rich foliage, and the wild trees of the forest itself stood growing in the streets. The city was laid out in the form of a square, with streets crossing each other at right angles; a forest of masts along the embarcadero attested the growing importance and wealth of the place; and nearly ten thousand inhabitants swarmed in its streets. Many of those streets were composed of canvas tents, or erections scarcely more durable. Yet here, little more than a year before, there were only four thousand in the place!

Those who chanced to be in possession of the land here were making fortunes. Lots, twenty feet by seventy, in the best situations, brought upwards of 3500 dollars. Rents, too, were enormous. One hotel paid 30,000 dollars (6000 pounds) per annum; another, 35,000 dollars. Small stores fetched ten and twelve thousand dollars a year; while board at the best hotels was five dollars a day. Truly, if gold was plentiful, it was needed; for the common necessaries of life, though plentiful, were bought and sold at fabulous prices. The circulation of gold was enormous, and the growth of the city did not suffer a check even for a day, although the cost of building was unprecedented. And this commercial prosperity continued in spite of the fact that the place was unhealthy—being a furnace in summer, and in winter little better than a swamp.

"It's a capital hotel," remarked Captain Bunting to his companions, as they sat round their little table, enjoying their pipes after dinner; "I wonder if they make a good thing out of it?"

"Sure, if they don't," said Larry, tilting his chair on its hind legs, and calmly blowing a cloud of smoke towards the roof, "it's a losin' game they're playin', for they sarve out the grub at a tearin' pace."

"They are doing well, I doubt not," said Ned Sinton; "and they deserve to, for the owner—or owners, I don't know how many or few there are— made a remarkable and enterprising start."

"How was that?" asked the captain.

"I heard of it when I was down here with Tom," continued Sinton. "You must know that this was the first regular hotel opened in the city, and it was considered so great an event that it was celebrated by salvos of artillery, and, on the part of the proprietors, by a great unlimited feast to all who chose to come."

"What!" cried Larry, "free, gratis, for nothin'?"

"Ay, for nothing. It was done in magnificent style, I assure you. Any one who chose came and called for what he wanted, and got it at once. The attendance was prompt, and as cheerfully given as though it had been paid for. Gin-slings, cocktails, mint-juleps, and brandy-smashes went round like a circular storm, even champagne flowed like water; and venison, wild-fowl, salmon, grizzly-bear-steaks, and pastry—all the delicacies of the season, in short—were literally to be had for the asking. What it cost the spirited proprietors I know not, but certainly it was a daring stroke of genius that deserved patronage."

"Faix it did," said Larry, emphatically; "and they shall have it, too;— here, waiter, a brandy-smash and a cheroot, and be aisy as to the cost; I think me bank'll stand it."

"What say you to a stroll!" said Ned, rising.

"By all means," replied Captain Bunting, jumping up, and laying down his pipe. Larry preferred to remain where he was; so the two friends left him to enjoy his cheroot, and wandered away, where fancy led, to see the town. There was much to be seen. It required no theatrical representation of life to amuse one in Sacramento at that time. The whole city was a vast series of plays in earnest.

Every conceivable species of comedy and farce met the eye at every turn. Costumes the most remarkable, men the most varied and peculiar, and things the most incomprehensible and unexpected, presented themselves in endless succession. Here a canvas restaurant stood, or, rather leaned against a log-store. There a tent spread its folds in juxtaposition to a deck-cabin, which seemed to have walked ashore from a neighbouring brig, without leave, and had been let out as a grog-shop by way of punishment. Chinamen in calico jostled sailors in canvas, or diggers in scarlet flannel shirts, or dandies in broad-cloth and patent-leather, or red Indians in nothing! Bustle, and hurry, and uproar, and joviality prevailed. A good deal of drinking, too, unfortunately, went on, and the results were occasional melodramas, and sometimes serious rows.

Tragedies, too, were enacted, but these seldom met the eye; as is usually the case, they were done in the dark.

"What have we here?" cried Captain Bunting, stopping before a large placard, and reading. "'Grand concert, this evening—wonderful singer— Mademoiselle Nelina, first appearance—Ethiopian serenaders.' I say, Ned, we must go to this; I've not heard a song for ages that was worth listening to."

"At what hour?" inquired Ned—"oh! seven o'clock; well, we can stroll back to the hotel, have a cup of coffee, and bring Larry O'Neil with us. Come along."

That evening our three adventurers occupied the back seat of a large concert-room in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of the town, patiently awaiting the advent of the performers. The room was filled to overflowing, long before the hour for the commencement of the performances, with every species of mortal, except woman. Women were exceedingly rare creatures at that time—the meetings of all sorts were composed almost entirely of men, in their varied and motley garbs.

Considering the circumstances in which it was got up, the room was a very creditable one, destitute, indeed, of ornament, but well lighted by an enormous wooden chandelier, full of wax candles, which depended from the centre of the ceiling. At the further end of the room was a raised stage, with foot-lights in front, and three chairs in the middle of it. There was a small orchestra in front, consisting of two fiddles, a cornopian, a trombone, a clarionet, and a flute; but at first the owners of these instruments kept out of sight, wisely reserving themselves until that precise moment when the impatient audience would—as all audiences do on similar occasions—threaten to bring down the building with stamping of feet, accompanied with steam-engine-like whistles, and savage cries of "Music!"

While Ned Sinton and his friends were quietly looking round upon the crowd, Larry O'Neil's attention was arrested by the conversation of two men who sat just in front of him. One was a rough-looking miner, in a wide-awake and red-flannel shirt; the other was a negro, in a shirt of blue-striped calico.

"Who be this Missey Nelina?" inquired the negro, turning to his companion.

"I dun know; but I was here last night, an' I'd take my davy, I saw the little gal in the ranche of a feller away in the plains, five hundred miles to the east'ard, two months ago. Her father, poor chap, was killed by a wild horse."

"How was dat?" inquired the negro, with an expression of great interest.

"Well, it was this way it happened," replied the other, putting a quid of tobacco into his cheek, such as only a sailor would venture to masticate. "I was up at the diggin's about six months, without gittin' more gold than jist kep' me in life—for, ye see, I was always an unlucky dog—when one day I goes down to my claim, and, at the very first lick, dug up two chunks o' gold as big as yer fists; so I sold my claim and shovel, and came down here for a spree. Well, as I was sayin', I come to the ranche o' a feller called Bangi, or Bongi, or Bungi, or some sort o' bang, with a gi at the end o' 't. He was clappin' his little gal on the head, when I comed up, and said good-bye to her. I didn't rightly hear what she said; but I was so taken with her pretty face that I couldn't help axin' if the little thing was his'n. 'Yees,' says he—for he was a Mexican, and couldn't come round the English lingo—'she me darter.' I found the man was goin' to catch a wild horse, so, says I, 'I'll go with ye,' an', says he, 'come 'long,' so away we went, slappin' over the plains at a great rate, him and me, and a Yankee, a friend o' his and three or four servants, after a drove o' wild horses that had been seen that mornin' near the house. Well, away we went after the wild horses. Oh! it was grand sport! The man had lent me one of his beasts, an' it went at such a spankin' pace, I could scarce keep my seat, and had to hold on by the saddle—not bein' used to ridin' much, d'ye see. We soon picked out a horse—a splendid-lookin' feller, with curved neck, and free gallop, and wide nostrils. My eye! how he did snort and plunge, when the Mexican threw the lasso, it went right over his head the first cast, but the wild horse pulled the rope out o' his grip. 'It's all up,' thought I; but never a bit. The Mexican put spurs to his horse, an' while at full gallop, made a dive with his body, and actually caught the end o' the line, as it trailed over the ground, and recovered his seat again. It was done in a crack; an', I believe, he held on by means of his spurs, which were big enough, I think, to make wheels for a small carronade. Takin' a turn o' the line round the horn of his saddle, he reined in a bit, and then gave the spurs for another spurt, and soon after reined in again—in fact, he jist played the wild horse like a trout, until he well-nigh choked him; an', in an hour, or less, he was led steamin', and startin', and jumpin', into the corral, where the man kept his other horses."

At this point in the narrative, the cries for music became so deafening, that the sailor was obliged to pause, to the evident annoyance of the negro, who seemed intensely interested in what he had heard; and, also, to the regret of Larry, who had listened eagerly the whole time. In a few minutes the "music" came in, in the shape of two bald-headed Frenchmen, a wild-looking bearded German, and several lean men, who might, as far as appearance went, have belonged to almost any nation; and who would have, as far as musical ability went, been repudiated by every nation, except, perhaps, the Chinese. During the quarter of an hour in which these performers quieted the impatient audience with sweet sounds, the sailor continued his anecdote.

"Well, you see," said he to the negro, while Larry bent forward to listen, "the Mexican mounted, and raced and spurred him for about an hour; but, just at the last, the wild horse gave a tremendous leap and a plunge, and we noticed the rider fall forward, as if he'd got a sprain. The Yankee an' one o' the servants ran up, and caught the horse by the head, but its rider didn't move—he was stone dead, and was held in his seat by the spurs sticking in the saddle-cloth. The last bound must have ruptured some blood-vessel inside, for there was no sign of hurt upon him anywhere."

"You don' say dat?" said the negro, with a look of horror.

"'Deed do I; an' we took the poor feller home, where his little daughter cried for him as if she'd break her heart. I asked the Yankee what we should do, but he looked at me somewhat offended like, an' said he was a relation o' the dead man's wife, and could manage the affairs o' the family without help; so I bid him good mornin', and went my way. But I believe in my heart he was tellin' a lie, and that he's no right to go hawkin' the poor gal about the country in this fashion."

Larry was deeply interested in this narrative, and felt so strong a disposition to make further inquiries, that he made up his mind to question the sailor, and was about to address him when a small bell tinkled, the music ceased, and three Ethiopian minstrels, banjo in hand, advanced to the foot-lights, made their bow, and then seated themselves on the three chairs, with that intensity of consummate, impudent, easy familiarity peculiar to the ebony sons of song.

"Go it, darkies!" shouted an enthusiastic individual in the middle of the room.

"Three cheers for the niggers!" roared a sailor, who had just returned from a twelvemonth's cruise at the mines, and whose delight at the prospect of once more hearing a good song was quite irrepressible.

The audience responded to the call with shouts of laughter, and a cheer that would have done your heart good to listen to, while the niggers shewed their teeth in acknowledgment of the compliment.

The first song was "Lilly Dale," and the men, who, we need scarcely say, were fictitious negroes, sang it so well that the audience listened with breathless attention and evident delight, and encored it vociferously. The next song was "Oh! Massa, how he wopped me," a ditty of quite a different stamp, but equally popular. It also was encored, as indeed was every song sting that evening; but the performers had counted on this. After the third song there was a hornpipe, in the performance of which the dancer's chief aim seemed to be, to shew in what a variety of complex ways he could shake himself to pieces if he chose. Then there was another trio, and then a short pause, in order duly to prepare the public mind for the reception of the great cantatrice Mademoiselle Nelina. When she was led to the foot-lights by the tallest of the three negroes, there was a momentary pause, as if men caught their breath; then there was a prolonged cheer of enthusiastic admiration. And little wonder, for the creature that appeared before these rough miners seemed more like an angelic visitant than a mortal.

There was nothing strikingly beautiful about the child, but she possessed that inexpressibly sweet character of face that takes the human heart by storm at first sight; and this, added to the fact that she was almost the only one of her sex who had been seen for many months by any of those present,—that she was fair, blue-eyed, delicate, modestly dressed, and innocent, filled them with an amount of enthusiasm that would have predisposed them to call a scream melodious, had it been uttered by Mademoiselle Nelina.

But the voice which came timidly from her lips was in harmony with her appearance. There was no attempt at execution, and the poor child was too frightened to succeed in imparting much expression to the simple ballad which she warbled; but there was an inherent richness in the tones of her voice that entranced the ear, and dwelt for weeks and months afterwards on the memory of those who heard it that night.

It is needless to add, that all her songs were encored with rapturous applause. The second song she sang was the popular one, "Erin, my country!" and it created quite a furore among the audience, many of whom were natives of the Green Isle.

"Oh! ye purty creature! sing it again, do!" yelled an Irishman in the front seats, while he waved his hat, and cheered in mad enthusiasm. The multitude shouted, "Encore!" and the song was sung for the third time.

While it was singing, Larry O'Neil sat with his hands clasped before him, his bosom heaving, and his eyes riveted on the child's face.

"Mr Sinton," he said, in a deep, earnest tone, touching Ned on the shoulder, as the last sweet notes of the air were drowned in the thunder of applause that followed Mademoiselle Nelina off the stage; "Mr Sinton, I'd lay me life that it's her!"

"Who?" inquired Ned, smiling at the serious expression of his comrade's face.

"Who but Nelly Morgan, av course. She's the born image o' Kate. They're as like as two paise. Sure av it's her, I'll know it, I will; an' I'll make that black thief of a Yankee explain how he comed to possess stolen goods."

Ned and the captain at first expressed doubts as to Larry's being able to swear to the identity of one whom he had never seen before; but the earnest assurances of the Irishman convinced them that he must be right, and they at once entered into his feelings, and planned, in an eager undertone, how the child was to be communicated with.

"It won't do," said Ned, "to tax the man right out with his villainy. The miners would say we wanted to get possession of the child to make money by her."

"But if the child herself admitted that the man was not her relative!" suggested Captain Bunting.

"Perhaps," returned Ned, "she might at the same time admit that she didn't like the appearance of the strangers who made such earnest inquiries about her, and prefer to remain with her present guardian."

"Niver fear," said Larry, in a hoarse whisper; "she'll not say that if I tell her I know her sister Kate, and can take her to her. Besides, hasn't she got an Irish heart? an' don't I know the way to touch it? Jist stay where ye are, both o' ye, an' I'll go behind the scenes. The niggers are comin' on again, so I'll try; maybe there's nobody there but herself."

Before they could reply, Larry was gone. In a few minutes he reached the front seats, and, leaning his back against the wall, as if he were watching the performers, he gradually edged himself into the dark corner where the side curtain shut off the orchestra from the public. To his great satisfaction he found that this was only secured to the wall by one or two nails, which he easily removed, and then, in the midst of an uproarious laugh, caused by a joke of the serenaders, he pushed the curtain aside, and stood before the astonished gaze of Mademoiselle Nelina, who sat on a chair, with her hands clasped and resting on her knee. Unfortunately for the success of Larry's enterprise, he also stood before the curtain-raiser—a broad, sturdy man, in rough miner's costume—whose back was turned towards him, but whose surprised visage instantly faced him on hearing the muffled noise caused by his entry. There was a burly negro also in the place, seated on a small stool, who looked at him with unqualified astonishment.

"Halloo! wot do you want?" exclaimed the curtain-raiser.

"Eh! tare an' ages!" cried Larry, in amazement. "May I niver! Sure it's draimin' I am; an' the ghost o' Bill Jones is comed to see me!"

It was, indeed, no other than Bill Jones who stood revealed before him; but no friendly glance of recognition did his old comrade vouchsafe him. He continued, after the first look of surprise, to frown steadily on the intruder.

"You've the advantage o' me, young man," said Bill, in a stern, though subdued tone, for he feared to disturb the men on the stage; "moreover, you've comed in where ye've got no right to be. When a man goes where he shouldn't ought to, an' things looks as if they wasn't all square, in them circumstances, blow high or blow low, I always goes straight for'ard an' shoves him out. If he don't shove easy, why, put on more steam—that's wot I say."

"But sure ye don't forgit me, Bill!" pleaded Larry, in amazement.

"Well, p'r'aps I don't, an' p'r'aps I do. W'en I last enjoyed the dishonour o' yer acquaintance, ye wos a blackguard. It ain't likely yer improved, so be good enough to back yer top-sails, and clear out."

Bill Jones pointed, as he spoke, to the opening through which Larry had entered, but, suddenly changing his mind, he said, "Hold on; there's a back door, an' it'll be easier to kick you through that than through the consart-room."

So saying, Bill seized Larry O'Neil by the collar, and led that individual, in a state of helpless and wondering consternation, through a back door, where, however, instead of kicking him out, he released him, and suddenly changed his tone to an eager whisper.

"Oh! Larry, lad, I'm glad to see ye. Wherever did ye come from? I've no time to speak. Uncle Ned's jist buried, and Jim Crow comes on in three minutes. I had to pretend, ye know, 'cause it wouldn't do to let Jim see I know'd ye—that wos him on the stool—I know wot brought ye here—an' I've fund out who she is. Where d'ye stop?"

Larry's surprise just permitted him to gasp out the words "City Hotel," when a roar of laughter and applause met their ears, followed by the tinkle of a small bell. Bill sprang through the doorway, and slammed the door in his old comrade's face.

It would be difficult to say, looking at that face at that particular time, whether the owner thereof was mad or drunk—or both—so strangely did it wrinkle and contort as it gradually dawned upon its owner that Bill Jones, true to his present profession, was acting a part; that he knew about the mystery of Mademoiselle Nelina; was now acquainted with his, (Larry's), place of abode; and would infallibly find him out after the concert was over. As these things crossed his mind, Larry smote his thigh so often and so vigorously, that he ran the risk of being taken up for unwarrantably discharging his revolver in the streets, and he whistled once or twice so significantly, that at least five stray dogs answered to the call. At last he hitched up the band of his trousers, and, hastening round to the front door, essayed to re-enter the concert-room.

"Pay here, please," cried the money-taker, in an extremely nasal tone, as he passed the little hole in the wall.

"I've paid already," answered Larry.

"Shew your check, then."

"Sure I don't know what that is."

The doorkeeper smiled contemptuously, and shut down with a bang the bar that kept off the public. Larry doubled his fist, and flushed crimson; then he remembered the importance of the business he had on hand, and quietly drew the requisite sum from his leather purse.

"Come along," said he to Ned Sinton, on re-entering the room. "I've see'd her; an' Bill Jones, too!"

"Bill Jones!" cried Ned and the captain simultaneously.

"Whist!" said Larry; "don't be makin' people obsarve us. Come along home; it's all right—I'll tell ye all about it when we're out."

In another minute the three friends were in the street, conversing eagerly and earnestly as they hastened to their quarters through the thronged and noisy streets of Sacramento.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

DEEP PLOTS AND PLANS—BILL JONES RELATES HIS MISADVENTURES—MADEMOISELLE NELINA CONSENTS TO RUN OFF WITH LARRY O'NEIL—A YANKEE MUSICIAN OUTWITTED—THE ESCAPE.

As Larry had rightly anticipated, Bill Jones made his appearance at the City Hotel the moment the concert was over, and found his old comrades waiting anxiously for him.

It did not take long to tell him how they had discovered the existence of Nelly Morgan, as we shall now call her, but it took much longer to drag from Bill the account of his career since they last met, and the explanation of how he came to be placed in his present circumstances.

"Ye see, friends," said he, puffing at a pipe, from which, to look at him, one would suppose he derived most of his information, "this is how it happened. When I set sail from the diggin's to come here for grub, I had a pleasant trip at first. But after a little things began to look bad; the feller that steered us lost his reckoning, an' so we took two or three wrong turns by way o' makin' short cuts. That's always how it Is. There's a proverb somewhere—"

"In Milton, maybe, or Napier's book o' logarithms," suggested Captain Bunting.

"P'r'aps it wos, and p'r'aps it wosn't," retorted Bill, stuffing the end of his little finger, (if such a diminutive may be used in reference to any of his fingers), into the bowl of his pipe. "I raither think myself it wos in Bell's Life or the Royal Almanac; hows'ever, that's wot it is. When ye've got a short road to go, don't try to make it shorter, say I—"

"An' when ye've got a long story to tell, don't try to make it longer," interrupted Larry, winking at his comrade through the smoke of his pipe.

"Well, as I wos sayin'," continued Bill, doggedly, "we didn't git on so well after a bit; but somehow or other we got here at last, and cast anchor in this very hotel. Off I goes at once an' buys a cart an' a mule, an' then I sets to work to lay in provisions. Now, d'ye see, lads, 'twould ha' bin better if I had bought the provisions first an' the mule and the cart after, for I had to pay ever so many dollars a day for their keep. At last I got it all square; packed tight and tied up in the cart—barrels o' flour, and kegs o' pork, an' beans, an' brandy, an' what not; an' away I went alone; for, d'ye see, I carry a compass, an' when I've once made a voyage, I never need to be told how to steer.

"But my troubles began soon. There's a ford across the river here, which I was told I'd ha' to cross; and sure enough, so I did—but it's as bad as Niagara, if not worse—an' when I gits half way over, we wos capsized, and went down the river keel up. I dun know yet very well how I got ashore, but I did somehow—"

"And did the cart go for it?" inquired Captain Bunting, aghast.

"No, the cart didn't. She stranded half-a-mile further down, on a rock, where she lies to this hour, with a wheel smashed and the bottom out, and about three thousand tons o' water swashin' right through her every hour; but all the provisions and the mule went slap down the Sacramento; an', if they haven't bin' picked up on the way, they're cruisin' off the port o' San Francisco by this time."

The unfortunate seaman stopped at this point to relight his pipe, while his comrades laughingly commented on his misadventure.

"Ah! ye may laugh; but I can tell ye it warn't a thing to be laughed at; an' at this hour I've scarce one dollar to rub 'gainst another."

"Never mind, my boy," said Ned, as he and the others laughed loud and long at the lugubrious visage of their comrade; "we've got well-lined pockets, I assure you; and, of course, we have your share of the profits of our joint concern to hand over whenever you wish it."

The expression of Bill Jones's face was visibly improved by this piece of news, and he went on with much greater animation.

"Well, my story's short now. I comed back here, an' by chance fell in with this feller—this Yankee-nigger—who offered me five dollars a day to haul up the curtain, an' do a lot o' dirty work, sich as bill stickin', an' lightin' the candles, an' sweepin' the floor; but it's hard work, I tell ye, to live on so little in sich a place as this, where everything's so dear."

"You're not good at a bargain, I fear," remarked Sinton; "but what of the little girl?"

"Well, I wos comin' to that. Ye see, I felt sure, from some things I overheerd, that she wasn't the man's daughter, so one day I axed her who she wos, an' she said she didn't know, except that her name was Nelly Morgan; so it comed across me that Morgan wos the name o' the Irish family you wos so thick with up at the diggin's, Larry; an' I wos goin' to ask if she know'd them, when Jolly—that's the name o' the gitter up o' the concerts—catched me talkin', an' he took her away sharp, and said he'd thank me to leave the girl alone. I've been watchin' to have another talk with her, but Jolly's too sharp for me, an' I haven't spoke to her yet."

Larry manifested much disappointment at this termination, for he had been fully prepared to hear that the girl had made Bill her confidant, and would be ready to run away with him at a moment's notice. However, he consoled himself by saying that he would do the thing himself; and, after arranging that Bill was to tell Nelly that a friend of his knew where her sister was, and would like to speak with her, they all retired to rest, at least to rest as well as they could in a house which, like all the houses in California, swarmed with rats.

Next night Bill Jones made a bold effort, and succeeded in conveying Larry's message to Nelly, very adroitly, as he thought, while she was standing close to him waiting for Mr Jolly to lead her to the foot-lights. The consequence was that the poor child trembled like a leaf when she attempted to sing, and, finally, fainted on the stage, to the consternation of a crowded house.

The point was gained, however; Nelly soon found an opportunity of talking in private with Bill Jones, and appointed to meet Larry in the street next morning early, near the City Hotel.

It was with trembling eagerness, mixed with timidity, that she took the Irishman's arm when they met, and asked if he really knew where her sister was.

"Oh, how I've longed for her! But are you sure you know her?"

"Know her!" said Larry, with a smile. "Do I know meself?"

This argument was unanswerable, so Nelly made no reply, and Larry went on. "Yes, avic, I know'd her, an' faix I hope to know her better. But here's her picture for ye."

Larry then gave the earnest listener at his side a graphic description of her sister Kate's personal appearance, and described her brother also, but he did not, at that time, acquaint her with the death of the latter. He also spoke of Black Jim, and described the circumstances of her being carried off. "So ye see, darlin'," said he, "I know all about ye; an' now I want ye to tell me what happened to ye after that."

"It's a sad story," said the child, in a low tone, as if her mind were recalling melancholy incidents in her career. Then she told rapidly, how she had been forsaken by those to whom she had been intrusted, and left to perish in the mountain snow; and how, in her extremity, God had sent help; how another party of emigrants found her and carried her on; how, one by one, they all died, till she was left alone a second time; and how a Mexican horseman found her, and carried her to his home, and kept her there as his adopted daughter, till he was killed while taming a wild horse. After that, Nelly's story was a repetition of what Larry had already overheard accidentally in the concert-room.

"Now, dear," said Larry, "we haven't time to waste, will ye go with me to San Francisco?"

The tones of the rough man's voice, rather than his words, had completely won the confidence of the poor child, so she said, "Yes," without hesitation. "But how am I to escape from Mr Jolly?" she added; "he has begun to suspect Mr Jones, I see quite well."

"Lave that to me, darlin', an' do you kape as much as ye can in the house the nixt day or two, an' be lookin' out for what may turn up. Good day to ye, mavourneen; we must part here, for fear we're seen by any lynx-eyed blackguards. Kape up yer heart."

Nelly walked quickly away, half laughing at, and half perplexed by, the ambiguity of her new friend's parting advice.

The four friends now set themselves to work to outwit Mr Jolly, and rob him of Mademoiselle Nelina. At last they hit upon a device, which did not, indeed, say much for the ingenuity of the party, but which, like many other bold plans, succeeded admirably.

A steamer was to start in three days for San Francisco—one of those splendid new vessels which, like floating palaces, had suddenly made their appearance on these distant waters—having made the long and dangerous voyage from the United States round the Horn. Before the steamer started, Larry contrived to obtain another interview with Nelly Morgan, and explained their plan, which was as follows:—

On the day of the steamer sailing, a few hours before the time of starting, Mr Jolly was to receive the following letter, dated from a well-known ranche, thirty miles up the river:—

"Sir,—I trust that you will forgive a perfect stranger addressing you, but the urgency of the case must be my excuse. There is a letter lying here for you, which, I have reason to know, contains information of the utmost importance to yourself; but which—owing to circumstances that I dare not explain in a letter that might chance to fall into wrong hands—must be opened here by your own hands. It will explain all when you arrive; meanwhile, as I am a perfect stranger to the state of your finances, I send you a sufficient quantity of gold-dust by the bearer to enable you to hire a horse and come up. Pray excuse the liberty I take, and believe me to be,

"Your obedient servant,

"Edward Sinton."

At the appointed time Larry delivered this epistle, and the bag of gold into Mr Jolly's hands, and, saying that no answer was required, hurried away.

If Mr Jolly had been suddenly informed that he had been appointed secretary of state to the king of Ashantee, he could not have looked more astonished than when he perused this letter, and weighed the bag of gold in his hand. The letter itself; had it arrived alone, might, very likely would, have raised his suspicions, but accompanied as it was by a bag of gold of considerable value, it commended itself as a genuine document; and the worthy musician was in the saddle half-an-hour later. Before starting, he cautioned Nelly not to quit the house on any account whatever, a caution which she heard but did not reply to. Three hours later Mr Jolly reached his destination, and had the following letter put into his hands.

"Sir,—By the time you receive this, your late charge, Mademoiselle Nelina, will be on her way to San Francisco, where you are welcome to follow her, and claim her from her sister, if you feel so disposed.

"I am, Sir, etcetera,

"Edward Sinton."

We need not repeat what Mr Jolly said, or try to imagine what he felt, on receipt of this letter! About the time it was put into his hands the magnificent steamer at the embarcadero gave a shrill whistle, then it panted violently, the paddles revolved,—and our adventurers were soon steaming swiftly down the noble river on their way to San Francisco.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

SAN FRANCISCO AGAIN—A TERRIBLE MISFORTUNE—AN OLD FRIEND IN SURPRISINGLY NEW CIRCUMSTANCES—SEVERAL REMARKABLE DISCOVERIES AND NEW LIGHTS.

There is no time or place, perhaps, more suitable for indulging in ruminations, cogitations, and reminiscences, than the quiet hours of a calm night out upon the sea, when the watchful stars look down upon the bosom of the deep, and twinkle at their reflections in placid brilliancy.

Late at night, when all the noisy inmates of the steamer had ceased to eat, and drink, and laugh, and had sought repose in their berths, Edward Sinton walked the deck alone, meditating on the past, the present, and the future. When he looked up at the serene heavens, and down at the tranquil sea, whose surface was unruffled, save by the long pure white track of the vessel, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that the whirl of incident and adventure in which he had been involved during the last few and short months was real. It seemed like a brilliant dream. As long as he was on shore it all appeared real enough, and the constant pressure of something to be done, either immediately, or in an hour, or to-morrow, kept his mind perpetually chained down to the consideration of visible, and tangible, and passing events; but now the cord of connexion with land had been suddenly and completely severed. The very land itself was out of sight. Nothing around him tended to recall recent events; and, as he had nothing in the world to do but wait until the voyage should come to an end, his mind was left free to bound over the recent-past into the region of the long-past, and revel there at pleasure.

But Ned Sinton was not altogether without anxieties. He felt a little uneasy as to the high-handed manner, in which he had carried off Nelly Morgan from her late guardian; and he was a good deal perplexed as to what the important affairs could be, for which he had so hastily overturned all the gold-digging plans of his whole party. With these thoughts mingled many philosophic inquiries as to the amount of advantage that lay—if, indeed, there was any advantage at all—in making one's fortune suddenly and at the imminent hazard of one's life. Overpowering sleep at last put an end to Ned's wandering thoughts, and he too bade the stars good-night, and sought his pillow. In due course the vessel cast anchor off the town of San Francisco.

"There is many a slip 'tween the cup and the lip." It is an old proverb that, but one which is proved, by frequent use, on the part of authors in all ages, to be a salutary reminder to humanity. Its truth was unpleasantly exemplified on the arrival of the steamer. As the tide was out at the time, the captain ordered the boats to be lowered, in order to land the passengers. The moment they touched the water they were filled by impatient miners, who struggled to be first ashore. The boat into which Ned and his friends got was soon overloaded with passengers, and the captain ordered her to be shoved off.

"Hold on!" shouted a big coarse-looking fellow, in a rough blue jacket and wide-awake, who was evidently drunk; "let me in first."

"There's no room!" cried several voices. "Shove off."

"There's room enough!" cried the man, with an oath; at the same time seizing the rope.

"If ye do come down," said a sailor, sternly, "I'll pitch ye overboard."

"Will ye!" growled the man; and the next instant he sprang upon the edge of the boat, which upset, and left its freight struggling in the water. The other boats immediately picked them all up; and, beyond a wetting, they were physically none the worse. But, alas! the bags of gold which our adventurers were carrying ashore with them, sank to the bottom of the sea! They were landed on the wharf at San Francisco as penniless as they were on the day of their arrival in California.

This reverse of fortune was too tremendous to be realised in a moment. As they stood on the wharf; dripping wet, and gazing at each other in dismay, they suddenly, as if by one consent, burst into a loud laugh. But the laugh had a strong dash of bitterness in its tone; and when it passed, the expression of their countenances was not cheerful.

Bill Jones was the first to speak, as they wandered, almost helplessly, through the crowded streets, while little Nelly ever and anon looked wistfully up into Larry's face, as he led her by the hand.

"It's a stunnin' smash," said Bill, fetching a deep sigh. "But w'en a thing's done, an' can't be undone, then it's unpossible, that's wot it is; and wot's unpossible there's no use o' tryin' for to do. 'Cause why? it only wastes yer time an' frets yer sperrit—that's my opinion."

Not one of the party ventured to smile—as was their wont in happier circumstances—at the philosophy of their comrade's remark. They wandered on in silence till they reached—they scarce knew how or why— the centre plaza of the town.

"It's of no use giving way to it," said Ned Sinton, at last, making a mighty effort to recover: "we must face our reverses like men; and, after all, it might have been worse. We might have lost our lives as well as our gold, so we ought to be thankful instead of depressed."

"What shall we do now?" inquired Captain Bunting, in a tone that proved sufficiently that he at least could not benefit by Ned's advice.

"Sure we'll have to go an' work, capting," replied Larry, in a tone of facetious desperation; "but first of all we'll have to go an' see Mr Thompson, and git dry clo'se for Nelly, poor thing—are ye cowld, darlin'?"

"No, not in the least," answered the child, sadly. "I think my things will dry soon, if we walk in the sun."

Nelly's voice seemed to rouse the energies of the party more effectually than Ned's moralising.

"Yes," cried the latter, "let us away to old Thompson's. His daughter, Lizette, will put you all to rights, dear, in a short time. Come along."

So saying, Ned led the way, and the whole party speedily stood at the door of Mr Thompson's cottage.

The door was merely fastened by a latch, and as no notice was taken of their first knock, Ned lifted it and entered the hall, then advancing to the parlour door, he opened it and looked in.

The sight that met his gaze was well calculated to make him open his eyes, and his mouth too, if that would in any way have relieved his feelings.

Seated in old Mr Thompson's easy-chair, with one leg stretched upon an ottoman, and the other reposing on a stool, reclined Tom Collins, looking, perhaps, a little paler than was his wont, as if still suffering from the effects of recent illness, but evidently quite happy and comfortable.

Beside Tom, on another stool, with her arm resting on Tom's knee, and looking up in his face with a quiet smile, sat Elizabeth Thompson.

"Tom! Miss Thompson!" cried Ned Sinton, standing absolutely aghast.

Miss Thompson sprang up with a face of crimson, but Tom sat coolly still, and said, while a broad grin overspread his handsome countenance, "No, Ned, not Miss Thompson—Mrs Collins, who, I know, is rejoiced to see you."

"You are jesting, Tom," said Ned, as he advanced quickly, and took the lady's hand, while Tom rose and heartily welcomed his old companions.

"Not a bit of it, my dear fellow," he repeated. "This, I assure you, is my wife. Pray, dear Lizette, corroborate my statement, else our friends won't believe me. But sit down, sit down, and let's hear all about you. Go, Lizette, get 'em something to eat. I knew you would make your appearance ere long. Old Thompson's letter—halloo! why what's this? You're wet! and who's this—a wet little girl?"

"Faix, ye may well be surprised, Mister Tom," said Larry, "for we're all wet beggars, ivery wan o' us—without a dollar to bless ourselves with."

Tom Collins looked perplexed, as he turned from one to the other. "Stay," he shouted; "wife, come here. There's a mystery going on. Take this moist little one to your room; and there," he added, throwing open a door, "you fellows will all find dry apparel to put on—though I don't say to fit. Come along with me, Ned, and while you change, give an account of yourself."

Ned did as he was desired; and, in the course of a lengthened conversation, detailed to Tom the present condition of himself and his friends.

"It's unfortunate," said Tom, after a pause; "ill-luck seems to follow us wherever we go."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself;" cried Ned, "for saying so, considering the wife you have got."

"True, my boy," replied the other, "I ought indeed to be ashamed, but I spoke in reference to money matters. What say you to the fact, that I am as much a beggar as yourself?"

"Outward appearances would seem to contradict you."

"Nevertheless, it is true, I assure you. When you left me, Ned, in the hotel at Sacramento, I became so lonely that I grew desperate; and, feeling much stronger in body, I set off for this town in the new steamer—that in which you arrived. I came straight up here, re-introduced myself to Mr Thompson; and, two days after—for I count it folly to waste time in such matters when one's mind is made up—I proposed to Lizette, and was accepted conditionally. Of course, the condition was that papa should be willing. But papa was not willing. He said that three thousand dollars, all I possessed, was a capital sum, but not sufficient to marry on, and that he could not risk his daughter's happiness, etcetera, etcetera—you know the rest. Well, the very next day news came that one of Thompson's best ships had been wrecked off Cape Horn. This was a terrible blow, for the old man's affairs were in a rickety condition at any rate, and this sank him altogether. His creditors were willing enough to wait, but one rascal refused to do so, and swore he would sequestrate him. I found that the sum due him was exactly three thousand dollars, so I paid him the amount in full, and handed Thompson the discharged account. 'Now,' said I, 'I'm off to the diggings, so good-bye!' for, you see, Ned, I felt that I could not urge my suit at that time, as it would be like putting on the screw—taking an unfair advantage of him.

"'Why, what do you mean, my lad?' said he.

"'That I'm off to-morrow,' replied I.

"'That you must not do,' said he.

"'Why not?' said I.

"'Because,' said he, 'now that things are going smooth, I must go to England by the first ship that sails, and get my affairs there put on a better footing, so you must stay here to look after my business, and to—to—take care of Lizette.'

"'Eh! what!' said I, 'what do you mean? You know that is impossible.'

"'Not at all, boy, if you marry her!'

"Of course I could not refuse, and so, to cut it short, we were married right off and here we are, the representatives of the great firm of Thompson and Company, of California."

"Then, do you mean to say that Thompson is gone?" Inquired Ned, with a look of horror.

"Near the Horn, I should think, by this time; but why so anxious?"

"Because," sighed Ned, sitting down on the edge of the bed, with a look of despair, "I came here by his invitation; and—"

"Oh! it's all right," interrupted Tom; "I know all about it, and am commissioned by him to settle the affair for you."

"But what is the affair?" inquired Ned, eagerly.

"Ah! my dear boy, do try to exercise patience. If I tell you everything before we go down to our comrades, I fear we shall have to send a message to say that we are not coming till to-morrow morning."

Tom rose as he spoke, and led the way to the parlour, where bread and cheese were spread out for them.

"The only drawback to my felicity," whispered Tom to Sinton, as they entered, "is that I find Thompson's affairs far worse than he himself was aware of; and it's a fact, that at this moment I can scarcely draw enough out of the business to supply the necessaries of life."

There was a slight bitterness in Tom's tone as he said this, but the next moment he was jesting with his old companions as lightheartedly as ever. During the meal he refused, however, to talk business, and, when it was concluded, he proposed that they should go out for a stroll through the town.

"By the way," remarked Ned, as they walked along, "what of Captain Bunting's old ship?"

"Ay!" echoed the captain, "that's the uppermost thing in my mind; but master Tom seems determined to keep us in the dark. I do believe the Roving Bess has been burned, an' he's afraid to tell us."

"You're a desperately inquisitive set," cried Tom Collins, laughing. "Could you not suppose that I wanted to give you a surprise, by shewing you how curiously she has been surrounded by houses since you last saw her. You'll think nothing of it, now that I have told you."

"Why, where are ye goin'?" cried Larry, as Tom turned up a street that led a little away from the shore, towards which they had been walking!

Tom made no reply, but led on. They were now in that densely-crowded part of the town where shops were less numerous, warehouses more plentiful, and disagreeable odours more abundant, than elsewhere. A dense mass of buildings lay between them and the sea, and in the centre of these was a square or plaza, on one side of which stood a large hotel, out of the roof of which rose a gigantic flag-staff. A broad and magnificent flight of wooden steps led up to the door of this house of entertainment, over which, on a large board, was written its name—"The Roving Bess Tavern."

"Dear me! that's a strange coincidence," exclaimed the captain, as his eye caught the name.

"Tare an' ages!" yelled Larry, "av it isn't the owld ship! Don't I know the mizzen-mast as well as I know me right leg?"

"The Roving Bess Tavern!" muttered Captain Bunting, while his eyes stared incredulously at the remarkable edifice before him.

Bill Jones, who, up to this point, had walked beside his comrades in silent meditation, here lost presence of mind and, putting both hands to his mouth, sang out, in true stentorian boatswain tones, "All hands ahoy! tumble up there—tumble up!"

"Ay, ay, sir!" roared half-a-dozen jack tars, who chanced to be regaling themselves within, and who rushed out, hat in hand, ready for a spree, at the unexpected but well-known summons.

"Major Whitlaw," said Tom Collins, springing up the steps, and addressing a tall, cadaverous-looking Yankee, "allow me to introduce to you your landlord, Captain Bunting—your tenant, captain. I dare say you have almost forgotten each other."

The captain held out his hand mechanically and gazed at his tenant unbelievingly, while the major said—

"Glad to see ye, cap'n, I guess. Wanted to for a long time. Couldn't come to terms with old Thompson. Won't you step in and take a cocktail or a gin-sling? I'd like to have a private talk—this way."

The landlord of the Roving Bess Tavern led the captain to what was once his own cabin, and begged him to be seated on his own locker at the head of his own table. He accepted these civilities, staring round him in mute wonder all the time, as if he thought it was a dream, out of which he should wake in due course, while, from all parts of the tavern, came sounds of mirth, and clatter of knives and forks and dishes, and odours of gin-slings and bear-steaks and pork-pies.

"Jist sit there a minute," said the Yankee, "till I see to your friends bein' fixed off comfortable; of course, Mr Collins may stay, for he knows all about it."

When he was gone, the captain rose and looked into his old berth. It had been converted into a pantry, so he shut the door quickly and returned to his seat.

"Tom," said he, in a low whisper, as if he feared to break the spell, "how did they get her up here!"

"She's never been moved since you left her," answered Tom, laughing; "the town has gradually surrounded her, as you see, and crept out upon the shore, filling up the sea with rubbish, till it has left her nearly a quarter of a mile inland."

The captain's eyes opened wider than ever, but before he could find words again to speak, Major Whitlaw returned.

"They're all square now, gentlemen, so, if you please, we'll proceed to business. I suppose your friend has told you how the land lies?"

"He certainly has," replied the captain, who accepted the phrase literally.

"Wall, I reckon your property's riz since ye wor here; now, if you give me leave to make the alterations I want to, I'll give you 1000 dollars a month, payable in advance."

"You'd better tell Captain Bunting what the alterations you refer to are," suggested Tom Collins, who saw that the captain's state of mind rendered him totally incapable of transacting business.

"That's soon done. I'll give it ye slick off. I want to cut away the companion-hatch and run up a regular stair to the deck; then it's advisable to cut away at least half o' the main deck to heighten the gamin' saloon. But I guess the main point is to knock out half-a-dozen windows in the hold, for gas-light is plaguey dear, when it's goin' full blast day and night. Besides, I must cut the entrance-door down to the ground, for this tree-mendous flight o' stairs'll be the ruin o' the business. It's only a week since a man was shot by a comrade here in the cabin, an' as they rushed out after him, two customers fell down the stair and broke their arms. And I calc'late the gentlemen that's overtaken by liquor every night won't stand it much longer. There isn't a single man that quits this house after 12 p.m. but goes down that flight head-foremost. If you don't sanction that change, I guess I'll have to get 'em padded, and spread feather-beds at the foot. Now, cap'n, if you agrees to this right off, I'll give the sum named."

Captain Bunting's astonishment had now reached that point at which extremes are supposed to meet, and a reaction began to take place.

"How much did you propose?" he inquired, taking out a pencil and an old letter, as if he were about to make notes, at the same time knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look intensely sagacious.

"One thousand dollars a month," answered the Yankee; "I railly can't stand more."

"Let me see," muttered the captain slowly, in an under tone, while he pressed his forehead with his fore-finger; "one thousand dollars—200 pounds sterling—hum, equal to about 2400 pounds a year. Well," he added, raising his voice, "I don't mind if I do. I suppose, Tom, it's not much below the thing, as rents go!"

"It's a fair offer," said Tom, carelessly; "we might, perhaps, get a higher, but Major Whitlaw is in possession, and is, besides, a good tenant."

"Then I'll conclude the bargain—pray get pen, ink, and paper."

While the major turned for a moment to procure writing materials, the captain looked at Tom and winked expressively. Then, a document was drawn up, signed, and witnessed, and then the captain, politely declining a brandy-smash, or any other smash whatever, left the Roving Bess Tavern with his friends, and with 200 pounds—the first month's rent—in his pocket.

It is needless to remark, that his comrades congratulated him heartily, and that the worthy captain walked along the streets of San Francisco chuckling.

In a few minutes, Tom Collins stopped before a row of immense warehouses. There was one gap in the row, a space of several yards square, that might have held two good-sized houses. Four wooden posts stood at the corners of the plot, and an old boat, turned keel up, lay in the middle of it.

"I know it!" cried Ned Sinton, laughing in gleeful surprise; "it's my old boat, isn't it? Well, I can scarcely credit my eyes! I saw it last on the sea-shore, and now it's a quarter of a mile into the town!"

"More than that, Ned," said Tom Collins, "the plot of ground is worth ten thousand dollars at this moment. Had it been a little further south, it would have been worth ten times that sum. And more than that still, the Irish family you lent the boat to—you remember them—well, they dug up a bag from under the boat which contained five thousand dollars; the honest people at once gave it up, and Mr Thompson rewarded them well; but they did not live to enjoy it long, they're all dead now. So you see, Ned, you're just 3000 pounds richer than you thought you were this morning."

"It's a great day!" remarked Larry O'Neil, looking round upon his comrades, who received all this information with an expression of doubting surprise; "a great day intirely! Faix, I'm only hopin' we won't waken up an' find it's all a dhrame!"

Larry's companions quite agreed with him. They did not indeed say so, but, as they returned home after that stroll, talking eagerly of future plans and prospects, the ever-recurring sentiment broke from their lips, in every style of phrase, "It's a great day, intirely!"



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

MORE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES—CAPTAIN BUNTING MAKES BILL JONES A FIRST MATE—LARRY O'NEIL MAKES HIMSELF A FIRST MATE—THE PARTING—NED SINTON PROVES HIMSELF, A SECOND TIME, TO BE A FRIEND IN NEED AND IN DEED.

"It never rains but it pours," saith the proverb. We are fond of proverbs. We confess to a weakness that way. There is a depth of meaning in them which courts investigation from the strongest intellects. Even when they are nonsensical, which is not unfrequently the case, their nonsense is unfathomable, and, therefore, invested with all the zest which attaches, metaphysically speaking, to the incomprehensible.

Astonishing circumstances had been raining for some time past around our bewildered adventurers, and, latterly, they had begun to pour. On the afternoon of the day, the events of which have been recorded in the last chapter, there was, metaphorically speaking, a regular thunder-plump. No sooner had the party returned to old Mr Thompson's cottage, than down it came again, heavy as ever.

On entering the porch, Lizette ran up to Tom, in that pretty tripping style peculiar to herself, and whispered in his ear.

"Well, you baggage," said he, "I'll go with you; but I don't like secrets. Walk into the parlour, friends; I'll be with you in a minute."

"Tom," said Lizette, pursing up her little mouth and elevating her pert nose; "you can't guess what an interesting discovery I've made."

"Of course I can't," replied Tom, with affected impatience; "now, pray, don't ask me to try, else I shall leave you instantly."

"What an impatient creature you are!" said Lizette. "Only think! I have discovered that my maid, whom we hired only two days ago, has—"

"Bolted with the black cook, or somebody else, and married him," interrupted Tom, with a look of horror, as he threw himself into any easy-chair.

"Not at all," rejoined Lizette, hurriedly; "nothing of the sort; she has discovered that the little girl Mr Sinton brought with him is her sister."

"What! Kate Morgan's sister!" cried Tom, with a look of surprise. "I knew it; I was sure I had heard the name before, but I couldn't remember when or where; I see it now; she must be the girl Larry O'Neil used to talk about up at the diggin's; but as I never saw her there, of course I couldn't know her."

"Well, I don't know about that; I suppose you're right," replied Lizette; "but isn't it nice? They're kissing and hugging each other, and crying, in the kitchen at this moment. Oh! I'm so happy—the dear little thing!"

If Lizette was happy she took a strange way to shew it, for she sat down beside Tom and began to sob.

While the above conversation was going on up-stairs, another conversation—interesting enough to deserve special notice—was going on in the parlour.

"Sure don't I know me own feelin's best?" remarked Larry, addressing Ned Sinton. "It's all very well at the diggin's; but when it comes to drawin'-rooms and parlours, I feels—an' so does Bill Jones here—that we're out 'o place. In the matter o' diggin' we're all equals, no doubt; but we feels that we ain't gintlemen born, and that it's a'k'ard to the lady to be havin' sich rough customers at her table, so Bill an' me has agreed to make the most o' ourselves in the kitchen."

"Larry, you're talking nonsense. We have messed together on equal terms for many months; and, whatever course we may follow after this, you must sup with us to-night, as usual. I know Tom will be angry if you don't."

"Ay, sir, but it ain't 'as oosual,'" suggested Bill Jones, turning the quid in his cheek; "it's quite on-oosual for the likes o' us to sup with a lady."

"That's it," chimed in Larry; "so, Mister Ned, ye'll jist plaise to make our excuges to Mrs Tom, and tell her where we've gone to lo-cate, as the Yankees say. Come away, Bill."

Larry took his friend by the arm, and, leading him out of the room, shut the door.

Five seconds after that there came an appalling female shriek, and a dreadful masculine yell, from the region of the kitchen, accompanied by a subdued squeak of such extreme sweetness, that it could have come only from the throat of Mademoiselle Nelina. Ned and the captain sprang to the door, and dashed violently against Tom and his wife, whom they unexpectedly met also rushing towards the kitchen. In another moment a curious and deeply interesting tableau vivant was revealed to their astonished gaze.

In the middle of the room was Larry O'Neil, down on one knee, while with both arms he supported the fainting form of Kate Morgan. By Kate's side knelt her sister Nelly, who bent over her pale face with anxious, tearful countenance, while, presiding over the group, like an amiable ogre, stood Bill Jones, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, his legs apart, one eye tightly screwed up, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear.

"That's yer sort!" cried Bill, in ecstatic glee. "W'en a thing comes all right, an' tight, an' ship-shape, why, wot then? In coorse it's all square—that's wot I say."

"She's comin' to," whispered Larry. "Ah! thin, spake, won't ye, darlin'? It'll do ye good, maybe, an' help to open yer two purty eyes."

Kate Morgan recovered—we need scarcely tell our reader that—and Nelly dried her eyes, and that evening was spent in a fashion that conduced to the well-being, and comfort, and good humour of all parties concerned. Perhaps it is also needless to inform our reader that Larry O'Neil and Bill Jones carried their point. They supped in the kitchen that night. Our informant does not say whether Kate Morgan and her sister Nelly supped with them—but we rather think they did.

A week afterwards, Captain Bunting had matured his future plans. He resolved to purchase a clipper-brig that was lying at that time useless in the harbour, and embark in the coasting trade of California. He made Bill Jones his first mate, and offered to make Larry O'Neil his second, but Larry wanted a mate himself, and declined the honour; so the captain gave him five hundred pounds to set him up in any line he chose. Ned Sinton sold his property, and also presented his old comrade with a goodly sum of money, saying, that as he, (Ned), had been the means of dragging him away from the diggings, he felt bound to assist him in the hour of need. So Kate Morgan became Mrs O'Neil the week following; and she, with her husband and her little sister, started off for the interior of the country to look after a farm.

About the same time, Captain Bunting having completed the lading of his brig, succeeded in manning her by offering a high wage, and, bidding adieu to Ned and Tom, set sail for the Sacramento.

Two days afterwards, Ned got a letter from old Mr Shirley—the first that he had received since leaving England. It began thus:—

"My Dearest Boy,—What has become of you? I have written six letters, at least, but have never got a single line in reply. You must come home immediately, as affairs here require your assistance, and I'm getting too old to attend to business matters. Do come at once, my dear Ned, unless you wish me to reprove you. Moxton says only a young and vigorous man of business can manage things properly; but when I mentioned you, he shook his head gravely. 'Too wild and absurd in his notions,' said he. I stopped him, however, by saying that I was fully aware of your faults—"

The letter then went rambling on in a quaint, prosy, but interesting style; and Ned sat long in his room in old Mr Thompson's cottage poring over its contents, and gradually maturing his future plans.

"It's awkward," soliloquised he, resting his head on both hands. "I shall have to go at once, and so won't have a chance of seeing Bunting again, to tell him of poor Tom's circumstances. He would only be too glad to give him a helping hand; but I know Tom will never let him know how hard-up he is. There's nothing else for it," he added, determinedly; "my uncle will laugh at my profitless tour—but, n'importe, I have learned much.—Come in!"