"I'll punish him all the same."

By this time Tom and Jennie were near him again, on their return.

"You don't treat me with much ceremony, Miss Watson," said Graham, with an evil smile.

"My mother doesn't like me to make too many acquaintances," said Jennie demurely.

"She is very prudent," sneered Graham. "You have known your present companion quite a long time."

"I hope to know him a long time," said the young lady promptly. "Let's us continue our walk, Tom."

In discomfiture which he was unable to hide, Graham walked away.

"Evidently, Graham, you are no match for those two youngsters," said his friend, in amusement, which Graham did not share.

Graham did not reply, but seemed moody and preoccupied.

Tom and his companion noticed Graham's displeasure, but they felt indifferent to it. They had no desire to continue his acquaintance. Our hero introduced Mr. Waterbury to his new friends, and this gentleman, who was a thorough gentleman, except on the rare occasion when he yielded to the temptation of strong drink, made a favorable impression upon both.

So the day passed. Tom enjoyed it thoroughly. The river banks afforded a continuous panorama, while the frequent stops gave him an opportunity of observing the different towns in detail. Two or three times he went ashore, accompanied by Jennie, and remained till the steamer was ready to start.

Finally night came, and one by one the weary passengers retired to rest.

"Good night, Tom," said Jennie Watson. "Be up early in the morning."

"So as to get an appetite for breakfast?" asked Tom, with a smile.

"I think we shall both have appetites enough; but it will be pleasant to breathe the fresh morning air."

Tom promised to get up, if he wakened in time.

"If you don't mind, I will occupy the lower berth," said Mr. Waterbury. "I can't climb as well as you."

"All right, sir. It makes no difference to me."



CHAPTER XII.

NO. 61 AND NO. 62.

The stateroom was small, as most staterooms on river boats are. There appeared to be no means of ventilation. Mr. Waterbury was a stout man, and inclined to be short-breathed. After an hour he rose and opened the door, so as to leave it slightly ajar. With the relief thus afforded he was able to go to sleep, and sleep soundly. Tom was already asleep, and knew nothing of what had happened.

The number of the stateroom was 61. Directly opposite was 62, occupied by Milton Graham and his companion.

If Graham did not go to sleep it was because his brain was busily scheming how to obtain possession of the money belonging to his neighbors.

"Won't your key fit?" asked Vincent, for this was the name of the dark-complexioned young man.

"No use, even if it does. Of course they will lock it inside, and probably leave the key in the lock."

About midnight, Graham, who had not fully undressed, having merely taken off his coat, got up, and, opening the door, peered out. To his surprise and joy he saw that the door of No. 61 was ajar. He at first thought of rousing Vincent, who was asleep; but a selfish thought suggested itself. If he did this, he must share with Vincent anything he might succeed in stealing; if not, he could keep it all himself.

He left his stateroom silently, and looked cautiously around him. No one seemed to be stirring in the cabin. Next he stepped across, and, opening wider the door of 61, looked in. The two inmates were, to all appearances, sleeping soundly.

"So far, so good," he said to himself.

He stepped in, moderating even his breathing, and took up a pair of pants which lay on a chair. They belonged to Mr. Waterbury, for Tom had merely taken off his coat, and lain down as he was. His belt of gold he therefore found it unnecessary to take off.

Graham saw at once, from the size of the pants, that they must belong to the elder passenger. This suited him, however, as he knew from Vincent's information that Mr. Waterbury had six hundred dollars, and Tom could not be supposed to have anything like this sum. He felt eagerly in the pockets, and to his great joy his hand came in contact with a pocketbook. He drew it out without ceremony. It was a comfortable-looking wallet, fairly bulging with bills.

"He's got all his money inside," thought Graham, delighted. "What a fool he must be to leave it so exposed—with his door open, too!"

At this moment Graham heard a stir in the lower berth. There was no time to wait. He glided out of the room, and reentered his own stateroom. Immediately after his departure Mr. Waterbury, who had awakened in time to catch sight of his receding figure, rose in his berth, and drew toward him the garment which Graham had rifled. He felt in the pocket, and discovered that the wallet had been taken.

Instead of making a fuss, he smiled quietly, and said: "Just as I expected."

"I wonder if they have robbed Tom, too," he said to himself.

He rose, closed the door, and then shook Tom with sufficient energy to awaken him.

"Who's there?" asked Tom, in some bewilderment, as he opened his eyes.

"It's I—Mr. Waterbury."

"Is it morning? Have we arrived?"

"No, it is about midnight."

"Is there anything the matter?"

"I want you to see if you have been robbed.'"

Tom was broad awake in an instant.

"Robbed!" he exclaimed, in alarm. He felt for his belt and was relieved.

"No," he answered. "What makes you ask?"

"Because I have had a wallet taken. It makes me laugh when I think of it."

"Makes you laugh!" repeated Tom, under the transient impression that his companion was insane. "Why should you laugh at the loss of your money?"

"I saw the thief sneak out of the stateroom," continued Mr. Waterbury; "but I didn't interfere with him."

"You didn't!" said Tom, completely mystified. "I would. Did you see who it was?"

"Yes; it was your friend and late roommate."

"Mr. Graham?"

"As he calls himself. I don't suppose he has any rightful claim to the name."

"Surely, Mr. Waterbury, you are not going to let him keep the money," said Tom energetically; "I'll go with you, and make him give it up. Where is his stateroom?"

"Just opposite—No. 62."

"We had better go at once," said Tom, sitting up in his berth.

"Oh, no; he's welcome to all there is in the pocketbook."

"Wasn't there anything in it?"

"It was stuffed full."

Tom was more than ever convinced that his roommate was crazy. He had heard that misfortune sometimes affected a man's mind; and he was inclined to think that here was a case in point.

"You'll get it back," said he soothingly. "Graham can't get off the boat. We will report the matter to the captain."

"I don't care whether I get it back or not," said Mr. Waterbury.

Tom looked so confused and bewildered that his companion felt called upon to end the mystification.

"I know what is in your mind," he said, smiling. "You think I am crazy."

"I don't understand how you can take your loss so coolly, sir."

"Then I will explain. That wallet was a dummy."

"A what, sir?"

"A sham—a pretense. My pocketbook and money are safe under my pillow. The wallet taken by your friend was filled with imitation greenbacks; in reality, business circulars of a firm in Marietta."

Tom saw it all now.

"It's a capital joke," he said, laughing. "I'd like to see how Graham looks when he discovers the value of his prize."

"He will look green, and feel greener, I suspect," chuckled Mr. Waterbury. "You are certain you have lost nothing, Tom?"

"Perfectly certain, sir."

"Then we won't trouble ourselves about what has happened. I fancy, however, it will be best to keep our own door locked for the remainder of the night, even at the risk of suffocation."

"That's a capital trick of yours, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom admiringly.

"It has more than once saved me from robbery. I have occasion to travel considerably, and so am more or less exposed."

"I wonder if Graham will discover the cheat before morning."

"I doubt it. The staterooms are dark, and the imitation is so good that on casual inspection the strips of paper will appear to be genuine greenbacks."

Mr. Waterbury retired to his berth, and was soon asleep again. Tom, as he lay awake, from time to time laughed to himself, as he thought of Graham's coming disappointment, and congratulated himself that he and that young man were no longer roommates.

When Graham returned to his stateroom Vincent, who was a light sleeper, was aroused by the slight noise he made.

"Are you up, Graham?" he asked.

"Yes; I got up a minute."

"Have you been out of the stateroom?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"To get a glass of water."

There was a vessel of water in the cabin, and this seemed plausible enough.

"Any chance of doing anything to-night?"

"No, I think not."

Vincent sank back on his pillow, and Graham got back into his berth. Quietly he drew the wallet from his pocket, in which he had placed it, and eagerly opened it. The huge roll of bills was a pleasant and welcome sight.

"There's all of six hundred dollars here!" he said to himself. "I mustn't let Vincent know that I have them."

It occurred to Graham that, of course, Mr. Waterbury would proclaim his loss in the morning, and it also occurred to him that he might be able to fasten suspicion upon Tom, who, as his roommate, would naturally have the best chance to commit the robbery. One thing might criminate him—the discovery of the wallet upon his person. He therefore waited till Vincent was once more asleep, and, getting up softly, made his way to the deck. He drew the bills from the wallet, put them in an inside pocket, and threw the wallet into the river.

"Now I'm safe," he muttered, with a sigh of relief. "The money may be found on me, but no one can prove it is not my own."

He gained his berth without again awakening his companion.

"A pretty good night's work!" he said to himself, in quiet exultation. "Alone I have succeeded, while Vincent lies in stupid sleep. He is no match for me, much as he thinks of himself. I have stolen a march upon him this time."

It is not in accordance with our ideas of the fitness of things that a man who has committed a midnight robbery should be able to sleep tranquilly for the balance of the night, but it is at any rate certain that Graham slept soundly till his roommate awakened him in the morning.

"Rouse up, Graham," he said. "Breakfast is nearly ready."

"Is it?" asked Graham.

"Instead of sleeping there, you ought to be thinking how we can make a forced loan from our acquaintances in 61."

"To be sure," said Graham, smiling. "I am rather stupid about such things. Have you any plan to suggest?"

"You seem very indifferent all at once," said Vincent.

"Not at all. If you think of anything practical I am your man."

He longed to get rid of Vincent, in order to have an opportunity of counting his roll of bills.



CHAPTER XIII.

GRAHAM'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

Milton Graham, on reaching a place where he could do so unobserved, drew from his pocket the roll of bills, with a smile of exultation. But the smile faded, and was succeeded by a look of dismay, when he recognized the worthlessness of his booty. An oath rose to his lips, and he thrust the roll back into his pocket, as he noticed the approach of a passenger.

"It's a cursed imposition!" he muttered to himself, and he really felt that he had been wronged by Mr. Waterbury.

"What are you doing out here, Graham?" asked Vincent, for it was his confederate who approached.

"Nothing in particular. Why?" responded Graham.

"What makes you look so glum?"

"Do I look glum?"

"You look as if you had but one friend in the world, and were about to lose him."

"That may be true enough," muttered Graham.

"Come, man, don't look so downcast."

"I'm out of luck, and out of cash, Vincent."

"We're both in the same boat, as far as that goes; but that isn't going to last. How about our stout friend? Can't we make him contribute to our necessities?"

"I don't believe he's got any money."

"No? Why, I heard him tell the boy he had six hundred dollars."

"Where does he keep it?"

"In his pocketbook probably."

"Will you oblige me by stating how we are going to get hold of it?"

"I look to you for that."

"He's too careful. I leave you to try your hand."

"Let me go in to breakfast. There's nothing like a full stomach to suggest ideas."

So the two went to the breakfast table, and Graham, in spite of his disappointment, managed to eat a hearty meal.

An hour later Mr. Waterbury and Tom were standing on deck, conversing with Jennie Watson and her mother, when Graham and Vincent approached arm in arm. As soon as they were within hearing distance Mr. Waterbury purposely remarked, "By the way, Mrs. Watson, I met with a loss last night."

"Indeed!" returned the lady.

Graham was about to push on, not wishing Vincent to hear the disclosure, as it might awaken his suspicions; but the latter's curiosity was aroused.

"Wait, Graham," he said; and Graham, against his will, was compelled to slacken his pace.

"A man entered my stateroom during the night, and stole a wallet from my coat pocket."

Graham changed color a little, and Vincent seemed amazed.

"Did you hear that, Graham?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

"How can I tell?"

"I hope you did not lose much," said Mrs. Watson, in a tone of sympathy.

"I lost the wallet," said Mr. Waterbury, laughing.

"Was there nothing in it?"

"It was full of bills."

Vincent looked at Graham with new-born suspicion, but Graham looked indifferent.

"It appears to me that you take the loss cheerfully," said Mrs. Watson, puzzled.

"I have reason to. The fact is, I was prepared for the visit, and had filled the wallet with bogus bills. I fancy they won't do my visitor much good."

The lady smiled.

"You were fortunate, Mr. Waterbury," said she. "Do you suspect any one of the theft?"

"I know pretty well who robbed me," returned Mr. Waterbury, and he suffered his glance to rest on Graham, who seemed in a hurry to get away.

"Come along, Vincent," he said sharply.

Vincent obeyed. Light dawned upon him, and he determined to verify his suspicions.

"Graham," said he, in a low voice, "you did this."

"Did what?"

"You got that wallet."

Graham concluded that he might as well make a clean breast of it, since it had become a matter of necessity.

"Well," said he, "suppose I did?"

"You were not going to let me know of it," said Vincent suspiciously.

"That is true. I was ashamed of having been imposed upon."

"When did you find out that the money was bogus?"

"Immediately."

"If it had been good, would you have shared with me honorably?"

"Of course. What do you take me for?"

Vincent was silent. He did not believe his companion. He suspected that the latter had intended to steal a march on him.

"You might have told me of it," he continued, in a tone of dissatisfaction.

"There was no need to say anything, as there was nothing to divide."

"Have you got the wallet with you now?"

"No; I threw it overboard."

"And the bills?"

"You may have them all, if you like."

"Come into the stateroom, where we can be unobserved, and show them to me."

Graham complied with his suggestion.

"It would have been a good haul if they had been genuine," said Vincent, as he unfolded the roll.

"Yes, but they are not; worse luck!"

"I didn't give the old fellow credit for being so sharp."

"Nor I. There's more in him than I supposed there was."

"Well, what is to be done?"

"Nothing. The old man is on his guard, and, besides, he suspects me. He was probably awake when I entered the stateroom. He and the boy have probably laughed over it together. I hate that boy."

"Why?"

"Because he is a green country boy, and yet he has succeeded in thwarting me. I am ashamed whenever I think of it."

"Would you like to play a trick on him in turn?"

"Yes."

"Then give me this roll of bills."

"What do you want to do with them?"

"Put them in his pocket."

"Can you do it unobserved?"

"Yes. The fact is, Graham, I served an apprenticeship as a pickpocket, and flatter myself I still have some dexterity in that line."

"Very well, it will be some satisfaction, and if the old man didn't see me enter the stateroom, he may be brought to believe that the boy robbed him. If that could be, I should feel partly compensated for my disappointment. I should like to get that boy into trouble."

"Consider it done, so far as I am concerned. Now let us separate, so as to avoid suspicion."

Vincent began to pace the deck in a leisurely manner, in each case passing near Tom, who was still engaged in conversation with Jennie Watson and her mother. For a time he was unable to effect his purpose, as our hero was sitting down. But after a while Tom rose, and stood with his back to Vincent. He wore a sack coat, with side pockets. This was favorable to Vincent, who, as he passed, adroitly slipped the bills into one of them, without attracting the attention of our hero.

Presently Tom thrust his hand into his pocket mechanically. They encountered the bills. In surprise he drew them out, and looked at them in amazement.

"What's that, Tom?" asked Jennie, with great curiosity.

"It looks like money," answered Tom, not yet understanding what had happened.

"You seem to be rich."

"By gracious!—it's Mr. Waterbury's money," exclaimed Tom. Then he colored, as it flashed upon him that its presence in his pocket might arouse suspicion. "I don't see how it got there," he continued, in a bewildered way.

Just then Mr. Waterbury came up, and was made acquainted with the discovery.

"I don't know what you'll think, Mr. Waterbury," said Tom, coloring; "I haven't the slightest idea how the money came in my pocket."

"I have," said Mr. Waterbury quietly.

Tom looked at him, to discover whether he was under suspicion.

"The companion of your friend Graham slipped it into your pocket. He was very quick and adroit, but I detected him. He wanted to throw suspicion upon you."

"It is lucky you saw him, sir."

"Why?"

"You might have suspected me."

"My dear boy, don't trouble yourself about that. No circumstantial evidence will shake my confidence in your integrity."

"Thank you, sir," said Tom gratefully.

"What a wicked man to play a trick on you, Tom!" exclaimed Jennie indignantly.

"I see there is somebody else who has confidence in you, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, smiling; "I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."

"I am ready to forgive him," said Mr. Waterbury, "as he has restored the money. It will do as a bait for the next thief."



CHAPTER XIV.

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

"I believe, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, "that I will come to an understanding with these officious acquaintances of yours. I will intimate to them that their persecution must cease."

"Will they mind what you say, sir?"

"I think they will," answered his friend quietly.

Graham and Vincent were standing together, and apart from the rest of the passengers, when Mr. Waterbury approached them.

"A word with you, gentlemen," said he gravely.

"I don't know you, sir," blustered Vincent.

"Perhaps not. Permit me to remark that I have no special desire for your acquaintance."

"Then why do you take the liberty of addressing me?"

"I rather admire the fellow's impudence," said Mr. Waterbury to himself.

"Are you associated with this gentleman?" he asked, indicating Graham.

"We are friends."

"Then I will address an inquiry to him. I am not in the habit of receiving calls in my stateroom during the hours of sleep."

"I don't understand you, sir," said Milton Graham, with hauteur.

"Oh, yes, you do, unless your memory is singularly defective. Our staterooms are close together. You entered mine last night."

"You must have been dreaming."

"If so, I was dreaming with my eyes open. Perhaps it was in my dreams that I saw you extract a wallet from my coat pocket."

"Do you mean to insult me, sir?" demanded Graham.

"Really, sir, your remarks are rather extraordinary," chimed in Vincent.

"Do you mean to say that I robbed you?" demanded Graham, confident in the knowledge that the booty was not on his person.

"I find a wallet missing. That speaks for itself."

"Let me suggest that your roommate probably took it," said Vincent.

"Extremely probable," said Graham. "He roomed with me in Pittsburg, and I caught him at my pockets during the night."

"Did you ever hear the fable of the wolf and the lamb, Mr. Graham?" asked Mr. Waterbury.

"Can't say I have."

"It's of no consequence. I am reminded of it, however."

"Come to think of it," said Vincent, "I saw the boy with a roll of bills. You had better search him. If he is innocent, he can't object."

"I see your drift," returned Mr. Waterbury, after a pause. "I saw you thrust the bills into his pocket, as he stood with his back turned, conversing with one of the passengers. It was very skilfully done, but I saw it."

Vincent started, for he had supposed himself unobserved.

"I see you are determined to insult us," he said. "I will charitably conclude that you are drunk."

"I can't be so charitable with you, sir. I believe you are a pair of precious scoundrels, who, if you had your deserts, would be in the penitentiary instead of at large."

"I have a mind to knock you down," said Vincent angrily.

As Vincent was several inches shorter and much slighter than the person whom he threatened, this menace sounded rather ridiculous.

"You are at liberty to try it," said the latter, smiling. "First, however, let me warn you that, if you continue to annoy us, it will be at your peril. If you remain quiet I shall leave you alone. Otherwise I will make known your true character to the captain and passengers, and you will undoubtedly be set ashore when we reach the next landing. I have the honor to wish you good morning."

"It strikes me, Graham," said Vincent, as Mr. Waterbury left them, "that we have tackled the wrong passenger."

"I believe you are right," said Graham. "Just my luck."

"There isn't much use in staying on the boat. He will keep a good lookout for us."

"True; but I don't want to give up the boy."

"He is under the guardianship of this determined old party."

"They will separate at Cincinnati."

"Well?"

"He has money enough to take him to California. He is worth following up."

"Then you are in favor of going on to Cincinnati?"

"By all means."

"Very well. There are always chances of making an honest penny in a large city."

"Money or no money, I want to get even with the boy."

So the worthy pair decided to go on to Cincinnati.



CHAPTER XV.

THE ALLEGHANY HOUSE.

It was a bright, sunny morning when the River Belle touched her pier at Cincinnati. The passengers gathered on deck, and discussed their plans. In one group were Tom, Mr. Waterbury, Jennie Watson, and her mother.

"I am sorry you are going to leave us, Tom," said Jennie; "I shall feel awfully lonely."

"So shall I," said Tom.

"What's the use of going to that hateful California? Why can't you stay here with us?"

"Business before pleasure, Jennie," said her mother. "You mustn't forget that Tom has his fortune to make."

"I wish he could make it in Cincinnati, mother."

"So do I; but I must admit that California presents a better prospect just at present. You are both young, and I hope we may meet Tom in after years."

"When I have made my pile," suggested Tom.

"Precisely."

"You won't go right on, Tom, will you?" asked Jennie. "You'll stay here a day or two."

"Yes; I should like to see something of Cincinnati."

"And you'll call on us?"

"I shall be very happy to do so. Where are you going to stay?"

"At the Burnet House. Won't you come there, too?"

"Is it a high-priced hotel?"

"I believe it is."

"Then I can't afford to stay there; but I can call on you all the same."

"Stay there as my guest, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury cordially. "It shall not cost you anything."

"Thank you, sir. You are very kind, but I don't like to accept unnecessary favors. I will put up at some cheap hotel, and call upon you both."

"You would be heartily welcome, my boy," said Mr. Waterbury.

"I don't doubt it, sir, and the time may come when I will gladly accept your kindness," replied Tom.

"But now you mean to have your own way; is that it, Tom."

"You won't be offended, sir?"

"On the contrary, I respect you for your manly independence. You won't forget that I am your friend?"

"I don't want to forget that, sir."

So it happened that while Mrs. Watson, Jennie, and Mr. Waterbury registered at the Burnet House, Tom, carpetbag in hand, walked through the streets till he came to a plain inn, bearing the name Alleghany House. It is not now in existence, having given way to an imposing business block.

"That looks as if it might suit my purse," thought Tom.

He walked in, and, approaching the desk, inquired: "How much do you charge at this hotel?"

"A dollar a day," answered the clerk. "Will you have a room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Please register your name." Tom did so.

"Cato," called the clerk—summoning a colored boy, about Tom's size—"take this young man to No. 18."

"All right, sar," said Cato, showing his ivories.

"When do you have dinner?" asked Tom.

"One o'clock."

Preceded by Cato, Tom walked up-stairs, and was ushered into a small, dingy room on the second floor. There was a single window, looking through dingy panes upon a back yard. There was a general air of cheerlessness and discomfort, but at any rate it was larger than the stateroom on the River Belle.

"Is this the best room you have?" asked Tom, not very favorably impressed.

"Oh, no, sar," answered Cato. "If your wife was with you, sar, we'd give you a scrumptious room, 'bout twice as big."

"I didn't bring my wife along, Cato," said Tom, amused. "Are you married?"

"Not yet, sar," answered his colored guide, with a grin.

"I think we can wait till we are a little older."

"Reckon so, sar."

"Just bring up a little water, Cato. I feel in need of washing."

"Dirt don't show on me," said Cato, with a guffaw.

"I suppose you do wash, now and then, don't you?"

"Yes, sar, sometimes," answered Cato equivocally.

When Tom had completed his toilet he found that it was but ten o'clock. He accordingly went down-stairs, intending to see a little of the city before dinner.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE EVENTS OF A MORNING.

Graham and Vincent had kept quiet during the latter part of the voyage. They had a wholesome fear of Mr. Waterbury, and kept aloof from him and Tom. They even exchanged their stateroom for one at a different part of the boat. All was satisfactory to Tom and his companion.

When the worthy pair reached Cincinnati they were hard up. Their united funds amounted to but seven dollars, and it seemed quite necessary that they should find the means of replenishing their purses somewhere. They managed to ascertain that Tom and his friend were going to separate, and this afforded them satisfaction, since it made their designs upon our hero more feasible. At a distance they followed Tom to the Alleghany House, and themselves took lodgings at a small, cheap tavern near-by. Like Tom, they set out soon after their arrival in quest of adventure.

"We must strike a vein soon, Graham," said Vincent, "or we shall be in a tight place."

"That's so," answered Graham.

"Thus far our trip hasn't paid very well. It's been all outgo and no income."

"You're right, partner; but don't give up the ship," responded Graham, whose spirits returned, now that he was on dry land. "I've been in the same straits about once a month for the last five years."

"I've known you for three years, Graham, and, so far as my knowledge extends, I can attest the truth of what you say. By the way, you never say anything of your life before that date."

A shadow passed over Graham's face.

"Because I don't care to think of it; I never talk of it," he said.

"Pshaw, man, we all of us have some ugly secrets. Suppose we confide in each other. Tell me your story, and I will tell you mine. It won't change my opinion of you."

"Probably not," said Graham. "Well, there is no use in holding back. For this once I will go back to the past. Five years ago I was a favorite in society. One day an acquaintance introduced me into a gambling house, and I tried my hand successfully. I went out with fifty dollars more than I brought in. It was an unlucky success, for it made me a frequent visitor. All my surplus cash found a market there, and when that was exhausted I borrowed from my employer."

"Without his knowledge?"

"Of course. For six months I evaded discovery. Then I was detected. My friends interceded, and saved me from the penitentiary, but I lost my situation, and was required to leave the city. I went to New York, tried to obtain a situation there, failed, and then adopted my present profession. I need not tell you the rest."

"My dear friend, I think I know the rest pretty well. But don't look sober. A fig for the past. What's the odds, as long as you're happy?"

"Are you happy?" inquired Graham.

"As long as I'm flush," answered Vincent, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm nearly dead-broke now, and of course I am miserable. However, my story comes next in order. I was a bank teller, appropriated part of the funds of the bank, fled with it, spent it, and then became an ornament to our common profession."

"Where was the bank?"

"In Canada. I haven't been there since. The climate don't suit me. It's bleak, but I fear it might prove too hot for me. Now we know each other."

"You don't allow it to worry you, Vincent," said Graham.

"No, I don't. Why should I? I let the dead past bury its dead, as Longfellow says, and act in the living present. That reminds me, we ought to be at work. I have a proposal to make. We won't hunt in couples, but separate, and each will try to bring home something to help the common fund. Is it agreed?"

"Yes."

"Au revoir, then!"

"That fellow has no conscience," thought Graham. "Mine is callous, but he goes beyond me. Perhaps he is the better off."

Graham shook off his transient dull spirits, and walked on, keeping a sharp lookout for a chance to fleece somebody. In front of a railroad ticket office he espied a stolid-looking German, who was trying to read the placard in the window.

Graham approached him, and said politely, "My friend, perhaps I can help you. Are you thinking of buying a railroad ticket?"

The German turned, and his confidence was inspired by the friendly interest of Graham's manner.

"I go to Minnesota," he said, "where my brother live."

"Exactly, and you want a ticket to go there?"

"Yes, I want a ticket. Do they sell him here?"

"No," said Graham. "That is, they do sell tickets here; but they ask too much."

"I will not pay too much," said the German, shaking his head decisively.

"Of course not; I will take you to a cheaper place."

"That is good," said the German, well pleased. "It is luck I meet mit a friend like you."

"Yes," said Graham, linking his arm in that of his new acquaintance. "I don't like to see a worthy man cheated. Come with me. How much money have you?"

This inquiry ought to have excited the suspicions of the German; but he was trustful, and answered promptly, "Two hundred dollar."

Graham's eyes sparkled.

"If I could only get the whole of it," he thought. But that didn't seem easy.

They walked through street after street till Graham stopped in front of an office.

"Now," said he, "give me your money, and I will buy the ticket."

"How much money?" asked his new acquaintance.

"I don't know exactly," said Graham carelessly. "Just hand me your pocketbook, and I will pay what is needed."

But here the German's characteristic caution came in.

"I will go with you," he said.

"If you do, I can't get the tickets so cheap. The agent is a friend of mine, and if he thinks it is for me he will give it to me for less. Don't give me all your money. Fifty dollars will do. I will buy the ticket, and bring you the rest of the money."

This seemed plausible enough, and Graham would have got what he asked for, but for the interference of Tom, who had come up just in time to hear Graham's proposal. He had no difficulty in comprehending his purpose.

"Don't give him the money," he said. "He will cheat you."

Both Graham and his intended victim wheeled round, and looked at our hero.

"Clear out of here, you young vagabond!" said Graham angrily.

"This man wants to cheat you," persisted Tom. "Don't give him your money."

The bewildered foreigner looked from one to the other.

"This is no ticket office," said Tom. "I will lead you to one, and you shall buy a ticket for yourself."

"He wants to swindle you," said Graham quickly.

"You shall keep your money in your own hands," said Tom. "I don't want it."

"I go with you, my young friend," said the German, convinced by Tom's honest face. "The other man may be all right, but I go with you."

Graham protested in vain. His victim went off with Tom, who saw that he was provided with the ticket he wanted. His new friend tried to force a dollar upon him; but this Tom steadily refused.

"I'll get even with you yet!" said Graham furiously; but our hero was not disturbed by this menace.

Vincent, meantime, was making a tour of observation, ready for any adventure that might put an honest or dishonest penny into his pocket. About half an hour later he found himself on the leading retail street in Cincinnati. In front of him walked a lady, fashionably attired, holding a mother-of-pearl portemonnaie carelessly in her hand. He brushed by her, and at the same moment the pocketbook was snatched from her hand.

The lady screamed, and instinctively clutched Vincent by the arm.

"This man has robbed me, I think," she said. The crowd began to gather about Vincent, and he saw that he was cornered. Among the crowd, unluckily for himself, was Tom. By a skilful movement Vincent thrust the portemonnaie into our hero's pocket.

"You are mistaken, madam," he said coolly; "I saw that boy take your money."

Instantly two men seized Tom.

"Search him," said Vincent, "and see it I am not right."

The portemonnaie was taken from Tom's pocket, amid the hootings of the crowd.

"So young, and yet so wicked!" said the lady regretfully.

"I didn't take the money, madam," protested Tom, his face scarlet with surprise and mortification.

"Don't believe him, ma'am. I saw him take it," said Vincent virtuously.

Poor Tom looked from one to another; but all faces were unfriendly. It was a critical time for him.



CHAPTER XVII.

TOM'S ARREST.

To one who is scrupulously honest a sudden charge of dishonesty is almost overwhelming. Now, Tom was honest, not so much because he had been taught that honesty was a virtue, as by temperament and instinct. Yet here he saw himself surrounded by hostile faces, for a crowd soon collected. Not one believed in his innocence, not even the lady, who thought it was such a pity that he was "so young and yet so wicked."

"Will somebody call a policeman?" asked Vincent.

A policeman soon made his appearance. He was a stout, burly man, and pushed his way through the crowd without ceremony.

"What's the row?" he inquired.

"This boy has picked a lady's pocket," exclaimed Vincent.

The officer placed his hand roughly on Tom's shoulder.

"You were a little too smart, young feller!" said he. "You must come along with me."

"I didn't take the money," protested Tom, pale, but in a firm voice.

"That's too thin," said Vincent, with a sneer.

"Yes, it's too thin," repeated two or three in the crowd.

"It's true," said Tom.

"Perhaps you'll tell us how the money came in your pocket," suggested a bystander.

"That man put it in," answered Tom, indicating Vincent.

The latter shrugged his shoulders.

"He says so, because I exposed him," he remarked, turning to the crowd.

"Of course; that's a common game," interposed the policeman.

"Have you any reason for what you say, my boy?" asked a quiet-looking man, with a pleasant face.

"Of course he hasn't," replied Vincent hastily.

"I spoke to the boy, sir."

"I have a reason," answered Tom. "A friend of this man roomed with me at Pittsburg, and during the night tried to rob me. We were both passengers on the River Belle on the last trip. During the trip he entered our stateroom, and stole a wallet from my roommate. This man slyly put it into my pocket, in order to escape suspicion."

"It's a lie!" exclaimed Vincent uneasily. "Gentlemen, the boy is very artful, and the greatest liar out."

"Of course he is!" assented the policeman. "Come along, young feller!"

"Wait a minute," said the quiet man. "Have you any proof of your statements, my boy, except your own word?"

"Yes, sir; my roommate will tell you the same thing."

"Who is he? Where can he be found?"

"He is Mr. Nicholas Waterbury, of Marietta. He is now at the Burnet House."

"That's all gammon!" said the officer roughly. "Come along. I can't wait here all day."

"Don't be in a hurry, officer," said the quiet man. "I know Mr. Waterbury, and I believe the boy's story is correct."

"It ain't any of your business!" said the officer insolently. "The boy's a thief, and I'm goin' to lock him up."

"Look out, sir!" said the quiet man sternly. "You are overstepping the limits of your duty, and asserting what you have no possible means of knowing. There is reason to believe that this man"—pointing out Vincent—"is the real thief. I call upon you to arrest him."

"I don't receive no orders from you, sir," said the policeman. "I'm more likely to take you along."

"That's right, officer," said Vincent approvingly. "The man is interfering with you in the exercise of your duty. You have a perfect right to arrest him."

"I have a great mind to," said the officer, who was one of the many who are puffed up by a little brief authority, and lose no opportunity of exercising it.

The quiet man did not seem in the least alarmed. He smiled, and said, "Perhaps, officer, it might be well for you to inquire my name, before proceeding to arrest me."

"Who are you?" demanded the officer insolently.

"I am Alderman Morris."

A great change came over the policeman. He knew now that the quiet man before him was President of the Board of Aldermen, and he began to be alarmed, remembering with what rudeness he had treated him.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he said humbly; "I didn't know you."

"What is your name, sir?" demanded the alderman, in a tone of authority.

"Jones, sir."

"How long have you been on the force?"

"Six months, your honor."

"Then you ought to be better fitted for your position by this time."

"I hope you won't take no offense at what I said, not knowing you, alderman."

"That's no personal offense, but I object to your pronouncing upon the guilt of parties arrested when you know nothing of the matter."

"Shall I take the boy along, sir?"

"Yes, and this man also. I don't wish to interfere with the exercise of justice, but it is my opinion that the boy is innocent."

"I protest against this outrage," said Vincent nervously. "Am I to be punished because I expose a thief?"

"Come along, sir," said the policeman. "The alderman says so."

"I appeal to the gentlemen present," said Vincent, hoping for a forcible deliverance.

"Madam," said the alderman to the lady who had been robbed, "did you see the boy take your pocketbook?"

"No, sir! I thought it was the man, till he told me it was the boy, and the money was found on the boy."

"I should think that told the story," said Vincent. "Any man here might be arrested as soon as I. Fellow citizens, is this a free country, where a man of reputation can be summarily arrested at the bidding of another? If so, I would rather live under a monarchy."

There was a murmur of approval, and some sympathy was excited.

"There will be no injustice done, sir," said the alderman. "I propose to follow up this matter myself. I will see my friend, Mr. Waterbury, and I can soon learn whether the boy's story is correct."

"He may lie, too!" said Vincent, who had very good reasons for fearing Mr. Waterbury's testimony.

"Mr. Waterbury is a gentleman of veracity," said Alderman Morris sharply. "I see you recognize the name."

"Never heard of him," said Vincent. "I suppose it is one of the boy's confederates."

"I will answer for him," said the alderman. "My boy," he said, "I hope we shall be able to prove your innocence. Be under no anxiety. Go with the officer, and I will seek out Mr. Waterbury. Officer, take care to treat him gently."

"All right, sir."

There was no fear now that Tom would be roughly treated. He had too much regard for his own interest, and his tenure of office, to disoblige a man so influential and powerful as Alderman Morris.

Notwithstanding there had been such a turn in his favor, Tom felt humiliated to feel that he was under restraint, and his cheeks burned with shame as he walked beside the officer. Vincent, upon the other side, gnashed his teeth with rage, as he thought of his unexpected detention. Just as revenge was in his grasp, he had been caught in the same trap which he had so willingly set for Tom.

"That Alderman Morris is a fool!" he said. "He isn't fit to be in office."

"Don't you say nothin' against him!" said the policeman. "It won't be best for you. He's one of our leadin' citizens, Alderman Morris is."

"He snubbed you!" sneered Vincent. "He talked to you as if you were a dog."

"No, he didn't. You'd better shut up, prisoner."

"Oh, well, if you're willing to be trampled upon, it isn't any of my business. I wouldn't stand it, alderman or no alderman. Such things wouldn't be allowed in New York, where I live."

"Oh, New York's a model city, so I've heard," retorted the policeman, in a tone of sarcasm. "We don't pretend to come up to New York."

Finding that nothing was to be gained by continuing his attacks upon the alderman, Vincent became silent; but his brain was active. He felt that Mr. Waterbury's testimony would be fatal to him. He must escape, if possible. Soon a chance came. He seized his opportunity, shook off the grasp of the officer, and darted away. Not knowing what to do with Tom, who was also under arrest, the officer paused an instant, then, leaving our hero, hastened in pursuit.

"Now's your chance to escape, boy!" said a sympathetic bystander to him.

"I don't want to escape," answered Tom. "I want my innocence proved. I shall stay where I am till the officer returns."

And he kept his word. Ten minutes later the officer came back, puffing and panting, after an unsuccessful pursuit; prepared to find Tom gone also.

"What, are you there?" he asked, staring in wonder.

"Yes," said Tom; "I don't want to escape. I shall come out right."

"I believe you will," said the officer, with a revulsion of sentiment in Tom's favor. "Just walk along beside me, and I won't take hold of you. I'm not afraid of your running away now."



CHAPTER XVIII.

TOM GETS OUT OF HIS DIFFICULTY.

Tom had not been long in the station-house when Alderman Morris, accompanied by Mr. Waterbury, entered. The latter looked at Tom with a humorous smile.

"You don't appear to get along very well without my guardianship, Tom," he said.

"No, sir," answered Tom. "The trouble is, some of my other friends can't let me alone."

"Was it in a fit of emotional insanity that you relieved the lady of her pocketbook?" asked Mr. Waterbury, bent on keeping up the joke.

"If I ever do such a thing, you may be sure it is because I am insane," answered Tom positively.

"I shall," said Mr. Waterbury seriously. "Now, where is this precious acquaintance of ours who got you into this scrape?"

"He has escaped."

"Escaped!" exclaimed the alderman hastily. "How is that?"

Here the policeman took up the story, and explained that Vincent had taken advantage of his double charge to effect his escape.

"I suppose, officer," said Mr. Waterbury, "that you were unwilling to leave Tom in order to pursue him."

"I did leave him, sir, and didn't expect to find him when I got back. But there he was, waiting for me as quietly as—anything."

"Didn't you feel tempted to escape, too, my boy?"

"Why should I, sir? I had done nothing; I had nothing to fear."

"Innocence is not always a protection, for justice is sometimes far from clear-sighted. In the present case, however, I think you will not suffer for your confidence."

Tom was not brought to trial. Mr. Waterbury's statement of what had passed on the voyage of the River Belle was held to be sufficient to establish Tom's innocence, and he was allowed to walk out with Mr. Waterbury.

"Have you anything to do this morning, Tom?" asked his friend.

"No, sir."

"Then come around and dine with me at the Burnet House. Afterward we will call upon your friends, the Watsons."

Mrs. Watson and Jennie had altered their plans and gone to a boarding-house, preferring that to a hotel.

"That will be agreeable to me, sir."

The dinner was excellent, and Tom did full justice to it.

"At one time this morning, Tom, it looked as if you would dine at quite a different place," said Mr. Waterbury, when they were eating the dessert.

"Yes, sir."

"You won't think much of Cincinnati's hospitality, eh, Tom?"

"Any place would be the same, where Vincent was," returned Tom.

"Very true; he and Graham will bring discredit on any city which they adopt as a home. How long shall you remain here?"

"I should like to stay long enough to see something of the city, but I cannot afford it. I must reach California as soon as possible."

"No doubt you are right, in your circumstances. I have been inquiring for you, and find that St. Joseph, in Missouri, is the usual starting-point for travelers across the plains. I find an acquaintance here in the hotel, who will start to-morrow for that place. I have mentioned you to him, and he says he shall be glad to have your company so far. Whether you keep together afterward will depend upon yourselves."

"I shall be glad to have company, sir," said Tom. Though manly and self-reliant, he realized that it was quite a serious undertaking for a boy of his age to make the trip alone. He was not sure of meeting with another friend like Mr. Waterbury, and there might be danger of falling in with another brace of worthies like Graham and Vincent.

"My friend's name is Ferguson—a Scotchman, rather sedate, but entirely trustworthy. I will introduce you this evening."

"Thank you, sir."

After dinner they walked to Mrs. Watson's boarding-house. Somewhere on Vine Street, Mr. Waterbury paused in front of a jewelry store.

"I want to step in here a minute, Tom," he said.

"Certainly, sir."

Tom remained near the door, while Mr. Waterbury went into the back part of the store, where he was occupied for a few minutes with one of the proprietors. When he came back he held a small box in his hand.

"Please carry this for me, Tom," he said.

"With pleasure, sir."

They went out into the street together.

"Do you know what is in the box, Tom?" asked Mr. Waterbury.

"No, sir," answered our hero, a little surprised at the question.

"You didn't see what I was buying, then?" continued Mr. Waterbury.

"No, sir; I was watching the crowds on the sidewalk."

"If you have any curiosity, you may open the box."

Previously Tom had felt no curiosity. Now he did feel a little.

Opening the box, his eye rested on a neat silver watch, with a chain attached. The case was a pretty one, and Tom glanced at it with approval.

"It is very pretty, sir," he said; "but I thought you had a watch already."

"I didn't buy it for myself."

"For your son?" asked Tom innocently.

Mr. Waterbury smiled.

"I thought of asking your acceptance of it," he said.

"You don't mean that you are going to give it to me, sir?" said Tom eagerly.

"If you will accept it."

"How kind you are, Mr. Waterbury!" exclaimed Tom gratefully. "There is nothing in the world that I should like so much. How can I thank you?"

"By considering it a proof of my interest in you. I was sure you would like it. Before I had reached your age the great object of my ambition was a watch. I received one from my uncle, as a gift, on my seventeenth birthday. I believe I looked at it once in five minutes on an average during the first day."

"I dare say it will be so with me, sir," said Tom, who, at the moment, had the watch in his hand, examining it.

"As you are to rough it, I thought it best to get you a hunting-case watch, because it will be less liable to injury. When you become a man I hope you will be prosperous enough to buy a gold watch and chain, if you prefer them. While you are a boy silver will be good enough."

"Gold wouldn't correspond very well with my circumstances," said Tom. "I didn't dream of even having a silver watch and chain for years to come. I shall write home this evening, and tell mother of my good luck."

"Will you mention that you have already been under arrest?" asked Mr. Waterbury, smiling.

Tom shook his head.

"I am not proud of that," he answered; "and it would only trouble them at home to have an account of it. When I get home, I may mention it sometime."

"Better put on your watch and chain, Tom, before we reach Mrs. Watson's."

Tom needed no second invitation.

"It's lucky mother put a watch-pocket in my vest," he said. "We didn't either of us suppose there would be any occasion for it; but I asked her to do it."

In a nice-looking brick boarding-house—for brown-stone houses were not then often to be found—Tom and his friend found Mrs. Watson and Jennie.

"I'm so glad to see you, Tom," said Jennie. "I've missed you awfully."

"Thank you," said Tom. "I've come to bid you good-by."

"Good-by! You don't mean that?"

"I expect to start for St. Joseph to-morrow. I am in a hurry to get to California."

"That's real mean. I don't see why you can't stay in Cincinnati a week."

"I should like to."

"Then why don't you?" persisted the young girl.

"Jennie," said her mother, "we must remember that Thomas is not traveling for pleasure. He is going to California to seek his fortune. It won't do for him to linger on his way."

"A week won't make much difference; will it, Tom?"

"I am afraid it will, Jennie. Besides, a friend of Mr. Waterbury will start to-morrow, and has agreed to take me with him."

"I suppose you've got to go, then," said Jennie regretfully. "Oh, where did you get that watch, Tom?"

"A kind friend gave it to me."

"Who do you mean—Mr. Graham?" she asked archly.

"He would be more likely to relieve me of it. No, it is Mr. Waterbury."

"I am going to kiss you for that, Mr. Waterbury," said Jennie impulsively; and she suited the action to the word.

"What will Mr. Waterbury think, Jennie?" said her mother.

"He thinks himself well repaid for his gift," answered that gentleman, smiling; "and half inclined to give Tom another watch."

"Isn't it my turn, now?" asked Tom, with a courage at which he afterward rather wondered; but he was fast getting rid of his country bashfulness.

"I never kiss boys," said Jennie demurely.

"Then I will grow into a man as fast as I can," said Tom, "and give somebody a watch, and then—— But that will be a good while to wait."

"I may kiss you good-by," said Jennie, "if I feel like it."

She did feel like it, and Tom received the kiss.

"It strikes me, Tom," said Mr. Waterbury, as they were walking home, "that you and Jennie are getting along fast."

"She kissed you first," said Tom, blushing.

"But the kiss she gave me was wholly on your account."

"She seems just like a sister," said Tom. "She's a tip-top girl."



CHAPTER XIX.

A MISSOURI TAVERN.

The next day Tom started on his way. His new companion, Donald Ferguson, was a sedate Scotchman, and a thoroughly reliable man. He was possessed to the full of the frugality characteristic of the race to which he belonged, and, being more accustomed to traveling than Tom, saved our hero something in the matter of expense. He was always ready to talk of Scotland, which he evidently thought the finest country in the world. He admitted that Glasgow was not as large a city as London, but that it was more attractive. As for New York, that city bore no comparison to the chief city of Scotland.

"You must go to Scotland some time, Tom," he said. "If you can't visit but one country in the Old World, go to Scotland."

Privately Tom was of opinion that he should prefer to visit England; but he did not venture to hurt the feelings of his fellow-traveler by saying so.

"I wonder, Mr. Ferguson," he could not help saying one day, "that you should have been willing to leave Scotland, since you so much prefer it to America."

"I'll tell you, my lad," answered the Scotchman. "I would rather live in Scotland than anywhere else on God's footstool; but I won't be denying that it is a poor place for a man to make money, if compared with a new country like this."

"There are no gold-mines, I suppose, sir?"

"No; and the land is not as rich as the land here. It is rich in historical associations; but a man, you know, can't live on those," he added shrewdly.

"No, I should think not," said Tom. "It would be pretty dry diet. How long have you been in the country, Mr. Ferguson?"

"A matter of three months only, my lad. It's the gold-mines that brought me over. I read of them in the papers at home, and I took the first ship across the Atlantic."

"Have you a family, Mr. Ferguson?"

"I've got an old mother at home, my lad, who looks to me for support. I left fifty pounds with her when I came away. It'll last her, I'm thinkin', till I can send her some from California."

"Then Mr. Ferguson, you are like me," said Tom. "I am going to California to work for my father and mother. Father is poor, and I have brothers and sisters at home to provide for. I hope I shall succeed, for their sake."

"You will, my lad," said the Scotchman, in a tone of calm confidence. "It is a noble purpose, and if you keep to it God will bless you in your undertaking, and give you a good fortune."

"I hope we shall both be fortunate."

"I have no fear. I put my trust in the Lord, who is always ready to help those who are working for him."

Tom found that Mr. Ferguson, though his manner was dry and unattractive, was a religious man, and he respected and esteemed him for his excellent traits. He was not a man to inspire warm affection, but no one could fail to respect him. He felt that he was fortunate in having such a man for his companion, and he was glad that Mr. Ferguson appeared to like him in turn.

He also found that the Scotchman, though a man of peace, and very much averse to quarreling, was by no means deficient in the trait of personal courage.

One evening they arrived at a small tavern in a Missouri town. Neither Tom nor his companion particularly liked the appearance of the place nor its frequenters, but it appeared to be the only place of entertainment in the settlement.

The barroom, which was the only public room set apart for the use of the guests, was the resort of a party of drunken roisterers, who were playing poker in the corner, and betting on the game. At the elbow of each player was set a glass of whisky, and the end of each game was marked by a fresh glass all around.

Tom and Mr. Ferguson took a walk after supper, and then sat down quietly at a little distance from the card-players, attracting at first but little attention from them.

Presently, at the close of a game, glasses were ordered for the party, at the expense of those who had suffered defeat.

"What'll you have, strangers?" inquired a tipsy fellow, with an Indian complexion and long black hair, staggering toward Ferguson.

"Thank you, sir," said the Scotchman; "but I don't drink."

"Don't drink!" exclaimed the former, in evident surprise. "What sort of a man, pray, may you be?"

"I am a temperance man," said Ferguson, adding indiscreetly, "and it would be well for you all if you would shun the vile liquor which is destroying soul and body."

"—— your impudence!" ejaculated the other, in a rage. "Do you dare to insult gentlemen like us?"

"I never insult anybody," said the Scotchman calmly. "What I have said is for your good, and you would admit it if you were sober."

"Do you dare to say I'm drunk?" demanded the man, in a fury.

"Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, in a low voice, "I wouldn't provoke him if I were you."

But the Scotchman was no coward, and, though generally prudent, he was too fond of argument to yield the point.

"Of course, you're drunk," he said calmly. "If you will reflect, you show all the signs of a man that has taken too much liquor. Your face is flushed, your hand is unsteady, and——"

He was interrupted by a volley of execrations from the man whom he was coolly describing, and the latter, in a fit of fury, struck the Scotchman in the face. Had the blow been well directed it would, for the time, have marred the small share of personal beauty with which nature had endowed Mr. Ferguson; but it glanced aside and just struck him on his prominent cheek-bone.

"A ring! a ring!" shouted the men in the corner, jumping to their feet in excitement. "Let Jim and the Scotchman fight it out."

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Ferguson, "I don't wish to fight with your friend. He is drunk, as you can see plainly enough. I don't wish to fight with a drunken man."

"Who says I am drunk?" demanded the champion of whisky. "Let me get at him."

But his friends were now holding him back. They wanted to see a square fight, according to rule. It would prove, in their opinion, a pleasant little excitement.

"I meant no offense," said Ferguson; "I only told the truth."

"You are a —— liar!" exclaimed the man, known as Jim.

"I do not heed the words of a man in your condition," said the Scotchman calmly.

"Pull his nose, Jim! Make him fight!" exclaimed the friends of the bully. "We'll back you!"

The hint was taken. Jim staggered forward, and, seizing the Scotchman's prominent nose, gave it a violent tweak.

Now there are few men, with or without self-respect, who can calmly submit to an insult like this. Certainly Mr. Donald Ferguson was not one of them. The color mantled his high cheek-bones, and anger gained dominion over him. He sprang to his feet, grasped the bully in his strong arms, dashed him backward upon the floor of the barroom, and, turning to the companions of the fallen man, he said, "Now come on, if you want to fight. I'll take you one by one, and fight the whole of you, if you like."

Instead of being angry, they applauded his pluck. They cared little for the fate of their champion, but were impressed by the evident strength of the stranger.

"Stranger," said one of them, "you've proved that you're a man of honor. We thought you were a coward. It's a pity you don't drink. What may your name be?"

"Donald Ferguson."

"Then, boys, here's to the health of Mr. Ferguson. He's a bully boy, and no coward."

"Gentlemen," said the Scotchman, "it's a compliment you mean, no doubt, and I'm suitably thankful. If you'll allow me, I'll drink your health in a liquor which will not injure any one. I'll wish you health and prosperity in a glass of cold water, if the barkeeper happens to have any of that beverage handy. Tom, join with me in the toast."

Tom did so, and the speech was well received.

"As for this gentleman," said Mr. Ferguson, addressing Jim, who had struggled to his feet, and was surveying the scene in rather a bewildered way, "I hope he won't harbor malice; I've only got even with him. We may as well forgive and forget."

"That's the talk! Jim, drink the stranger's health!"

Jim looked a little doubtful, but when a glass of whisky was put into his hand he could not resist the seductive draft, and tossed it down.

"Now shake hands!" said one of the players.

"With all my heart," said Ferguson, and the two shook hands, to the great delight of the company.

"You got off pretty well, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom, when they retired for the night.

"Yes, my lad, better than I expected. I thought once I would have to fight the whole pack. Poor fellows! I pity them. They are but slaves to their appetites. I hope, my lad, you'll never yield to a like temptation."

"No fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I feel as you do on the subject."

The journey continued till one day, about noon, they reached the town of St, Joseph, popularly called St. Joe.



CHAPTER XX.

ST. JOE.

St. Joe was at that time the fitting-out point for overland parties bound for California. As a matter of course it presented a busy, bustling appearance, and seemed full of life and movement. There was a large transient population, of a very miscellaneous character. It included the thrifty, industrious emigrant, prepared to work hard and live poorly, till the hoped-for competence was attained; but there was also the shiftless adventurer, whose chief object was to live without work, and the unscrupulous swindler, who was ready, if opportunity offered, to appropriate the hard earnings of others.

"It's a lively place, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom.

"It is, indeed, my young friend," said the cautious Scot; "but it is a place, to my thinking, where it behooves a man to look well to his purse."

"No doubt you are right, Mr. Ferguson. I have learned to be cautious since my adventure with Graham and Vincent."

"There's many like them in the world, Tom. They are like lions, going about seeking whom they may devour."

St. Joseph could not at that time boast any first-class hotels. Inns and lodging-houses it had in plenty. At one of these—a two-story building, dignified by the title of "The Pacific Hotel"—our hero and his Scotch friend found accommodations. They were charged two dollars and a half per day—the same price they charged at first-class hotels in New York and Boston, while their rooms and fare were very far from luxurious. The landlord was a stout, jolly host, with a round, good-natured face.

"You and your son will room together, I suppose," he said.

"He isn't my son, but a young friend of mine," said Mr. Ferguson.

"I thought he didn't look much like you," said the landlord.

"I am hard and weather-beaten, while he is young and fresh."

"Well, gentlemen, I wish you both good luck. What will you take? I have a superior article of whisky that I can recommend."

"Thank you, but I beg you will excuse me, sir," said Ferguson. "I never drink."

"Nor I," said Tom; "but I am much obliged to you all the same."

"Well, that beats me," said the landlord. "Why, you don't know what's good. You ain't a minister, are you?" turning to Ferguson.

"I have not that high distinction, my friend. I am an unworthy member of the church of Scotland."

"I don't think your countrymen generally refuse whisky."

"So much the worse for them. They are only too fond of it. My own brother died a miserable death, brought on by his love of liquor."

"Then I won't press you; but I say, strangers, you won't find many of your way of thinking in the country you're going to."

"I don't doubt he's right, Tom," said Ferguson to Tom, as they entered the chamber assigned to them. "We may not be together always. I hope you won't be led away by them that offer you strong drink. It would be the ruin of you, boy."

"Don't fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I have no taste for it."

"Sometimes it's hard to refuse."

"It won't be hard for me."

"I am glad to hear you say that, my lad. You are young, strong, and industrious. You'll succeed, I'll warrant, if you steer clear of that quicksand."

Later in the day the two friends began to make inquiries about overland travel. They had no wish to remain long at St. Joe. Both were impatient to reach the land of gold, and neither cared to incur the expense of living at the hotel any longer than was absolutely necessary. Luckily this probably would not be long, for nearly every day a caravan set out on the long journey, and doubtless they would be able to join on agreeing to pay their share of the expenses. It was a great undertaking, for the distance to be traversed was over two thousand miles, through an unsettled country, some of it a desert, with the chances of an attack by hostile Indians, and the certainty of weeks, and perhaps months, of privation and fatigue. Mr. Donald Ferguson looked forward to it with some apprehension; for, with characteristic Scotch caution, he counted the cost of whatever he undertook, and did not fail to set before his mind all the contingencies and dangers attending it.

"It's a long journey we're going on, my lad," he said, "and we may not reach the end of it in safety."

"It isn't best to worry about that, Mr. Ferguson," said Tom cheerfully.

"You are right, my lad. It's not for the best to worry, but it is well to make provision for what may happen. Now, if anything happens to me, I am minded to make you my executor."

"But don't you think I am too young, Mr. Ferguson?"

"You are o'er young, I grant, but you are a lad of good parts, temperate, steady, and honest. I have no other friend I feel like trusting."

"I hope, Mr. Ferguson, there will be no occasion to render you any such service, but whatever I can I will do."

"It will be very simple. You will take my money, and see that it is sent to my mother, in Glasgow. I will give you her address now, and then, if any sudden fate overtakes me, there will be no trouble. You will know just what to do."

Tom was flattered by this mark of confidence. It was evident that the cautious Scotchman had formed a very favorable opinion of him, or he would not have selected so young a boy for so important a trust.

"Will you do the same for me, Mr. Ferguson?" he asked, with the sudden reflection that, young as he was, there was no absolute certainty of his living to reach California.

"Surely I will, my lad."

"If I should die I should want any money I might have left sent to my father."

"Give me his address, my lad, and it shall be done. It is a good precaution, and we shan't either of us die the sooner for doing our duty, to the best of our ability, by those who would mourn our loss."

Tom and his friend instituted inquiries, and ascertained that two days later a caravan was to start on its way across the continent. They ascertained, also, that the leader of the expedition was a pioneer named Fletcher, who was making his home at the California Hotel. They made their way thither, and were fortunate enough to find Mr. Fletcher at home. He was a stout, broad-shouldered man, a practical farmer, who was emigrating from Illinois. Unlike the majority of emigrants, he had his family with him, namely, a wife, and four children, the oldest a boy of twelve.

"My friend," said Ferguson, "I hear that you are soon leaving here with a party for California."

"I leave day after to-morrow," answered Fletcher.

"Is your party wholly made up?"

"We are about full; but we might receive one or two more."

"My young friend and I wish to join some good party, as we cannot afford to remain here, and we are anxious to get to work as soon as possible."

Some care needed to be exercised in the choice of a party, as there were some who would only give trouble and annoyance, or perhaps fail to pay their proper share of the expenses. But Ferguson's appearance was sufficient guarantee of his reliability, and no one was likely to object to Tom.

"Of course," added Ferguson, "we are ready to bear our share of the expense."

"Then you can come," said Fletcher. "You will both need revolvers, for we may be attacked by Indians, and must be able to defend ourselves."

"Certainly, we will do our part, if need be."

This was an expense which Tom had not foreseen; but he at once saw the importance of being armed when crossing such a country as lay before them, and went with Ferguson to make the needful purchase. His Scotch friend instructed him in the method of using his new weapon, and Tom felt a boy's natural pride in his new acquisition. He felt years older then he did on the morning when he left his country home. He had gained some knowledge of the world, and felt a greater confidence in himself on that account. He looked forward to the remainder of his journey with pleasurable excitement, and lost no time in making the necessary preparations.



CHAPTER XXI.

HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME.

While Tom was slowly making his way westward, there was one place where tidings from him were anxiously awaited, and where nightly prayers were offered for his health and safe progress. Of course this was the dear, though humble, farmhouse, which had been his home.

Twice a week Tom wrote, and his letters were cheerful and reassuring.

"Don't trouble yourself about me, dear mother"—he wrote from Cincinnati. "I am making friends, and learning how to travel. I feel years older, and rely much more on myself than when, an inexperienced boy, I bade you good-by. I am a thousand miles from you, and the longest and most difficult part of the journey lies before me; but with health and strength, and prudence, I hope to arrive in good condition at my destination. As to health I never felt better in my life, and I have taken lessons in prudence and caution which will be of essential service to me. I have found that a boy who goes out into the world to seek his fortune cannot trust everybody he falls in with. He will find foes as well as friends, and he will need to be on his guard.

"I start to-morrow for St. Joseph, in Missouri, going by way of St. Louis. Mr. Donald Ferguson, a middle-aged Scotchman, is my companion. A younger and livelier companion might prove more agreeable, but perhaps not so safe. Mr. Ferguson is old enough to be my father, and I shall be guided by his judgment where my own is at fault. He is very frugal, as I believe his countrymen generally are, and that, of course, just suits me. I don't know how long I shall be in reaching St. Joseph, but I shall write you once or twice on the way. Give my love to father, Sarah, Walter, and Harry, and keep a great deal for yourself. "Your loving son, "TOM."

"Tom is growing manly, Mary," said Mark Nelson to his wife. "It's doing him good to see a little of the world."

"I suppose it is, Mark," said his wife; "but the more I think of it the more I feel that he is very young to undertake such a long journey alone."

"He is young, but it will make a man of him."

"He must be having a tip-top time," said Walter; "I wish I were with him."

"You would be more of a hindrance than a help to him, Walter," said Mark Nelson.

"You are only a child, you know," said Sarah, in an elder-sister tone.

"What do you call yourself?" retorted Walter. "You are only two years older than I am."

"Girls always know more than boys of the same age," said Sarah condescendingly. "Besides, I haven't said anything about going out to California."

"No, I should think not. A girl that's afraid of a mouse had better stay at home."

Walter referred to an incident of the day previous, when the sudden appearance of a mouse threw Sarah into a panic.

"Are there any mouses in California?" asked little Harry, with interest.

"If there are I could carry a cat with me," returned Sarah good-humoredly.

Mark Nelson, though he felt Tom was a boy to be trusted, did ask himself occasionally whether he had been wise in permitting him to leave home under the circumstances. Suppose he continued in health, there were doubts of his success. His golden dreams might not be realized. The two hundred dollars which he had raised for Tom might be lost, and bring in no return; and this would prove a serious loss to Mark, hampered as he was already by a heavy mortgage on his farm. Would Squire Hudson be forbearing, if ill-luck came? This was a question he could not answer. He only knew that such was not the squire's reputation.

"Well, Mr. Nelson, what do you hear from Tom," asked the squire, one day about this time. "How far is he on his way?"

"We received a letter from Cincinnati yesterday. He then was about starting for St. Joseph."

"Does he seem to enjoy the journey?"

"He writes in excellent spirits. He says he has met with good friends."

"Indeed! How does his money hold out?"

"He does not speak of that."

"Oh, well, I dare say he is getting along well;" and the squire walked on.

"Does he feel interested in Tom, or not?" queried Mark Nelson, as he looked thoughtfully after the squire, as he walked on with stately steps, leaning slightly on his gold-headed cane. He might have been enlightened on this point, if he could have heard a conversation, later in the day, between Squire Hudson and his son Sinclair.

"I saw Mark Nelson this morning," he observed at the supper table.

"Has he heard from Tom?"

"Yes; his son wrote him from Cincinnati."

"I wish I could go to Cincinnati," grumbled Sinclair; "I think I have a better right to see the world than Tom Nelson."

"All in good time, my son. Tom is not traveling for pleasure."

"Still, he is getting the pleasure."

"He will have to work hard when he reaches California. Probably he won't have a cent left when he gets there."

"What will he do then?"

"He must earn money."

"Do you think he will do well, father?"

"He may, and then again he may not," answered the squire judicially.

"If he don't, how is he going to pay you back the money you lent him?"

"I always thought your father was foolish to lend his money to a boy like that," said Mrs. Hudson querulously.

"Women know nothing about business," said the squire, with an air of superior wisdom.

"Sometimes men don't know much," retorted his wife.

"If you refer to me, Mrs. Hudson," said her husband, "you need have no anxiety. I did not lend the money to the boy, but to his father."

"That isn't much better. Everybody knows that Mark Nelson has all that he can do to get along. His wife hasn't had a new dress for years."

The squire's face grew hard and stern. He had never loved his wife, and never forgiven Mrs. Nelson, whom he had loved as much as he was capable of doing, for refusing his hand.

"She has made her bed and she must lie upon it," he said curtly. "She might have known that Mark Nelson would never be able to provide for her."

"Perhaps she never had any other offer," said Mrs. Hudson, who was ignorant of a certain passage of her husband's life.

"Probably she did, for she was a very pretty girl."

"Then she's faded," said Mrs. Hudson, tossing her head.

Squire Hudson did not reply; but as his eyes rested on the sharp, querulous face of his helpmate, and he compared it mentally with the pleasant face of Mrs. Nelson, he said to himself that, faded or not, the latter was still better looking than his wife had been in the days of her youth. Of course it would not do to say so, for Mrs. Hudson was not amiable.

"Mark Nelson has given me security," said the squire, returning to the point under discussion. "I hold a mortgage on his farm for the whole amount he owes me."

"Do you think you shall have to foreclose, father?" asked Sinclair.

"If Tom does not succeed in California, I probably shall," said the squire.

"Do you think he will succeed?"

"He may be able to make a living, but I don't think he will be able to help his father any."

"Then why did you lend him the money?"

"He wanted to go, and was willing to take the risk. I lent the money as a business operation."

"Suppose Mr. Nelson loses his farm, what will he do?" inquired Sinclair.

"I really don't know," answered the squire, shrugging his shoulders. "That is no concern of mine."

"Tom wouldn't put on so many airs if his father had to go to the poorhouse," said Sinclair.

"Does he put on airs?"

"He seems to think he is as good as I am," said Squire Hudson's heir.

"That is perfectly ridiculous," said Mrs. Hudson. "The boy must be a fool."

"He is no fool," said the squire, who did not allow prejudice to carry him so far as his wife and son. "He is a boy of very fair abilities; but I apprehend he will find it harder to make his fortune than he anticipated. However, time will show."

"Most likely he'll come home in rags, and grow up a day-laborer," said Sinclair complacently. "When I'm a rich man I'll give him work. He won't feel like putting on airs, then."

"What a good heart Sinclair has!" said Mrs. Hudson admiringly.

Squire Hudson said nothing. Possibly the goodness of his son's heart was not so manifest to him.



CHAPTER XXII.

THE YOUNG MAN FROM BOSTON.

Soon after leaving St. Joe, the emigrant train which Tom had joined, entered the territory of Kansas. At that early day the settlement of this now prosperous State had scarcely begun. Its rich soil was as yet unvexed by the plow and the spade, and the tall prairie grass and virgin forest stretched for many and many a mile westward in undisturbed loneliness.

One afternoon, toward the setting of the sun, the caravan halted on the site of the present capital of the State, Topeka. The patient oxen, wearied with the twenty miles they had traveled, were permitted to graze. The ten baggage wagons or "ships of the plain," as they were sometimes called—came to anchor in a sea of verdure. They were ranged in a circle, the interior space being occupied as a camping-ground. Then began preparations for supper. Some of the party were sent for water. A fire was built, and the travelers, with a luxurious enjoyment of rest, sank upon the grass.

Donald Ferguson looked thoughtfully over the vast expanse of unsettled prairie, and said to Tom, "It's a great country, Tom. There seems no end to it."

"That's the way I felt when I was plodding along to-day through the mud," said Tom, laughing.

"It's because the soil is so rich," said the Scotchman. "It'll be a great farming country some day, I'm thinking."

"I suppose the soil isn't so rich in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?"

"No, my lad. It's rocky and barren, and covered with dry heather; but it produces rare men, for all that."

Mr. Ferguson was patriotic to the backbone. He would not claim for Scotland what she could not fairly claim; but he was all ready with some compensating claim.

"How do you stand the walking, Mr. Ferguson?"

"I'm getting used to it."

"Then it's more than I am. I think it's beastly."

These words were not uttered by Tom, but by rather a dandified-looking young man, who came up limping. He was from Boston, and gave his name as Lawrence Peabody. He had always lived in Boston, where he had been employed in various genteel avocations; but in an evil hour he had been lured from his comfortable home by the seductive cry of gold, and, laying down his yardstick, had set out for California across the plains. He was a slender young man, with limbs better fitted for dancing than for tramping across the prairie, and he felt bitterly the fatigue of the journey.

"Are you tired, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.

"I am just about dead. I didn't bargain for walking all the way across the prairies. Why couldn't old Fletcher let me ride?"

"The oxen have had all they could do to-day to draw the wagons through the mud."

"Look at those boots," said the Bostonian ruefully, pointing to a pair of light calfskin boots, which were so overlaid with mud that it was hard to tell what was their original color. "I bought those boots in Boston only two weeks ago. Everybody called them stylish. Now they are absolutely disreputable."

"It seems to me, my friend," said the Scotchman, "that you did not show much sagacity in selecting such boots for your journey. My young friend, Tom, is much better provided."

"His boots are cowhide," said Mr. Lawrence Peabody disdainfully. "Do you think I would wear cowhide boots?"

"You would find them more serviceable, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "Besides, I don't believe anybody could tell the difference now."

"How much did you pay for them?" asked the Bostonian.

"A dollar and a half."

"Humph! I thought so," returned Peabody contemptuously. "We don't wear cowhide boots in Boston."

"You are not in Boston now."

"I wish I was," said Peabody energetically. "I wouldn't have started if I had known what was before me. I expected to travel like a gentleman, instead of wading through this cursed mud till I'm ready to drop. Look at my pantaloons, all splashed with mire. What would my friends say if I should appear in this rig on Washington Street?"

"They might take you for a bog-trotter," said Tom, smiling.

"I have always been particular about my appearance," said Peabody plaintively. "'He looks just as if he'd come out of a bandbox,' some of my lady friends used to say. How do I look now?"

"Like a dirty-handed son of toil," said Tom humorously.

"So do you," retorted Peabody, who felt that this was uncomplimentary.

"I admit it," said Tom; "and that's just what I expect to be. You don't expect to dig gold with kid gloves on, do you, Mr. Peabody?"

"I wish I had brought some with me," said the Bostonian seriously. "It would have saved my hands looking so dingy."

"How came you to start for California, my friend?" inquired Ferguson.

"The fact is," said Peabody, "I am not rich. There are members of our family who are wealthy; but I am not one of the lucky number."

"You were making a living at home, were you not?"

"Yes; but my income was only enough for myself."

"I suppose you were in love, then," said Tom.

"I don't mind saying that I was; confidentially, of course," said Mr. Peabody complacently.

"Was your love returned?"

"I may say it was. The young lady was the daughter of a merchant prince. I saw that she loved me, but her father would not consent to our union, on account of my limited means. I read in the Transcript of the gold discoveries in California. I determined to go out there, and try my fortune. If I am successful I will go home, and, with a bag of gold in each hand, demand the hand of Matilda from her haughty sire. When he asks me for my credentials, I will point to the gold, and say, 'Behold them here!'"

"If both your hands are full I don't see how you can point to the bags of gold," said Tom, who liked to tease the young Bostonian.

"There are a great many things you don't understand," said Mr. Peabody, irritably.

"He is right, Tom," said Ferguson, with a quiet smile.

"If you are both against me, I will give it up," said Tom. "All I can say is, I hope you'll get the two bags of gold, Mr. Peabody, and that you'll get the young lady, too."

Here Fletcher came up, and called upon Tom to assist in preparations for supper. Our hero readily complied with the request. Indeed, he always showed himself so obliging that he won the favorable regards of all.

Mr. Peabody continued the conversation with Mr. Ferguson.

"Do you think there's as much gold in California as people say?" he asked.

"No," answered the Scotchman.

"You don't?" ejaculated the Bostonian, in dismay.

"No; people always magnify when they talk of a new country. Now, my friend, how much do you expect to get in the first year?"

"Well, about fifty thousand dollars," answered Peabody.

"And how much were you earning in Boston—a thousand dollars?"

"About that," answered Peabody vaguely. In fact, he had been working on a salary of twelve dollars a week, in a retail dry-goods store on Washington Street.

"Then you expect to make fifty times as much as at home?"

"Don't you think I will?"

"I have never had such large expectations. If I make three or four thousand dollars in twelve months it will satisfy me."

"But a man would never get rich, at that rate," said Lawrence Peabody uneasily.

"I don't know about that. It depends as much on what a man does with his money, as on the amount he makes," said the prudent Scot.

"I am afraid I did wrong in leaving Boston," said Peabody gloomily. "If I am to travel many weeks through the mud, and get no more than that, I shall feel that I am poorly paid."

"You don't feel like my young friend Tom. He is full of hope, and enjoys everything."

"He hasn't been brought up as I have," said Peabody. "A country boy in cowhide boots is tough, and don't mind roughing it."

Ferguson did not have a chance to answer, for there was a summons to supper—a welcome call, that made even Mr. Lawrence Peabody look cheerful for the time being.



CHAPTER XXIII.

MR. PEABODY'S TROUBLES.

When the party camped for the night the custom was to arrange the baggage wagons in a semicircle, and provide a resting-place for the women and children inside. As they were passing through a country occupied by Indians it was necessary to post one or more sentinels to keep watch through the night, and give notice of any who might be seen lurking near the camp. Fortunately, however, an Indian attack was seldom made at night. The time generally selected was in the morning, when the party were preparing to start on their day's march. Tom, as a boy, would have been excused taking his turn; but this did not suit him. He requested as a favor, that he might stand watch with the rest.

"Can he be relied upon? Is he not too young?" asked Fletcher, the leader, of Mr. Ferguson.

"You can depend upon him," said the Scotchman confidently. "There's more manliness in Tom than in many men of twice his years."

"Then I will put his name on the list," said Fletcher.

"That's right. I'll answer for him."

But there was one of the travelers who was by no means eager to stand on watch. This was Lawrence Peabody, the young man from Boston. He sought an interview with Fletcher, and asked to be excused.

"On what grounds, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher, surprised.

"It doesn't agree with me to lose my night's sleep," said Peabody. "I am naturally delicate, and——"

"Your excuse is not satisfactory, Mr. Peabody. We are banded together in a little community, having mutual rights and mutual obligations. In the arrangements made for the common safety it is your duty to bear your part."

"I am willing to provide a substitute," said Peabody eagerly.

"Where will you find a substitute?"

"I have been talking with Tom Nelson. He says he is willing to serve in my turn."

"He will serve when his own turn comes; that will be all we can expect of him."

"But he is only a boy. Why should he be expected to take his turn?"

"If he is old enough to be a substitute, he is old enough to stand watch for himself."

"But, Mr. Fletcher, I am very delicate," protested Lawrence Peabody. "I must have my regular sleep, or I shall be sick."

"We must take our chances of that, Mr. Peabody."

"I shall be very likely to go to sleep on my post."

"I wouldn't advise you to," said Fletcher seriously. "It might be dangerous."

"Dangerous!" ejaculated Peabody nervously.

"Precisely. If a lurking Indian should surprise you, you might wake up to find yourself scalped."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the Bostonian, his teeth chattering, for he was not of the stuff of which heroes are made. "Do you—think there is any danger of that?"

"Considerable, if you neglect your duty."

"But perhaps I can't help falling asleep."

"Mr. Peabody," said Fletcher sternly, "you must keep awake. Not only your own safety, but that of the whole camp, may depend upon your vigilance. If you choose to risk your own life, I don't complain of that, but you shall not imperil ours. I therefore give you notice, that if you fall asleep on guard you will be drummed out of camp, and left to shift for yourself."

"But I couldn't find my way on the prairie," said Peabody, very much alarmed.

"You had better think of that when you are tempted to close your eyes, Mr. Peabody," replied Fletcher.

Lawrence Peabody walked off, feeling very much disconcerted. Fervently he wished himself back in Boston, where there are no Indians, and a man might sleep from one week's end to another without any danger of losing his scalp.

"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom, observing his melancholy appearance.

"I don't think I shall ever live to see California," answered Mr. Peabody plaintively.

"Why, what's the matter now?" asked Tom, checking an inclination to laugh; "are you sick?"

"I don't feel very well, Tom. I'm very delicate, and this journey is almost too much for my strength."

"Oh, cheer up, Mr. Peabody! Think of the gold that awaits you at the end of the journey."

"It's all that keeps me up, I do assure you. But I am afraid I shall never live to get there," said Peabody, with a groan.

"Don't think of such things, Mr. Peabody. Of course none of us is sure of living, but the chances are, that we shall reach California in health, make our fortunes, and go home rich. At any rate, that's what I am looking forward to."

"I wouldn't mind so much but for one thing, Tom."

"What is that?"

"Fletcher insists that I shall take my turn in standing guard. If I were not so delicate I wouldn't mind; but I know I can't stand it. I'll give you two dollars to take my place, every time my turn comes."

"I am willing, if Mr. Fletcher is," said Tom, who was by no means averse to making a little extra money.

"But he isn't. I proposed it to him, for I was sure I could arrange with you; but he refused."

"I suppose," said Tom slyly, "he thought I couldn't fill your place. You are a brave, resolute man, and I am only a boy."

"Tom—I—I don't mind telling you; but I am afraid I am not brave."

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Peabody! that is only your modesty."

"But I assure you," said the young Bostonian earnestly, "I am speaking the truth. If I should see an Indian crawling near the camp I'm really afraid I should faint."

"You won't know how brave you are till you are put to the test."

"But do you think there is any chance of my being put to the test? Do you think there are any Indians near?" asked Lawrence Peabody, wiping the damp perspiration from his brow.

"Of course there must be," said Tom. "We are passing through their hunting-grounds, you know."

"Why did I ever leave Boston?" said Mr. Peabody sadly.

"You came, as I did, to make your fortune, Mr. Peabody."

"I'm afraid I can't keep awake, Tom; Mr. Fletcher tells me, if I don't, that he will turn me adrift on the prairie. Isn't that hard?"

"I am afraid it is a necessary regulation. But you won't fall asleep. Your turn will only come about once in two weeks, and that isn't much."

"The nights will seem very long."

"I don't think so. I think it'll be fun, for my part."

"But suppose—when you are watching—you should all at once see an Indian, Tom?" said Peabody, with a shiver.

"I think it would be rather unlucky for the Indian," said Tom coolly.

"You are a strange boy, Tom," said Mr. Peabody.

"What makes you think so?"

"You don't seem to care anything about the danger of being scalped."

"I don't believe I should like being scalped any more than you do."

"You might have got off from standing watch; but you asked to be allowed to."

"That is quite true, Mr. Peabody. I want to meet my fair share of danger and fatigue."

"You can stand it, for you are strong and tough. You have not my delicacy of constitution."

"Perhaps that's it," said Tom, laughing.

"Would you mind speaking to Fletcher, and telling him you are willing to take my place?"

"I will do it, if you wish me to, Mr. Peabody."

"Thank you, Tom; you are a true friend;" and Mr. Peabody wrung the hand of his young companion.

Tom was as good as his word. He spoke to Fletcher on the subject; but the leader of the expedition was obdurate.

"Can't consent, my boy," he said. "It is enough for you to take your turn. That young dandy from Boston needs some discipline to make a man of him. He will never do anything in a country like California unless he has more grit than he shows at present. I shall do him a favor by not excusing him."

Tom reported the answer to Peabody, who groaned in spirit, and nervously waited for the night when he was to stand watch.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A SAD SIGHT.

A day later, while the wagon-train was slowly winding through a mountain defile, they encountered a sight which made even the stout-hearted leader look grave. Stretched out stiff and stark were two figures, cold in death. They were men of middle age, apparently. From each the scalp had been removed, thus betraying that the murderers were Indians.

"I should like to come across the red devils who did this," said Fletcher.

"What would you do with them?" asked Ferguson.

"Shoot them down like dogs, or if I could take them captive they should dangle upon the boughs of yonder tree."

"I hope I shall be ready to die when my time comes," said Ferguson; "but I want it to be in a Christian bed, and not at the hands of a dirty savage."

Just then Lawrence Peabody came up. He had been lagging in the rear, as usual.

"What have you found?" he inquired, not seeing the bodies at first, on account of the party surrounding them.

"Come here, and see for yourself, Peabody," said one of the company.

Lawrence Peabody peered at the dead men—he was rather near-sighted—and turned very pale.

"Is it the Indians?" he faltered.

"Yes, it's those devils. You can tell their work when you see it. Don't you see that they are scalped?"

"I believe I shall faint," said Peabody, his face becoming of a greenish hue. "Tom, let me lean on your shoulder. Do—do you think it has been done lately?"

"Yesterday, probably," said Ferguson. "The bodies look fresh."

"Then the Indians that did it must be near here?"

"Probably."

"These men were either traveling by themselves, or had strayed away from their party," said Fletcher. "It shows how necessary it is for us to keep together. In union there is strength."

The bodies were examined. In the pocket of one was found a letter addressed to James Collins, dated at some town in Maine. The writer appeared to be his wife. She spoke of longing for the time when he should return with money enough to redeem their farm from a heavy mortgage.

"Poor woman!" said Ferguson. "She will wait for her husband in vain. The mortgage will never be paid through his exertions."

Tom looked sober, as he glanced compassionately at the poor emigrant.

"He came on the same errand that I did," he said. "I hope my journey will have a happier ending."

"Always hope for the best, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "You will live happier while you do live, and, if the worst comes, it will be time enough to submit to it when you must."

"That is good philosophy, Mr. Ferguson."

"Indeed it is, my lad. Don't borrow trouble."

"We must bury these poor men," said Fletcher. "We can't leave them out here, possibly to be devoured by wild beasts. Who will volunteer for the service?"

"Come, Peabody," said John Miles, a broad-shouldered giant, who had a good-natured contempt for the young man from Boston. "Suppose you and I volunteer."

Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition.

"I couldn't do it," he said, shivering. "I never touched a dead body in my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I assure you."

"It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody, you will expect us to bury you?"

"Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it."

"It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders.

"I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that remains for us to do for the poor fellows."

"Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We have her address in the letter you took from the pocket."

"Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?"

"If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly.

"It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as another."

In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy.

Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This inscription was the work of Miles.

"Somebody may see it who knows Collins," he said.

It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch. He was very uneasy and nervous through the day. In the hope of escaping the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head.

"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher.

"I've got a fearful headache," groaned Peabody. "It seems to me as if it would split open."

"Let me feel of it," said Fletcher.

"It doesn't feel hot; it doesn't throb," he said.

"It aches terribly," said Peabody. "I'm very subject to headache. It is the effect of a delicate constitution."

"The fellow is shamming," said Fletcher to himself; and he felt disgust rather than sympathy.

"It's a little curious, Mr. Peabody, that this headache should not come upon you till the day you are to stand on watch," remarked the leader, with a sarcasm which even the young man from Boston detected.

"Yes, it's strange," he admitted, "and very unlucky, for of course you won't expect a sick man to watch."

"You don't look at it in the right light, Mr. Peabody. I regard it as rather lucky than otherwise."

Lawrence Peabody stared.

"I don't understand you, Mr. Fletcher," he said.

"If you have the headache, it will prevent you from going to sleep, and you remember you expressed yourself as afraid that you might. If you were quite well, I might feel rather afraid of leaving the camp in your charge. Now, I am sure you won't fall asleep."

Mr. Peabody listened in dismay. The very plan to which he had resorted in the hope of evading duty was likely to fasten that duty upon him.