"Who have you got there, O'Reilly?" inquired one of his mining-comrades.

"A yeller haythen!" answered O'Eeilly. "Look at the craythur! Ain't he a beauty jist wid his long pigtail hangin' down his back like a monkey's tail?"

"Where did you find him?"

"He was huntin' for gold, the haythen, jist for all the world as if he was as white as you or I."

Mr. Patrick O'Reilly appeared to hold the opinion that gold-hunting should be confined to the Caucasian race. He looked upon a Chinaman as rather a superior order of monkey, suitable for exhibition in a cage, but not to be regarded as possessing the ordinary rights of an adopted American resident. If he could have looked forward twenty-five years, and foreseen the extent to which these barbarians would throng the avenues of employment, he would, no doubt, have been equally amazed and disgusted. Indeed, the capture of Ki Sing was made through his influence, as Taylor, a man from Ohio, was disposed to let him alone.

Soon a crowd gathered around the terrified Chinaman and his captors, and he was plied with questions, some of a jocular character, by the miners, who were glad of anything that relieved the monotony of their ordinary life.

"What's your name?" asked one.

The Chinaman gazed at the questioner vacantly.

"What's your name, you haythen?" repeated O'Reilly, emphasizing the inquiry by a powerful shake.

"My name Ki Sing," answered the Mongolian nervously.

"Where did you come from, old pigtail?"

"My name Ki Sing, not Pigtail," said the Chinaman, not understanding the meaning of the epithet.

This answer appeared to be regarded by the crowd as either witty or absurd, for it elicited a roar of laughter.

"Never mind what your name is, old stick in the mud! We'll call you whatever we please. Where do you come from?"

"Me come from 'Flisco."

It is well known that a Chinaman cannot pronounce the letter r, which in his mouth softens to l, in some cases producing a ludicrous effect.

"What have you come here for, Cy King, or whatever your name is."

"My name Ki Sing."

"Well, it's a haythen name; anyhow," remarked Mr. Patrick O'Eeilly. "Before I'd have such a name, I'd go widout one intirely. Did you hear the gintleman ask you what you came here for?"

"You bling me," answered Ki Sing shrewdly.

There was another laugh.

"That Chinee ain't no fool!" said Dick Roberts.

"What made you leave China?" he asked.

"Me come to Amelica fol gold."

"Hi, ho! That's it, is it? What are you going to do with your gold when you find it?"

"Cally it back to China."

"And when you've callied it back, what'll you do then?"

"Me mally wife, have good time and plenty money to buy lice."

Of course, Ki Sing's meaning was plain, but there was a roar of laughter, to which he listened with mild-eyed wonder, evidently thinking that the miners who so looked down on him were themselves a set of outside barbarians, to whom the superior civilization of China was utterly unknown. It is fortunate that his presumption was not suspected by those around him. No one would have resented it more than Mr. Patrick O'Reilly, whose rank as regards enlightenment and education certainly was not very high.

"I say, John," said Dick Roberts, "are you fond of rat pie?"

"Lat pie velly good," returned Ki Sing, with a look of appreciation. "Melican man like him?"

"Hear the haythen!" said O'Reilly, with an expression of deep disgust. "He thinks we ate rats and mice, like him. No, old pigtail, we ain't cats. We are good Christians."

"Chlistian! Ma don't know Ghlistian," said the Chinaman.

"Then look at O'Reilly," said Dick Roberts, mischievously. "He's a good solid Christian."

Ki Sing turned his almond eyes upon O'Reilly, who, with his freckled face, wide mouth, broad nose, and stubby beard, was by no means a prepossessing-looking man, and said interrogatively: "He Chlistian?"

"Yes, John. Wouldn't you like to be one?"

Ki Sing shook his head decidedly.

"Me no want to be Chlistian," he answered. "Me velly well now. Me want to be good Chinaman."

"There's a compliment for you, O'Reilly," said one of the miners. "John prefers to be a Chinaman to being like you."

"He's a barbarious haythen, anyhow," said O'Reilly, surveying his prisoner with unfriendly eyes. "What did he come over to America for, anyhow?"

"He probably came over for the same reason that brought you, O'Reilly," said a young man, who spoke for the first time, though he had been from the outset a disgusted witness of what had taken place.

"And what's that?" demanded O'Reilly angrily.

"To make a living," answered Richard Dewey quietly.

As this is the first time this young man has been introduced, we will briefly describe him. He was of medium size, well knit and vigorous, with a broad forehead, blue eyes, and an intelligent and winning countenance. He might have been suspected of too great amiability and gentleness, but for a firm expression about the mouth, and an indefinable air of manliness, which indicated that it would not do to go too far with him. There was a point, as all his friends knew, where his forbearance gave way and he sternly asserted his rights. He was not so popular in camp as some, because he declined to drink or gamble, and, despite the rough circumstances in which he found himself placed, was resolved to preserve his self-respect.

O'Reilly did not fancy his interference, and demanded, in a surly tone:

"Do you mean to compare me wid this haythen?"

"You are alike in one respect," said Richard Dewey quietly. "Neither of you were born in this country, but each of you came here to improve your fortunes."

"And hadn't I the right, I'd like to know?" blustered O'Reilly.

"To be sure you had. This country is free to all who wish to make a home here."

"Then what are you talkin' about, anyway?"

"You ought to be able to understand without asking. Ki Sing has come here, and has the same right that you have."

"Do you mane to put me on a livel wid him?"

"In that one respect, I do."

"I want you to understand that Patrick O'Reilly won't take no insults from you, nor any other man!"

"Hush, O'Reilly!" said Terence O'Gorman, another Irish miner. "Dewey is perfectly right. I came over from Ireland like you, but he hasn't said anything against either of us."

"That is where you are right, O'Gorman," said Richard Dewey cordially. "You are a man of sense, and can understand me. My own father emigrated from England, and I am not likely to say anything against the class to which he belonged. Now, boys, you have had enough sport out of the poor Chinaman. I advise you to let him go."

Ki Sing grasped at this suggestion.

"Melican man speak velly good," he said.

"Of course, you think so," sneered O'Reilly. "I say, boys, let's cut off his pigtail," touching the poor Chinaman's queue.

Ki Sing uttered a cry of dismay as O'Reilly's suggestion was greeted with favorable shouts by the thoughtless crowd.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE DUEL OF THE MINERS.



O'Reilly's suggestion chimed in with the rough humor of the crowd. They were not bad-hearted men, but, though rough in their manners, not much worse on the average than an equal number of men in the Eastern States. They only thought of the fun to be obtained from the proceeding, and supposed they would be doing the Chinaman no real harm.

"Has anybody got a pair of scissors?" asked O'Reilly, taking the Chinaman by the queue.

"I've got one in my tent," answered one of the miners.

"Go and get it, then."

Ki Sing again uttered a cry of dismay, but it did not seem likely that his valued appendage could be saved. Public sentiment was with his persecutor.

He had one friend, however, among the rough men who surrounded him, the same who had already taken his part.

Richard Dewey's eyes glittered sternly as he saw O'Reilly's intention, and he quietly advanced till he was within an arm's length of Ki Sing.

"What do you mean to do, O'Reilly?" he demanded sternly.

"None of your business!" retorted O'Reilly insolently.

"It is going to be my business. What do you mean to do?"

"Gut off this haythen's pigtail, and I'd just like to know who's going to prevent me."

At this moment the miner who had gone for a pair of scissors returned.

"Give me them scissors!" said O'Reilly sharply.

Richard Dewey reached out his hand and intercepted them. He took them in place of O'Reilly.

"Give me them scissors, Dewey, or it'll be the worse for you!" exclaimed the tyrant furiously.

Dewey regarded him with a look of unmistakable contempt.

There was a murmur among the miners, who were eager for the amusement which the Chinaman's terror and ineffectual struggles would afford them.

"Give him the scissors, Dewey!" said half a dozen.

"Boys," said Dewey, making no motion to obey them, "do you know what you are about to do? Why should you interfere with this poor, unoffending Chinaman? Has he wronged any one of you?"

"No, but that ain't the point," said a Kentuckian. "We only want to play a joke on him. It won't do him no harm to cut his hair."

"Of course not," chimed in several of the miners.

"Do you hear that, Dick Dewey?" demanded O'Reilly impatiently. "Do you hear what the boys say? Give me them scissors."

"Boys, you don't understand the effects of what you would do," said Dewey, taking no notice of O'Reilly, much to that worthy's indignation. "If Ki Sing has his queue cut off, he can never go back to China."

"Is that the law, squire?" asked a loose-jointed Yankee.

"Yes, it is. You may rely on my word. Ki Sing, if you cut off your queue, can you go back to China?"

"No go back-stay in Melica allee time."

"You see he confirms my statement."

"That's a queer law, anyway," said the Kentuckian.

"I admit that, but such as it is, we can't alter it. Now, Ki Sing has probably a father and mother, perhaps a wife and children, in China. He wants to go back to them some time. Shall we prevent this, and doom him to perpetual exile, just to secure a little sport? Come, boys, you've all of you got dear ones at home, that you hope some day to see again. I appeal to you whether this is manly or kind."

This was a sort of argument that had a strong effect. It was true that each one of these men had relatives for whom they were working, the thought of whom enabled them to bear hard work and privations thousands of miles away from home, and Richard Dewey's appeal touched their hearts.

"That's so! Dewey is right. Let him go, O'Reilly!" said the crowd.

The one man who was not touched by the appeal was O'Reilly himself. Not that he was altogether a bad man, but his spirit of opposition was kindled, and he could not bear to yield to Dewey, whose contempt he understood and resented.

His reply was, "I'm goin' to cut off the haythen's pigtail, whether or no. Give me them scissors, I tell you," and he gave a vicious twitch to the Chinaman's queue, which made Ki Sing utter a sharp cry of pain.

Richard Dewey's forbearance was at an end. His eyes blazed with fury, and, clenching his fist, he dashed it full in the face of the offending O'Reilly, who not only released his hold on Ki Sing, but measured his length on the ground.

O'Reilly was no coward, and he possessed the national love of a shindy. He sprang to his feet in a rage, and shouted:

"I'll murder ye for that, Dick Dewey! See if I don't!"

"A fight! a fight!" shouted the miners, willing to be amused in that way, since they had voluntarily given up the fun expected from cutting off the Chipaman's queue.

Richard Dewey looked rather disgusted.

"I don't want to fight, boys," he said. "It isn't to my taste."

"You've got to, you coward!" said O'Reilly, beginning to bluster.

"I don't think you'll find me a coward," said Dewey quietly, as he stood with his arms folded, looking at O'Reilly.

"You'll have to give O'Reilly satisfaction," said one of the miners. "You've knocked him down, and he's got a right to it."

"Will it be any satisfaction to him to get knocked over again?" asked Dewey, shrugging his shoulders.

"You can't do it! I'll bate you till you can't stand!" exclaimed the angry Irishman. "I'll tache you to insult a gintleman."

"Form a ring, boys!" exclaimed the Kentuck-ian. "We'll see there's fair play."

"One thing first," said Dewey, holding up his hand. "If I come off best in this encounter, you'll all agree to let this Chinaman go free? Is that agreed?"

"Yes, yes, it is agreed!"

Ki Sing stood trembling with fear while these preliminaries were being settled. He would have escaped from the crowd, but his first movement was checked.

"No, Cy King, we can't let you go jest yet," said Taylor. "We're goin' to see this thing through first."

O'Reilly was not in the least daunted by the contest in which he was to engage. Indeed, he felt a good deal of satisfaction at the prospect of being engaged in a scrimmage. Of course, he expected to come off a victor. He was a considerably larger man than Richard Dewey, with arms like flails and flats like sledge-hammers, and he had no sort of doubt that he could settle his smaller antagonist in less than five minutes.

But there was one thing of which he was not aware. Though slender, Dewey had trained and hardened his muscles by exercise in a gymnasium, and, moreover, he had taken a course of lessons in the manly art of self-defense. He had done this, not because he expected to be called upon to defend himself at any time, but because he thought it conducive to keeping up his health and strength. He awaited O'Reilly's onset with watchful calmness.

O'Reilly advanced with a whoop, flinging about his powerful arms somewhat like a windmill, and prepared to upset his antagonist at the first onset.

What was his surprise to find his own blows neatly parried, and to meet a tremendous blow from his opponent which set his nose to bleeding.

Astonished, but not panic-stricken, he pluckily advanced to a second round, and tried to grasp Dewey round the waist. But instead of doing this, he received another knock-down blow, which stretched him on the ground.

He was up again, and renewed the attack, but with even less chance of victory than before, for the blood was streaming down his face, and he could not see distinctly where to hit. Dewey contented himself with keeping on guard and parrying the blows of his demoralized adversary.

"It's no use, O'Reilly!" exclaimed two or three. "Dewey's the better man."

"Let me get at him! I'll show him what I can do," said O'Reilly doggedly.

"As long as you like, O'Reilly," said Richard Dewey coolly; "but you may as well give it up."

"Troth and I won't. I'm stronger than you are any day."

"Perhaps you are; but I understand fighting, and you don't."

"An O'Reilly not know how to fight!" exclaimed the Irishman hotly. "I could fight when I was six years old."

"Perhaps so; but you can't box."

One or two more attacks, and O'Reilly was dragged away by two of his friends, and Dewey remained master of the field.

The miners came up and shook hands with him cordially. They regarded him with new respect, now that it was found he had overpowered the powerful O'Reilly.

Among those who congratulated him was his Mongolian friend, Ki Sing.

"Melican man good fightee-knock over Ilishman. Hullah!"

"Come with me, Ki Sing," said Dewey. '"I will take care of you till to-morrow, and then you had better go."



CHAPTER XXIX.

CHINESE CHEAP LABOR.



Though Dewey had received from the miners a promise that they would not interfere with Ki Sing in case he gained a victory over O'Reilly, he was not willing to trust entirely to it. He feared that some one would take it into his head to play a trick on the unoffending Chinaman, and that the others unthinkingly would join in. Accordingly, he thought it best to keep the Mongolian under his personal charge as long as he remained in camp.

Ki Sing followed him to his tent as a child follows a guardian.

"Are you hungry, Ki Sing?" asked Dewey.

"Plenty hungly."

"Then I will first satisfy your appetite," and Dewey brought forth some of his stock of provisions, to which Ki Sing did ample justice, though neither rat pie nor rice was included.

When the lunch, in which Richard Dewey joined, was over, he said: "If you will help me for the rest of the day, I will pay you whatever I consider your services to be worth."

"All lightee!" responded Ki Sing, with alacrity.

Whatever objections may be made to the Chinaman, he cannot be charged with laziness. As a class they are willing to labor faithfully, even where the compensation is small. Labor in China, which is densely peopled, is a matter of general and imperative necessity, and has been so for centuries, and habit has probably had a good deal to do with the national spirit of industry.

Ki Sing, under Richard Dewey's directions, worked hard, and richly earned the two dollars which his employer gave him at the end of the day.

Of course Dewey's action did not escape the attention of his fellow miners. It cannot be said that they regarded it with favor. The one most offended was naturally O'Reilly, who, despite the pounding he had received, was about the camp as usual.

"Boys," he said, "are you goin' to have that haythen workin' alongside you?"

"It won't do us any harm, will it?" asked Dick Roberts. "If Dewey chooses to hire him, what is it to us?"

"I ain't goin' to demane myself by workin' wid a yeller haythen."

"Nobody has asked you to do it. If anybody is demeaning himself it is Dick Dewey, and he has a right to if he wants to."

"If he wants to hire anybody, let him hire a dacent Christian."

"Like you, O'Reilly?"

"I don't want to work for anybody. I work for myself. This Chinaman has come here to take the bread out of our mouths, bad cess to him."

"I don't see that. He is workin' Dick Dewey's claim. I don't see how that interferes with us."

Of course, this was the reasonable view of the matter; but there were some who sided with the Irishman, among others the Kentuckian, and he volunteered to go as a committee of one to Dewey, and represent to him the sentiments of the camp.

Accordingly he walked over to where Dewey and his apprentice were working.

"Look here, Dewey," he began, "me and some of the rest of the boys have takin' over this yere matter of your givin' work to this Chinaman, and we don't like it."

"Why not?" asked Dewey coolly.

"We don't feel no call to associate with sich as he."

"You needn't; I don't ask you to," said Dewey quietly. "I am the only one who associates with him."

"But we don't want him in camp."

"He won't trouble any of you. I will take charge of him."

"Look here, Dewey, you've got to respect public sentiment, and public sentiment is agin' this thing."

"Whose public sentiment—O'Reilly's?"

"Well, O'Reilly don't like it, for one."

"I thought so."

"Nor I for another."

"It strikes me, Hodgson, that I've got some rights as well as O'Reilly. Suppose I should say I didn't choose to work in the same camp with an Irishman?"

"That's different."

"Why is it different?"

"Well, you see, an Irishman isn't a yeller heathen."

Dewey laughed.

"He may be a heathen, though not a yellow one," he said.

"Well, Dewey, what answer shall I take back to the boys?"

"You can say that I never intended to employ the Chinaman for any length of time; but I shall not send him off till I get ready."

"I'm afraid the boys won't like it, Dewey."

"Probably O'Reilly won't. As for you, you are too intelligent a man to be influenced by such a man as he."

All men are sensible to flattery, and Hodgson was won over by this politic speech.

"I won't say you're altogether wrong, Dewey," he said; "but I wouldn't keep him too long."

"I don't mean to."

Hodgson returning reported that Dewey would soon dismiss the Chinaman, and omitted the independent tone which the latter had assumed. The message was considered conciliatory, and pronounced satisfactory; but O'Reilly was not appeased. He still murmured, but his words produced little effect. Seeing this, he devised a private scheme of annoyance.



CHAPTER XXX.

A MIDNIGHT VISIT.



This conversation set Dewey to thinking. Though he was independent, he was not foolishly so, and he was not willing, out of a spirit of opposition, to expose his new acquaintance to annoyance, perhaps to injury. He did not care to retain Ki Sing in his employment for any length of time, and made up his mind to dismiss him early the next mornng, say, at four o'clock, before the miners had thrown off the chains of sleep.

He did not anticipate any harm to his Mongolian friend during the night; but this was because he did not fully understand the feeling of outraged dignity which rankled in the soul of O'Reilly.

Patrick O'Reilly was like his countrymen in being always ready for a fight; but he was unlike them in harboring a sullen love of revenge. In this respect he was more like an Indian.

He felt that Richard Dewey had got the better of him in the brief contest, and the fact that he had been worsted in the presence of his fellow miners humiliated him. If he could only carry his point, and deprive the Chinaman of his queue after all, the disgrace would be redeemed, and O'Reilly would be himself again.

"And why shouldn't I?" he said to himself. "The haythen will sleep in Dewey's tent. Why can't I creep up, unbeknownst, in the middle of the night, and cut off his pigtail, while he is aslape? Faith, I'd like to see how he and his friend would look in the morning. I don't belave a word of his not bein' allowed to go back to Chiny widout it. That is an invintion of Dewey,"

The more O'Reilly dwelt upon this idea the more it pleased him. Once the pigtail was cut off, the mischief could not be repaired, and he would have a most suitable and satisfactory revenge.

Of course, it would not do to make the attempt till Ki Sing and his protector were both fast asleep. "All men are children when they are asleep," says an old proverb. That is, all men are as helpless as children when their senses are locked in slumber. It would be safer, therefore, to carry out his plan if he could manage to do so without awaking the two men.

O'Reilly determined not to take any one into his confidence. This was prudent, for it was sure to prevent his plan from becoming known. There was, however, one inconvenience about this, as it would prevent him from borrowing the scissors upon which he had relied to cut off the queue. But he had a sharp knife, which he thought would answer the purpose equally well.

It was rather hard for O'Reilly to keep awake till midnight-the earliest hour which he thought prudent-but the motive which impelled him was sufficiently strong to induce even this sacrifice.

So, as the shadows darkened, and the night came on, Patrick O'Reilly forced himself to lie awake, while he waited eagerly for the hour of midnight. Meanwhile, Richard Dewey and Ki Sing lay down at nine o'clock and sought refreshment in sleep. Both were fatigued, but it was the Chinaman who first lost consciousness. Dewey scanned with curiosity the bland face of his guest, looking childlike and peaceful, as he lay by his side.

"I wonder if he is dreaming of his distant home in China," thought Dewey. "The cares of life do not seem to sit heavy upon him. Though he has been in danger to-day, and may be so still, he yields himself up trustfully to the repose which he needs. Is it true, I wonder, that cares increase with mental culture? Doubtless, it is true. If I were in China, threatened with a loss which would prevent my returning to my native country, I am sure it would keep me awake. But there can be nothing to fear now."

Richard raised himself on his elbow, and looked about him. The tents of the miners were grouped together, within a comparatively small radius, and on all sides could be heard-it was now past ten-the deep breathing of men exhausted by the day's toils. This would not ordinarily have been the case at so early an hour, for when there was whisky in the camp, there was often late carousing. It chanced, however, at this time that the stock of liquor was exhausted, and, until a new supply could be obtained from San Francisco, necessity enforced the rule of total abstinence. It would have been well if, for months to come, there could have been the same good reason for abstinence, but, as a matter of fact, the very next day some casks were brought into camp, much to the delighted and satisfaction of the anti-temperance party.

Finally Dewey fell asleep, but his sleep was a troubled one. He had unthinkingly reclined upon his back, and this generally brought bad dreams. He woke with a start from a dream, in which it seemed to him that the miners were about to hang Ki Sing from the branch of one of the tall trees near-by, when he detected a stealthy step close at hand.

Instantly he was on the alert. Turning his head, he caught sight of a human figure nearing the tent. A second glance showed him that it was O'Reilly, with a knife in his hand.

"Good heavens!" thought Dewey, "does he mean to kill the poor Chinaman?"

A muttered sentence from O'Reilly reassured him on this point.

"Now, you yeller haythen, I'll cut off your pigtail in spite of that impertinent friend of yours—Dick Dewey. I'll show you that an O'Reilly isn't to be interfered wid."

"So he wants the poor fellow's queue, does he?" said Dewey to himself. "You're not quite smart enough, Mr. O'Reilly."

There was no time to lose.

O'Reilly was already on his knees, with the poor Chinaman's treasured queue in his hand, when he felt himself seized in a powerful grip.

"What are you about, O'Reilly?" demanded Richard Dewey, in a deep, stern voice.

O'Reilly uttered a cry, rather of surprise than alarm.

"What are you about?" repeated Richard Dewey, in a tone of authority.

"I'm goin' to cut off the haythen's pigtail," answered the Irishman doggedly.

"What for?"

"I've said I'd do it, and I'll do it."

"Well, Mr. O'Reilly, I've said you sha'n't do it, and I mean to keep my word."

O'Reilly tried to carry out his intent, but suddenly found himself flung backward in a position very favorable for studying the position of the stars.

"Are you not ashamed to creep up to my tent in the middle of the night on such an errand as that, Patrick O'Reilly?" demanded Dewey.

"No, I'm not. Let me up, Dick Dewey, or it'll be the worse for you," said the intruder wrathfully.

"Give me your knife, then."

"I won't. It's my own."

"The errand on which you come is my warrant for demanding it."

"I won't give you the knife, but I'll go back," said O'Reilly.

"That won't do."

"Don't you go too far, Dick Dewey. I'm your aiqual."

"No man is my equal who creeps to my tent at the dead of night. Do you know what the camp will think, O'Eeilly?"

"And what will they think?"

"That you came to rob me."

"Then they'll think a lie!" said O'Reilly, startled, for he knew that on such a charge he would be liable to be suspended to the nearest tree.

"If they chose to think so, it would be bad for you."

"You know it isn't so Dick Dewey," said O'Reilly.

"I consider your intention quite as bad. You wanted to prevent this poor Chinaman from ever returning to his native land, though he had never injured you in any way. You can't deny it."

"I don't belave a word of all that rigmarole, Dick Dewey."

"It makes little difference whether you believe it or not. You have shown a disposition to injure and annoy Ki Sing, but I have foiled you. And now," here Dewey's tone became deep and stern, "give me that knife directly, and go back to your tent, or I'll rouse the camp, and they may form their own conclusions as to what brought you here."

O'Reilly felt that Dewey was in earnest, and that he must yield. He did so with a bad grace enough and slunk back to his tent, which he did not leave till morning.

Early in the morning, Richard Dewey awakened Ki Sing.

"You had better not stay here, Ki Sing," he said. "There are those who would do you mischief. Go into the mountains, and you may find gold. There you will be safe."

"Melican man velly good-me go," said the Chinaman submissively.

"Good luck to you, Ki Sing!"

"Good luckee, Melican man!"

So the two parted, and when morning came to the camp, nothing was to be seen of the Chinaman.

Dewey returned O'Reilly's knife, the latter receiving it in sullen silence.

It was not long afterward that Richard Dewey himself left Murphy's in search of a richer claim.



CHAPTER XXXI.

ON THE MOUNTAIN PATH.



My readers will not have forgotten Bill Mosely and his companion Tom Hadley, who played the mean trick upon Bradley and our hero of stealing their horses. I should be glad to state that they were overtaken and punished within twenty-four hours, but it would not be correct. They had a great advantage over their pursuers, who had only their own feet to help them on, and, at the end of the first day, were at least ten miles farther on than Ben and Bradley.

As the two last, wearied and well-nigh exhausted, sat down to rest, Bradley glanced about him long and carefully in all directions.

"I can't see anything of them skunks, Ben," he said.

"I suppose not, Jake. They must be a good deal farther on."

"Yes, I reckon so. They've got the horses to help them, while we've got to foot it. It was an awful mean trick they played on us."

"That's so, Jake."

"All I ask is to come up with 'em some of these days."

"What would you do?"

"I wouldn't take their lives, for I ain't no murderer, but I'd tie 'em hand and foot, and give 'em a taste of a horsewhip, or a switch, till they'd think they was schoolboys again."

"You might not be able to do it. They would be two to one."

"Not quite, Ben. I'd look for some help from you."

"I would give you all the help I could," said Ben.

"I know you mean it, and that you wouldn't get scared, and desert me, as a cousin of mine did once when I was set upon by robbers."

"Was that in California?"

"No; in Kentucky. I had a tough job, but I managed to disable one of the rascals, and the other ran away."

"What did your cousin have to say?"

"He told me, when I caught up with him, that he was goin' in search of help, but I told him that was too thin. I told him I wouldn't keep his company any longer, and that he had better go his way and I would go mine. He tried to explain things, but there are some things that ain't so easily explained, that I wouldn't hear him. I stick to my friends, and I expect them to stand by me."

"That's fair, Jake."

"That's the way I look at it. I wonder where them rascals are?"

"You mean Mosely and his friend?"

"Yes. What galls me, Ben, is that they're likely laughin' in their shoes at the way they've tricked us, and there's no help for it."

"Not just now, Jake, but we may overtake them yet. Till we do, we may as well take things as easy as we can."

"You're right, Ben. You'mind me of an old man that used to live in the place where I was raised. He never borrered any trouble, but when things was contrary, he waited for 'em to take a turn. When he saw a neighbor frettin', he used to say, 'Fret not thy gizzard, for it won't do no good.'"

Ben laughed.

"That was good advice," he said.

"I don't know where he got them words from. Maybe they're in the Bible."

"I guess not," said Ben, smiling. "They don't sound like it."

"Perhaps you're right," said Bradley, not fully convinced, however. "Seems to me I've heard old Parson Brown get off something to that effect."

"Perhaps it was this-'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'"

"Perhaps it was. Is that from the Bible?"

"Yes."

"It might have been made a little stronger," said Bradley thoughtfully. "The evil of some days is more than sufficient, accordin' to my notion."

The two explorers camped out as usual, and the fatigue of their day's tramp insured them a deep, refreshing sleep. The next day they resumed their journey, and for several days to come no incident worthy of mention varied the monotony of their march. Toward the close of the fourth day they saw from a distance a figure approaching them, who seemed desirous of attracting their attention. Ben was the first to see him.

"Jake," said he, "look yonder!"

"It's a Chinee!" said Bradley, in surprise.

"How did the critter come here, in the name of wonder?"

"I suppose he is looking for gold as well as we."

"The heathen seems to be signalin' us. He's wavin' his arm."

This was the case. The Chinaman, for some reason, seemed to wish to attract the attention of the newcomers. He stopped short, and waited for Ben and Bradley to come up.

"Who are you, my yeller friend?" asked Bradley, when he was near enough to be heard.

"My name Ki Sing."

"Glad to hear it. I can't say I ever heard of your family, but I reckon from the name, it's a musical one."

Ki Sing probably did not understand the tenor of Bradley's remark.

"Is there any hotel round here, Mr. Sing?" asked Ben jocosely, "where two weary travelers can put up for the night?"

"Nohotellee!"

"Then where do you sleep?"

"Me sleep on glound."

"Your bed is a pretty large one, then," said Bradley. "The great objection to it is, that it is rather hard."

Ki Sing's mind was evidently occupied by some engrossing thought, which prevented his paying much attention to Bradley's jocose observations.

"Melican man wantee you," he said, in an excited manner.

"What's that?" asked Bradley. "Melican man want me?"

Ki Sing nodded.

"Where is he?"

Ki Sing turned, and pointed to a rude hut some half a mile away in a little mountain nook.

"Melican man thele," he said.

"Come along, Ben," said Bradley. "Let us see what this means. It may be some countryman of ours who is in need of help."

The Chinaman trotted along in advance, and our two friends followed him.



CHAPTER XXXII.

THE MOUNTAIN CABIN.



At length they reached the entrance to the cabin. It was a rough structure, built of logs, containing but one apartment. On a blanket in one corner of the hut lay a young man, looking pale and emaciated. His face was turned to the wall, so that, though he heard steps, he did not see who crossed the threshold.

"Is that you, Ki Sing?" he asked, in a low voice. "But why need I ask? There is not likely to be any one else in this lonely spot."

"That's where you're mistaken, my friend," said Bradley. "I met that Chinaman of yours half a mile away, and he brought me here. You're sick, I reckon?"

The invalid started in surprise and evident joy when he heard Bradley's voice.

"Thank Heaven!" he said, "for the sound of a countryman's voice," and he turned to look at his visitor.

Now it was Bradley's turn to start and manifest surprise.

"Why, it's Dick Dewey!" he exclaimed.

"You know me?" said the sick man eagerly.

"Of course I do. Didn't we work together at Murphy's, almost side by side?"

"Jake Bradley!" exclaimed Dewey, recognizing him at last.

"The same old coon! Now, Dewey, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing serious, but enough to lay me up for a time. A week since I slipped from a rock and sprained my ankle severely-so much so that I can't use it safely. I've often heard that a sprain is worse than a break, but I never realized it till now."

"Has the Chinaman taken care of you?" inquired Bradley.

"Yes; I don't know what I should have done without Ki Sing," said Dewey, with a grateful glance at the Chinaman.

"Was he with you when the accident hapened?"

"No; I lay helpless on the hillside for two hours, when, providentially, as I shall always consider it, my friend Ki Sing came along."

The Chinaman usually impassive face seemed to light up with pleasure when Richard Dewey spoke of him as his friend.

"I tell you what, Ki Sing," said Bradley, turning to the representative of China, "I never thought much of your people before, but I cheerfully admit that you're a brick."

"A blick!" repeated the Mongolian, appearing more puzzled than complimented.

"Yes, a brick-a real good fellow, and no mistake! Give us your hand! You're a gentleman!"

Ki Sing readily yielded his hand to the grasp of the miner. He saw that Bradley meant to be friendly, though he did not altogether understand him.

"Had you ever met Ki Sing, Dick?" asked Bradley.

"Yes; on one occasion I had a chance to be of service to him, and he had not forgotten it. He has taken the best care of me, and supplied me with food, which I was unable to procure for myself. I think I should have starved but for him."

"Ki Sing, I want to shake hands with you again," said Bradley, who seemed a good deal impressed by conduct which his prejudices would not have allowed him to expect from a heathen.

Ki Sing winced beneath the strong pressure of the miner's grasp, and examined his long, slender fingers with some anxiety when he rescued them from the cordial, but rather uncomfortable pressure.

"Melican man shakee too much!" he protested.

Bradley did not hear him, for he had again resumed conversation with Dewey.

"Is that your boy, Bradley?" asked the invalid, glaring at Ben, who modestly kept in the background.

"No, it's a young friend of mine that I came across in 'Frisco. His name is Ben Stanton. I don't believe you can guess what brought us up here among the mountains."

"Probably you came, like me, in search of gold."

"That's where you're wrong. Leastways, that wasn't the principal object of our coming."

"You're not traveling for pleasure, I should think," said Dewey, smiling.

"Not much. Since our hosses have been stole, there's mighty little pleasure in clamberin' round on these hills. The fact is, we've been lookin' for you."

"Looking for me!" exclaimed Dewey, in great surprise.

"Yes, and no mistake. Isn't it so, Ben?"

Ben nodded assent.

"But what possible motive can you have in looking for me?"

"I say, Dewey," proceeded Bradley, "did you ever hear of a young lady by the name of Florence Douglas?"

The effect of the name was electric. Dewey sprang up in bed, and inquired eagerly.

"Yes, yes, but what of her? Can you tell me anything of her?"

"I can tell you as much as this: she is in 'Frisco, and has sent out Ben and me to hunt you up, and let you know where she is."

"Is this true? How came she here? Is her guardian with her?" asked Dewey rapidly.

"One question at a time, Dick. The fact is, she's given her guardian the slip, and came out to Californy in charge of my young friend, Ben. I hope you won't be jealous of him."

"If she trusts him, I will also," said Dewey. "Tell me the whole story, my lad. If you have been her friend, you may depend on my gratitude."

Ben told the story clearly and intelligibly, replying also to such questions as Richard Dewey was impelled to ask him, and his straightforwardness produced a very favorable impression on his new acquaintance.

"I begin to see, that, young as you are, Florence didn't make a bad selection when she chose you as her escort."

"Now, Dewey," said Bradley, "I've got some advice to give you. Get well as soon as you can, and go to 'Frisco yourself. I surmise Miss Douglas won't need Ben any longer when you are with her."

"You forget this confounded sprain," said Dewey, looking ruefully at his ankle. "If I go you'll have to carry me."

"Then get well as soon as you can. We'll stay with you till you're ready. If there was only a claim round here that Ben and I could work while we are waitin', it would make the time pass pleasanter."

"There is," said Dewey. "A month since I made a very valuable discovery, and had got out nearly a thousand dollars' worth of gold, when I was taken down. You two are welcome to work it, for as soon as I am in condition, I shall go back to San Francisco."

"We'll give you a share of what we find, Dick."

"No, you won't. The news you have brought me is worth the claim many times over. I shall give Ki Sing half of what I have in the cabin here as a recompense for his faithful service."

Ki Sing looked well content, as he heard this promise, and his smile became even more "childlike and bland" than usual, as he bustled about to prepare the evening meal.

"I'll tell you what, Ben," said Bradley, "we'll pay Ki Sing something besides, and he shall be our cook and steward, and see that we have three square meals a day."

"I agree to that," said Ben.

When Ki Sing was made to comprehend the proposal, he, too, agreed, and the little household was organized. The next day Ben and Bradley went to work at Dewey's claim, which they found unexpectedly rich, while the Chinaman undertook the duties assigned him. Four weeks elapsed before Richard Dewey was in a condition to leave the cabin for San Francisco. Then he and Ben returned, Ki Sing accompanying them as a servant, while Bradley remained behind to guard Dewey's claim and work it during Ben's absence.

THE END.