Digging for Gold 24

Digging for Gold 24

“Mr. Vincent,” said the proprietor, “did you see either of my waiters in

a gambling house last evening?”

 

“I saw him,” pointing to Benton.

 

“He admits that he went in, but says he did not play.”

 

“He seems to be forgetful,” said Vincent coolly. “He played for a

considerable time, and had a great run of luck.”

 

Benton said nothing. He looked very much discomposed, but waited to see

how much Vincent could tell.

 

“So he was a winner?”

 

“He won nearly five hundred dollars.”

 

“That doesn’t look as if he were the novice he claims to be.”

 

“But he didn’t keep his winnings. He kept on playing till he lost all he

had won.”

 

“You must remember, sir,” interrupted Benton, “that a green hand is

often luckier than a practiced gambler.”

 

“So I have heard.”

 

“And if I did play, that doesn’t convict me of having stolen money from

your till.”

 

“That is true.”

 

“I was foolish, I admit, and I mean to give up the practice.”

 

“You said you didn’t play.”

 

“Because I thought it would make you think I was guilty of theft.”

 

“On that point I have other evidence.”

 

“What is it? If Grant says he saw me take anything he lies.”

 

“I have not said it, Mr. Benton.”

 

“Then I should like to know what evidence you can bring against me.”

 

“Do you remember these two bills?” asked Vincent, taking out his wallet

and producing two five-dollar notes.

 

“Well, what about them?” asked Benton doggedly.

 

“I gave you two gold pieces for them last evening.”

 

“Yes; I believe you did.”

 

“You took them from the money drawer before you left the restaurant.”

 

“That is false!”

 

“Do you see the cross, in red ink, on the reverse side of the bills?”

 

“Well, what of it?”

 

“I marked the bills in that way, so as to be able to trace them.”

 

“Well,” said Benton faintly.

 

“They were put into the drawer at three o’clock yesterday afternoon.

They must have been taken out some time between that hour and the time

when you produced them in the gambling-house.”

 

“I am the victim of a conspiracy,” said Benton, turning pale.

 

“If it is a conspiracy to put my friend here on your track,” said

Smithson, “then you have some color for your statement. Mr. Vincent is

an old detective.”

 

Albert Benton was silenced. Ingenious as he was, there was nothing left

for him to say.

 

“Now, Benton,” said Mr. Smithson, “how much have you taken from me

during the time you have been in my employment?”

 

“Perhaps a hundred dollars,” answered Benton sullenly.

 

“I am very much mistaken if the amount is not four or five times as

great. Are you prepared to make restitution?”

 

“I have no money.”

 

“Then I shall feel justified in ordering your arrest. Your guilt is

aggravated by your seeking to throw the blame on Grant.”

 

“I have a valuable diamond at home. I will turn that over to you,” said

Benton, with a sudden thought.

 

“How much is it worth?”

 

“I paid three hundred dollars for it.”

 

“You can go and get it.”

 

Benton took off his apron, put on his hat, and left the restaurant.

 

Half an hour—an hour—passed, and he did not return.

 

“Mr. Smithson,” said Vincent, “the fellow has given us the slip. He

won’t come back, nor will you ever see anything of his diamond. I don’t

believe, for my part, that he had any.”

 

The detective was right. Benton managed to borrow fifteen dollars of a

friend, and within an hour he had left Sacramento for good.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII.

PULLING UP STAKES.

 

 

Mr. Smithson supplied the place vacated by Benton without delay. He

engaged a man of middle age who had come back from the mines with a fair

sum of money. Before the first week was up, he made his employer an

offer for the restaurant, and after some negotiation the transfer was

made.

 

“I should like to have you continue Grant Colburn in your employment,”

said Smithson, with a kindly consideration for his young waiter.

 

“I am sorry to say that I cannot do it,” answered his successor. “I have

a young townsman at the mines who has not been very successful. I have

promised to send for him in case I went into business.”

 

“It is of no consequence,” said Grant. “I have always wanted to go to

the mines, and now I have money enough to make the venture.”

 

The same day, by a lucky coincidence, Grant received the following

letter from Tom Cooper:

 

HOWE’S GULCH, October 5.

 

DEAR GRANT:

 

I have been meaning to write you for some time, but waited till I could

tell whether I was likely to succeed or not. For the first month I was

here I only got out enough gold-dust to pay my expenses, and envied

father and you, who have a sure thing. The fact is, nothing is more

uncertain than mining. You may strike it rich, or may fail entirely.

Till last week it looked as if it would be the last in my case. But all

at once I struck a pocket, and have thus far got two hundred and

seventy-five dollars out of it, with more in prospect. That will make up

for lost time. I tell you, Grant, it is a very exciting life. You are

likely any day to make a strike. Further down the creek there is a long,

lank Vermonter, who in a single week realized a thousand dollars from

his claim. He took it pretty coolly, but was pleased all the same. “If

this sort of thing continues a little longer,” he told me, “I’ll become

a bloated bondholder, and go home and marry Sal Stebbins. She’s waitin’

for me, but the old man, her father, told her she’d have to wait till I

could show him two thousand dollars, all my own. Well I don’t think I’ll

have to wait long before that time comes,” and I guess he’s right.

 

But I haven’t said what I set out to say. That is I wish you would pull

up stakes and come out here. I feel awful lonely, and would like your

company. There’s a claim about a hundred feet from mine that I have

bought for twenty-five dollars, and I will give it to you. The man

that’s been workin’ it is a lazy, shiftless creeter, and although he’s

got discouraged, I think it’s his fault that it hasn’t paid better. Half

the time he’s been sittin’ down by his claim, readin’ a novel. If a man

wants to succeed here, he’s got to have a good share of “get there”

about him. I think you’ll fill the bill. Now, just pack up your things,

and come right out. Go and see father and mother, but don’t show ’em

this letter. I don’t want them to know how I am getting along. I mean

some day to surprise ’em. Just tell them that I’m gettin’ fair pay, and

hope to do better.

 

There’s a stage that leaves Sacramento Hotel for “these diggin’s.” You

won’t have any trouble in findin’ it. Hopin’ soon to see you, I am,

 

Your friend,

 

TOM COOPER.

 

This letter quite cheered up Grant. He was anxious to find out how it

seemed to be digging for gold. He counted over his savings and found he

had a little over a hundred dollars. But lack of money need not have

interfered with his plans. On the same day he received a letter from

Giles Crosmont, from which we extract a paragraph:

 

Remember, Grant, that when you get ready to go to the mines, you can

draw upon me for any sum of money you want. Or, should you lose your

place, or get short of money, let me know, and I will see that you are

not inconvenienced for lack of funds. I am thinking of making a little

investment in your name, which I think will be of advantage to you.

 

“That’s a friend worth having,” said Grant to himself. “If I had a

father, I should like to have him like Mr. Crosmont. He certainly could

not be any kinder.”

 

He wrote back that he was intending to start on the following day for

Howe’s Gulch, and would write again from there. He concluded thus: “I

thank you very much for your kind offer of a loan, but I have enough to

start me at the mines, and will wait till I stand in need. When I do

need money, I won’t hesitate to call upon you, for I know that you are a

true friend.”

 

He went round to see the blacksmith the next forenoon.

 

“How do you happen to be off work at this hour?” asked Mr. Cooper.

 

“I’m a gentleman of leisure, Mr. Cooper.”

 

“How is that, Grant? You haven’t been discharged, have you?”

 

“Well, I’ve lost my place. Mr. Smithson has sold out his restaurant, and

the new man has a friend of his whom he is going to put in my place.”

 

“I’m sorry, Grant,” said the blacksmith in a tone of concern. “It doesn’t seem hardly fair.”