Digging for Gold 25

Digging for Gold 25

“Oh, it’s all right, Mr. Cooper. I am going out to the mines, as I

always intended to do. I shall start to-morrow morning.”

 

“I wish you luck. I don’t know how Tom is getting along.”

 

“Then I can tell you, for I’ve had a letter from him. He writes that he

is doing fairly well.”

 

Jerry Cooper shook his head.

 

“I guess he ain’t doing as well as he did on the old farm at home,” he

said.

 

“He writes very cheerfully and wants me to come out.”

 

“He’s too proud to own up that he’s disappointed. Just tell him that if

he wants to come back to Sacramento and help me in the shop, I can give

him two dollars a day and his living.”

 

“I’ll tell him, sir. I hope you are doing well.”

 

“I never did so well in my life,” answered the blacksmith complacently.

“Why, Grant, I’ve averaged ten dollars a day over and above all expenses

ever since I took the shop. How is that for high?”

 

“Why, father, I never knew you to use slang before,” said Mrs. Cooper

reprovingly.

 

“Can’t help it, old lady. It’s my good luck that makes me a bit frisky.

If we were only to home, I’d give you money to buy a new bonnet and a

silk dress.”

 

“Thank you, father, but they wouldn’t do me any good here. Just fancy me

walking through the town dressed up in that style. How folks would

stare! When I get home I won’t mind accepting your offer.”

 

“Well, folks don’t dress much here, that’s a fact. Why, they don’t dress

as much as they did in Crestville. I never looked so shabby there, but

nobody takes any notice of it. There’s one comfort, if I don’t wear fine

clothes it isn’t because I can’t afford it.”

 

“If you’re going away to-morrow, Grant,” said Mrs. Cooper hospitably,

“you must come and take supper with us to-night. I don’t know as I can

give you any brown bread, but I’ll give you some baked beans, in Eastern

style.”

 

“I shall be glad to get them, Mrs. Cooper. I haven’t tasted any since I

left home.”

 

“I wish I could send some to Tom,” said his mother. “Poor fellow, I

don’t suppose he gets many of the comforts of home where he is.”

 

“I’m afraid I couldn’t carry the beans very conveniently,” said Grant,

with a laugh.

 

On his way back to the restaurant, to make some preparations for his

coming departure, he was accosted by a tall, thin man, who looked like a

lay preacher.

 

“My young friend,” he said, with an apologetic cough, “excuse me for

addressing you, but I am in great need of assistance. I——Why, it’s

Grant!” he exclaimed in amazement.

 

“Mr. Silverthorn!”

 

“Yes, my young friend, it is your old friend Silverthorn, who counts

himself fortunate in meeting you once more,” and he grasped Grant’s

reluctant hand and shook it vigorously.

 

“You may be my old friend, Mr. Silverthorn,” returned Grant, “but it

strikes me you didn’t treat me as such when you took the money from my

pocket.”

 

“I acknowledge it, Grant, I acknowledge it,” said Silverthorn, as he

took the same old red silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his

eyes, “but I was driven to it by want and dire necessity.”

 

“Well, let it pass! When did you reach Sacramento?”

 

“Only yesterday. Ah, Grant, I have had sad vicissitudes! I wandered in

the wilderness, nearly starving, till I came across a party of

Pennsylvania Quakers, who aided me and brought me with them to this

place.”

 

“I hope you did not repay their hospitality as you did ours.”

 

“No, no. I obeyed the promptings of my better nature. And now, how have

you prospered? Have you been to the mines?”

 

“No, I have been employed in a restaurant.”

 

“In a restaurant! Oh, how the word moves me! Ah, Grant, I have not

tasted food for twenty-four hours.”

 

“Come with me, then, and I will see that you have a dinner.”

 

He took Silverthorn to the restaurant and authorized him to order what

he liked. Mr. Silverthorn was by no means backward in accepting the

invitation, and Grant had a dollar to pay.

 

“I feel better!” sighed Silverthorn. “Do you think I could get

employment here?”

 

“No; my place is taken.”

 

“And how are my old friends, the Coopers?”

 

“Mr. Cooper is running a blacksmith shop, and Tom is at Howe’s Gulch,

where I am going.”

 

“Could you—you are so kind—pay my expenses to the mines? I should so

like to see my friend Tom.”

 

“No, I couldn’t,” answered Grant bluntly.

 

“I thought I would ask,” said Silverthorn, by no means abashed. “Tell

Mr. Cooper that I will soon call at his shop.”

 

“I don’t think he will care to see you,” thought Grant.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE FIRST DAY AT THE MINES.

 

 

About three o’clock in the afternoon the stage from Sacramento arrived

at Howe’s Gulch.

 

Among the other passengers Grant descended, his limbs sore from rattling

over the roughest kind of roads, and stretching himself, he looked

around him.

 

The stage had drawn up in front of the hotel, but it was not such a

hotel as the reader is accustomed to see. It was a long, low frame

building, with what might be called an attic overhead, which was used as

a general dormitory, with loose beds of straw spread over the floor.

Here twenty-five persons slept in a single room. Down below rude meals

were supplied for those who could afford to pay the price.

 

But Grant felt little interest in the hotel. He expected to meet Tom

Cooper, and looked out for him.

 

He had not long to wait.

 

“How are you, Grant? Delighted to see you. How’s the folks?”

 

Grant turned, and in the bearded, roughly dressed miner found it

difficult to recognize his friend of the plains—Tom Cooper.

 

His face lighted up as he grasped Tom’s hand cordially.

 

“Your father and mother are well,” he said, “and so is Mr. Silverthorn.”

 

“What! have you seen that scoundrel?”

 

“I left him at Sacramento. He wanted me to pay his fare out here.”

 

“You declined?”

 

“Yes; I thought he would be company for your father. He may adopt

Silverthorn in your place.”

 

“He’s welcome to him, if he likes. It’s good for sore eyes to see you,

Grant. How do you feel?”

 

“Sore enough. I thought I should be shaken to pieces over the rough

road.”

 

“You are hungry, I reckon. Come into the hotel, and we’ll have dinner.”

 

Nothing loath, Grant followed Tom into the dining-room, where dinner was

laid in readiness for the stage passengers. It was not such a meal as an

epicure would enjoy, but Grant ate with great relish.

 

“So you have been doing well, Tom?” said Grant, between two mouthfuls.

 

“Yes; you didn’t tell father what I wrote you?”

 

“No; you told me not to.”

 

“What did he say about me?”

 

“He said that he didn’t believe you were doing much; he thought you had

better come back to Sacramento and help him in the shop.”

 

Tom laughed.

 

“I think I’ll stay here a little longer,” he replied. “How is dad

doing?”

 

“Finely. He is making ten dollars a day.”

 

“Good for him! He wouldn’t do for mining. Besides, there’s mother. He’s

better off where he is.”

 

“Where do you sleep, Tom?”

 

“Upstairs. I have a pair of blankets up there, and a pillow, and I don’t need anybody to make my bed.”