CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE FATE OF THE ROVING BESS--GAMBLING SCENES--MR. SINTON MAKES A NEWFRIEND--LARRY O'NEIL MAKES MONEY IN STRANGE WAYS--A MURDER, AND ABEGGAR'S DEATH--NED BECOMES A POOR MAN'S HEIR.
The remnant of the cargo of the _Roving Bess_ proved to be worthcomparatively little--less even than had been anticipated. After acareful inspection, Mr Thompson offered to purchase it "in the slump"for 1000 dollars--about 200 pounds sterling. This was a heavy blow topoor Captain Bunting, who had invested his all--the savings of manyyears--in the present unfortunate venture. However, his was not anature to brood over misfortunes that could not be avoided, so heaccepted the sum with the best grace he might, and busied himself duringthe next few days in assisting the merchant to remove the bales.
During this period he did not converse much with any one, but meditatedseriously on the steps he ought to take. From all that he heard, itseemed impossible to procure hands to man the ship at that time, so hebegan to entertain serious thoughts of "taking his chance" at thediggings after all. He was by nature averse to this, however; and hadnearly made up his mind to try to beat up recruits for the ship, when anevent occurred that settled the matter for him rather unexpectedly.This event was the bursting out of a hurricane, or brief but violentsquall, which, before assistance could be procured, dragged the _RovingBess_ from her moorings, and stranded her upon the beach, just below thetown. Here was an end to sea-faring prospects. The whole of hislimited capital would not have paid for a tenth part of the labournecessary to refloat the ship, so he resolved to leave her on the beach,and go to the diggings.
Mr Thompson advised him to sell the hull, as it would fetch a goodprice for the sake of the timber, which at that time was much wanted inthe town, but the captain had still a lurking hope that he might get hisold ship afloat at some future period, and would not hear of it.
"What," said he, "sell the _Roving Bess_, which stands _A1_ at Lloyd's,to be broken up to build gold-diggers houses? I trow not. No, no; lether lie where she is in peace."
On the day after the squall, as Ned and the captain were standing on theshore regarding their late floating, and now grounded, home in sadsilence, a long-legged, lantern-jawed man, in dirty canvas trousers,long boots, a rough coat, and broad straw hat, with an enormous cigar inhis mouth, and both hands in his trousers-pockets, walked up andaccosted them. It did not require a second glance to know that he was aYankee.
"Guess that 'ere's pretty wall fixed up, stranger," he said, addressingthe captain, and pointing with his nose to the stranded vessel.
"It is," answered the captain, shortly.
"Fit for nothin' but firewood, I calculate."
To this the captain made no reply.
"I say, stranger," continued the Yankee, "I wouldn't mind to give 'e1000 dollars for her slick off."
"I don't wish to sell her," replied the captain.
"Say 1500," replied the man.
"I tell you, I _won't_ sell her."
"No! Now that _is_ kurous. Will 'e loan her, then!"
Here Ned whispered a few words to the captain, who nodded his head, and,turning to the Yankee, said--
"How much will you give?"
"Wall, I reckon, she's too far out to drive a screamin' trade, but Idon't mind sayin' 100 dollars a month."
After some consultation with Ned, and a little more talk with theYankee, Captain Bunting agreed to this proposal, only stipulating thatthe bargain should hold good for a year, that the hull should not be cutor damaged in any way, and that the rent should be paid in advance intothe hands of Mr Thompson, as he himself was about to proceed to thegold-fields. Having sealed and settled this piece of business at aneighbouring tavern, where the Yankee--Major Whitlaw--ordered a"brandy-smash" for himself and two "gin-slings" for his companions,(which they civilly declined, to his intense amazement,) the contractingparties separated.
"That's rather a sudden transfer of our good ship," said Ned, laughing,as they walked towards the Plaza, or principal square of the town, wheresome of the chief hotels and gambling-houses were situated.
"I feel half sorry for havin' done it," replied the captain; "however,it can't be helped now, so I'll away to our friend Thompson's office,and tell him about it."
"Then I shall wander about here until you return. It will be dinnertime at the hotels two hours hence. Suppose we meet at the ParkerHouse, and talk over our future plans while we discuss a chop?"
To this the captain agreed, and then hurried off to his friend's office,while Ned entered the hotel. A large portion of this building wasrented by gamblers, who paid the enormous sum of 60,000 dollars a yearfor it, and carried on their villainous and degrading occupation in itnight and day. The chief games played were monte and faro, but nointerest attached to the games _as such_, the winning or losing of moneywas that which lent fascination to the play.
Ned had intended to stroll through the hotel and observe the variousvisitors who thronged the bar, but the crash of a brass band in thegambling-saloons awakened his curiosity, and induced him to enter. Thescene that met his eyes was, perhaps, the strangest and the saddest hehad ever looked upon. The large saloon was crowded with representativesof almost every civilised nation under the sun. English, Scotch, Irish,Yankees, French, Russians, Turks, Chinese, Mexicans, Indians, Malays,Jews, and negroes--all were there in their national costumes, and allwere, more or less, under the fascinating influence of the reigning viceof California, and especially of San Francisco. The jargon of excitedvoices can neither be conceived nor described. Crowds surrounded themonte tables, on which glittering piles of gold and silver coin werepassing from hand to hand according to varying fortune. Thecharacteristics--and we may add the worst passions--of the variousnations were ever and anon brought strongly out. The German andSpaniard laid down their money, and lost or won without a symptom ofemotion; the Turk stroked his beard as if with the view of keepinghimself cool; the Russian looked stolid and indifferent; the Frenchmanstarted, frowned, swore, and occasionally clutched his concealed pistolor bowie-knife; while the Yankee stamped and swore. But, indeed, themen of all nations cursed and swore in that terrible place.
Those who dwelt in the city staked gold and silver coin, while the menjust returned from the mines staked gold-dust and nuggets. These lastwere conspicuous from their rough clothing, rugged, bronzed, andweather-worn countenances. Many of them played most recklessly.Several successful diggers staked immense sums, and either doubled orlost, in two or three throws, the hard earnings of many months of toil,and left the rooms penniless.
At one end of the saloon there was a counter, with a plentiful supply ofstimulants to feed the excitement of the wretched gamblers; and thewaiter here was kept in constant employment. Ned had never been withinthe unhallowed precincts of a gambling-house before, and it was with afeeling of almost superstitious dread that he approached the table, andlooked on. A tall, burly, bearded miner stepped forward at the momentand placed a huge purse of gold-dust on the table--
"Now, then," he cried, with a reckless air, "here goes--neck ornothin'."
"Nothin'!" he muttered with a fearful oath, as the president raked thepurse into his coffers.
The man rose and strode sullenly from the room, his fingers twitchingnervously about the hilt of his bowie-knife; an action which thepresident observed, but heeded not, being prepared with a concealedrevolver for whatever might occur. Immediately another victim steppedforward, staked five hundred dollars--and won. He staked again athousand dollars--and won; then he rose, apparently resolved to temptfickle fortune no more, and left the saloon. As he retired his placewas filled by a young man who laid down the small sum of two dollars.Fortune favoured this man for a long time, and his pile of dollarsgradually increased until he became over-confident and staked fully halfof his gains--and lost.
Ned's attention was drawn particularly to this player, whom he thoughthe had seen before. On looking more fixedly at him, he recognised theyoung porter who had carried up the box to the mer
chant's house. Hisnext stake was again made recklessly. He laid down all he possessed--and lost. Then he rose suddenly, and drawing a pistol from his breast,rushed towards the door. None of the players who crowded the saloonpaid him more than momentary attention. It mattered not to them whetherhe meditated suicide or murder. They made way for him to pass, andthen, closing in, were deep again in the all-absorbing game.
But our hero was not thus callous. A strong feeling of sympathy filledhis breast, prompting him to spring through the doorway, and catch theyouth by the shoulder just as he gained the street. He turned roundinstantly, and presented the revolver at Ned's breast, but the lattercaught his right arm in his powerful grasp and held it in the air.
"Be calm, my poor fellow," he said, "I mean you no harm; I only wish tohave a word of conversation with you. You are an Englishman, Iperceive."
The young man's head fell on his breast, and he groaned aloud.
"Come, come," said Ned, releasing his arm, "don't give way like that."
"I'm lost," said the youth, bitterly. "I have struggled against thispassion for gaming, but it has overcome me again and again. It is vainto fight against it any longer."
"Not a bit of it, man," said Ned, in a cheering tone, as he drew the armof the young man within his own, and led him slowly along the street."You are excited just now by your disappointments. Let us walk togethera while, for I have something to say to you. I am quite a strangerhere, and it's a comfort to have a countryman to talk with."
The kind words, and earnest, hearty manner of our hero, had the effectof soothing the agitated feelings of his new friend, and of winning hisconfidence. In the course of half-an-hour, he drew from him a briefaccount of his past history.
His name, he said, was Collins; he was the son of a clergyman, and hadreceived a good education. Five years before the period of which we nowwrite, he had left his home in England, and gone to sea, being at thattime sixteen years of age. For three years he served before the mast ina South-Sea whale-ship, and then returned home to find his father andmother dead. Having no near relations alive, and not a sixpence in theworld, he turned once more towards the sea, with a heavy heart and anempty pocket, obtained a situation as second mate in a trading vesselwhich was about to proceed to the Sandwich Islands. Encountering aheavy gale on the western coast of South America, his vessel was so muchdisabled as to be compelled to put into the harbour of San Francisco forrepairs. Here the first violent attack of the gold-fever had set in.The rush of immigrants was so great, that goods of all kinds wereselling at fabulous prices, and the few bales that happened to be onboard the ship were disposed off for twenty times their value. Thecaptain was in ecstasies, and purposed sailing immediately to thenearest civilised port for a cargo of miscellaneous goods; but the samefate befell him which afterwards befell Captain Bunting, and manyhundreds of others--the crew deserted to the mines. Thereupon thecaptain and young Collins also betook themselves to the gold-fields,leaving the ship to swing idly at her anchor. Like most of the firstarrivals at the mines, Collins was very successful, and would soon--indiggers' parlance--have "made his pile,"--i.e. his fortune, had notscurvy attacked and almost killed him; compelling him to return to SanFrancisco in search of fresh vegetables and medicine, neither of which,at that time, could be obtained at the mines for love or money. Herecovered slowly; but living in San Francisco was so expensive that, erehis health was sufficiently recruited to enable him to return to thegold-fields, his funds were well-nigh exhausted. In order to recruitthem he went, in an evil hour, to the gaming-saloons, and soon became aninveterate gambler.
In the providence of God he had been led, some years before, to becomean abstainer from all intoxicating drinks, and, remaining firm to hispledge throughout the course of his downward career, was thus saved fromthe rapid destruction which too frequently overtook those who to theexciting influences of gambling added the maddening stimulus of alcohol.But the constant mental fever under which he laboured was beginning toundermine a naturally-robust constitution, and to unstring the nerves ofa well-made, powerful frame. Sometimes, when fortune favoured him, hebecame suddenly possessor of a large sum of money, which he squanderedin reckless gaiety, often, however, following the dictates of anamiable, sympathetic disposition, he gave the most of it away tocompanions and acquaintances in distress. At other times he had notwherewith to pay for his dinner, in which case he took the first jobthat offered in order to procure a few dollars. Being strong andactive, he frequently went down to the quays and offered his services asa porter to any of the gold-hunters who were arriving in shoals from allparts of the world. It was thus, as we have seen, that he first metwith Ned Sinton and his friends.
All this, and a great deal more, did Ned worm out of his companion inthe course of half-an-hour's stroll in the Plaza.
"Now," said he, when Collins had finished, "I'm going to make a proposalto you. I feel very much interested in all that you have told me; to becandid with you, I like your looks, and I like your voice--in fact, Ilike _yourself_, and--but what's your Christian name?"
"Tom," replied the other.
"Very well; then I'll call you Tom in future, and you'll call me Ned.Now, Tom, you must come with me and Captain Bunting to the gold-fields,and try your fortune over again--nay, don't shake your head, I know whatyou would say, you have no money to equip yourself, and you won't beindebted to strangers, and all that sort of stuff; but that won't do, myboy. I'm not a stranger; don't I know all your history from first tolast?"
Tom Collins sighed.
"Well, perhaps I don't know it all, but I know the most of it, andbesides, I feel as if I had known you all my life--"
"Ned," interrupted the other, in an earnest tone of voice, "I feel yourkindness very much--no one has spoken to me as you have done since Icame to the diggings--but I cannot agree to your proposal to-day. Meetme at the Parker House to-morrow, at this time, and I shall give you afinal answer."
"But why not give it now?"
"Because--because, I want to--to get paid for a job I expect to get--"
"Tom," said Ned, stopping and laying his hand on the shoulder of hiscompanion, while he looked earnestly into his face, "let us begin ourfriendship with mutual candour. Do you not intend to make a fewdollars, and then try to increase them by another throw at thegaming-table!"
The youth's brow flushed slightly as he answered, "You are right, I hadhalf an intention of trying my fortune for the last time--"
"Then," said Ned firmly and emphatically, "you shall do nothing of thesort. Gambling for money is a mean, pitiful, contemptible thing--don'tfrown, my dear fellow, I do not apply these terms to _you_, I apply themto the principle of gambling--a principle which you do not hold, as Iknow from your admission, made to me not many minutes ago, that you haveoften striven against the temptation. Many men don't realise the fullextent of the sinfulness of many of their practices, but although thatrenders them less culpable, it does not render them innocent, much lessdoes it justify the evil practices. Gambling is all that I have styledit, and a great deal worse; and you _must_ give it up--I insist on it.Moreover, Tom, I insist on your coming to dine with me at the ParkerHouse. I shall introduce you to my friend Captain Bunting, whom youalready know by sight--so come along."
"Well, I will," said Tom, smiling at his friend's energy, but stillhanging back; "but you must permit me to go to my lodgings first. Ishall be back immediately."
"Very good. Remember, we dine in the course of an hour, so bepunctual."
While Tom Collins hurried away to his lodgings, Ned Sinton proceededtowards the shores of the bay in a remarkably happy frame of mind,intending to pass his leisure hour in watching the thousands ofinteresting and amusing incidents that were perpetually taking place onthe crowded quays, where the passengers from a newly-arrived brig werelooking in bewildered anxiety after their luggage, and calling forporters; where traffic, by means of boats, between the fleet and theland created constant confusion and hubbub; where men of all nationsba
rgained for the goods of all climes in every known tongue.
While he gazed in silence at the exciting and almost bewildering scene,his attention was attracted to a group of men, among whose vociferatingtones he thought he distinguished familiar voices.
"That's it; here's your man, sir," cried one, bursting from the crowdwith a huge portmanteau on his shoulder. "Now, then, where'll I steerto?"
"Right ahead to the best hotel," answered a slim Yankee, whose blackcoat, patent-leather boots, and white kids, in such a place, toldplainly enough that a superfine dandy had mistaken his calling.
"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Bill Jones, as he brushed past Ned, in his newcapacity of porter.
"Faix, ye've cotched a live Yankee!" exclaimed a voice there was nomistaking, as the owner slapped Bill on the shoulder. "He'll make yerfortin', av ye only stick by him. He's just cut out for the diggin's,av his mother wos here to take care of him."
Larry O'Neil gave a chuckle, slapped his pockets, and cut an elephantinecaper, as he turned from contemplating the retreating figure of hisshipmate's employer, and advanced towards the end of the quay.
"Now, thin, who's nixt?" cried he, holding out both arms, and lookingexcited, as if he were ready to carry off any individual bodily in hisarms to any place, for mere love, without reference to money. "Don'tall spake at wance. Tshoo dollars a mile for anythin' onder a ton, an'yerself on the top of it for four! Horoo, Mister Sinton, darlint, is ityerself? Och, but this is the place intirely--goold and silver for theaxin' a'most! Ah, ye needn't grin. Look here!"
Larry plunged both hands into the pockets of his trousers, and pulledthem forth full of half and quarter dollars, with a few shining littlenuggets of gold interspersed among them.
Ned opened his eyes in amazement, and, taking his excited comrade apartfrom the crowd, asked how he had come by so much money.
"Come by it!" he exclaimed; "ye could come by twice the sum, av yeliked. Sure, didn't I find that they wos chargin' tshoo dollars--aiqualto eight shillin's, I'm towld--for carryin' a box or portmanter thelength o' me fut; so I turns porter all at wance, an' faix I made sixdollars in less nor an hour. But as I was comin' back, I says tomyself, says I, `Larry, ye'll be the better of a small glass o'somethin'--eh!' So in I goes to a grog-shop, and faix I had to payhalf-a-dollar for a thimbleful o' brandy, bad luck to them, as wouldturn the stomik o' a pig. I almost had a round wi' the landlord; butthey towld me it wos the same iverywhere. So I wint and had another inthe nixt shop I sees, jist to try; and it was thrue. Then a Yankeespies my knife,--the great pig-sticker that Bob Short swopped wi' me formy junk o' plum-duff off the Cape. It seems they've run out o' sicharticles just at this time, and would give handfuls o' goold for wan.So says I, `Wot'll ye give?'
"`Three dollars, I guess,' says wan.
"`Four,' says another; `he's chaitin' ye.'
"`Four's bid,' says I, mountin' on a keg o' baccy, and howldin up theknife; `who says more? It's the rale steel, straight from Manchester orConnaught, I misremimber which. Warranted to cut both ways, av ye onlyturn the idge round, and shove with a will.'
"I begood in joke; but faix they took me up in arnest, an' run up theprice to twinty dollars--four pounds, as sure as me name's Larry--beforeI know'd where I wos. I belave I could ha' got forty for it, but Ihadn't the heart to ax more, for it wasn't worth a brass button."
"You've made a most successful beginning, Larry. Have you any moreknives like that one?"
"Sorrow a wan--more's the pity. But that's only a small bit o' mespeckilations. I found six owld newspapers in the bottom o' me chist,and, would ye belave it, I sowld 'em, ivery wan, for half-a-dollar thepace; and I don't rightly know how much clear goold I've got by standin'all mornin' at the post-office."
"Standing at the post-office! What do you mean?"
"Nother more or less nor what I say. I suppose ye know the mail's comedin yisterday morning; so says I to myself this mornin', `Ye've got nolivin' sowl in the owld country that's likely to write to ye, but yebetter go, for all that, an' ax if there's letters. Maybe there is; whoknows?' So away I wint, and sure enough I found a row o' men waitin'for their letters; so I crushes for'ard--och! but I thought they'd ha'hung me on the spot,--and I found it was a rule that `first come firstsarved--fair play and no favour.' They wos all standin' wan behindanother in a line half-a-mile long av it wos a fut, as patient as couldbe; some readin' the noosepapers, and some drinkin' coffee and tay andgrog, that wos sowld by men as went up an' down the line the wholemornin'. So away I goes to the end o' the line, an' took my place,detarmined to stand it out; and, in three minutes, I had a tail of adozen men behind me. `Faix, Larry,' says I, `it's the first time yeiver comminced at the end of a thing in order to git to the beginnin'.'
"Well, when I wos gittin' pretty near the post-office windy, I hears thechap behind me a-sayin' to the fellow behind him that he expected noletters, but only took up his place in the line to sell it to them whatdid. An' sure enough I found that lots o' them were there on the sameerrand. Just then up comes a miner, in big boots and a wide-awake.
"`Och,' says he, `who'll sell me a place?' and with that he offered alot o' pure goold lumps.
"`Guess it's too little,' says the man next me.
"`Ah, ye thievin' blackguard!' says I. `Here, yer honer, I'll sell yemy place for half the lot. I can wait for me letter, more be token I'mnot sure there is wan.' For, ye see, I wos riled at the Yankee's greed.So out I steps, and in steps the miner, and hands me the whole he'doffered at first.
"`Take them, my man,' says he; `you're an honest fellow, and it's atrate to meet wan here.'"
"Capital," cried Ned, laughing heartily; "and you didn't try for aletter after all?"
"Porter there?" shouted a voice from the quay.
"That's me, yer honer. Here ye are," replied the Irishman, boundingaway with a yell, and shouldering a huge leathern trunk, with which hevanished from the scene, leaving Ned to pursue the train of thoughtevoked by his account of his remarkable experiences.
We deem it necessary here to assure the reader that the account given byLarry O'Neil of his doings was by no means exaggerated. The state ofsociety, and the eccentricities of traffic displayed in San Franciscoand other Californian cities during the first years of the gold-fever,beggars all description. Writers on that place and period finddifficulty in selecting words and inventing similes in order to conveyanything like an adequate idea of their meaning. Even eye-witnessesfound it almost impossible, to believe the truth of what they heard andsaw; and some have described the whole circle of life and manners thereto have been more like to the wild, incongruous whirl of a pantomimethan to the facts of real life.
Even in the close and abrupt juxtaposition of the ludicrous and thehorrible this held good. Ned Sinton had scarcely parted from hishilarious shipmate, when he was attracted by shouts, as if of menquarrelling, in a gaming-house; and, a few moments later, the report ofa pistol was heard, followed by a sharp cry of agony. Rushing into thehouse, and forcing his way through the crowd, he reached the table intime to see the bloody corpse of a man carried out. This unfortunatehad repeatedly lost large sums of money, and, growing desperate, stakedhis all on a final chance. He lost; and, drawing his bowie-knife, inthe heat of despair, rushed at the president of the table. A dozen armsarrested him, and rendered his intended assault abortive; nevertheless,the president coolly drew a revolver from under the cloth, and shot himdead. For a few minutes there was some attempt at disturbance, and somecondemned, while others justified the act. But the body was removed,and soon the game went on again as if nothing had occurred.
Sickened with the sight, Ned hurried from the house, and walked rapidlytowards the shores of the bay, beyond the limits of the canvas town,where he could breathe the free ocean air, and wander on the sands incomparative solitude.
The last straggling tent in that quarter was soon behind bun, and hestopped by the side of an old upturned boat, against which he leaned,and gazed out upon the crowded bay with
saddened feelings. As he stoodin contemplation, he became aware of a sound, as if of heaving,plethoric breathing under the boat. Starting up, he listened intently,and heard a faint groan. He now observed, what had escaped his noticebefore, that the boat against which he leaned was a human habitation. Asmall hole near the keel admitted light, and possibly, at times, emittedsmoke. Hastening round to the other side, he discovered a smallaperture, which served as a doorway. It was covered with a rag ofcoarse canvas, which he lifted, and looked in.
"Who's there?" inquired a voice, as sharply as extreme weakness wouldallow. "Have a care! There's a revolver pointing at your head. If youcome in without leave, I'll blow out your brains."
"I am a friend," said Ned, looking towards the further end of the boat,where, on a couch of straw, lay the emaciated form of a middle-aged man."Put down your pistol, friend; my presence here is simply owing to thefact that I heard you groan, and I would relieve your distress, if it isin my power."
"You are the first that has said so since I lay down here," sighed theman, falling back heavily.
Ned entered, and, advancing as well as he could in a stooping posture,sat down beside the sick man's pallet, and felt his pulse. Then helooked anxiously in his face, on which the hand of death was visiblyplaced.
"My poor fellow!" said Ned, in a soothing tone, "you are very ill, Ifear. Have you no one to look after you?"
"Ill!" replied the sick man, almost fiercely, "I am dying. I have seendeath too often, and know it too well, to be mistaken." His voice sankto a whisper as he added, "It is not far off now."
For a few seconds Ned could not make up his mind what to say. He feltunwilling to disturb the last moments of the man. At last he leanedforward, and repeated from memory several of the most consoling passagesof Scripture. Twice over he said, "Though thy sins be as scarlet, theyshall be white as wool," and, "Him that cometh unto Me, (Christ), I willin no wise cast out."
The man appeared to listen, but made no reply. Suddenly he started up,and, leaning on his elbow, looked with an awfully earnest stare intoNed's face.
"Young man, gold is good--gold is good--remember that, _if you don'tmake it your god_."
After a pause, he continued, "_I_ made it my god. I toiled for it nightand day, in heat and cold, wet and dry. I gave up everything for it; Ispent all my time in search of it--and I got it--and what good can it dome _now_? I have spent night and day here for weeks, threatening toshoot any one who should come near my gold--Ha!" he added, sharply,observing that his visitor glanced round the apartment, "you'll not findit _here_. No, look, look round, peer into every corner, tear up everyplank of my boat, and you'll find nothing but rotten wood, and dust, andrusty nails."
"Be calm, my friend," said Ned, who now believed that the poor man'smind was wandering, "I don't want your gold; I wish to comfort you, if Ican. Would you like me to do anything for you after--"
"After I'm dead," said the man, abruptly. "No, nothing. I have norelations--no friends--no enemies, even, _now_. Yes," he added,quickly, "I have one friend. _You_ are my friend. You have spokenkindly to me--a beggar. You deserve the name of friend. Listen, I wantyou to be my heir. See here, I have had my will drawn up long ago, withthe place for the name left blank I had intended--but no matter--what isyour name?"
"Edward Sinton."
"Here, hand me that ink-horn, and the pen. There," continued the man,pushing the paper towards him, "I have made over to you the old boat,and the ground it lies on. Both are mine. The piece of ground ismarked off by four posts. Take care of the--"
The man's voice sank to a mere whisper; then it ceased suddenly. WhenNed looked at him again, he started, for the cold hand of death hadsealed his lips for ever.
A feeling of deep, intense pity filled the youth's heart, as he gazed onthe emaciated form of this friendless man--yet he experienced asensation approaching almost to gladness, when he remembered that thelast words he had spoken to him were those of our blessed Saviour to thechief of sinners.
Spreading the ragged piece of canvas that formed a quilt over the deadman's face, he rose, and left the strange dwelling, the entrance towhich he secured, and then hastened to give information of the death tothe proper authorities.
Ned was an hour too late for dinner when he arrived at the hotel, wherehe found Captain Bunting and his new friend awaiting him in someanxiety. Hastily informing them of the cause of his detention, heintroduced them to each other, and forgot for a time the scene of deathhe had just witnessed, in talking over plans for the future, and inmaking arrangements for a trip to the diggings.