THE VALUE OF A TRUE FRIEND
The meeting of Phil Ryder and Serge Belcofsky, who had parted months
before in far-away New London, and who now so unexpectedly ran across
each other in the busiest street of the westernmost city of the
continent, was one of the happiest that ever took place in Victoria.
Phil was so overcome by it that for a moment his voice failed him, and
he could only hold his friend’s hand in both of his, and gaze at him as
though fearful that he might vanish as suddenly as he had appeared.
“Serge, old man,” he said at length, “you have come to me like an
angel from heaven, for never in my life have I needed a friend as at
this very minute. I never half appreciated you before, but you may be
certain that I do now. Oh, my dear fellow! if you could only know one
part of how glad I am to see you!”
“Why, what is the matter?” inquired Serge, anxiously. “Are you in
trouble? Is there anything I can do to help you? How do you happen to
be here of all places? The _Seamew_ got in two days ago; but I didn’t
find a single letter from New London, and I haven’t heard a word of
news from there since we started for the coast.”
“Am I in trouble!” exclaimed Phil. “Well, I should say I am. I am in
one of the very worst scrapes that ever a fellow got into. Can you help
me? I rather think you can. I hope so, at any rate. You have helped
me already more than I can tell. The mere sight of your face, the
sound of your voice, and the clasp of your hand have banished half my
troubles, and given me new courage to face the rest. Why, old man, a
friend was what I needed more than anything in the world, and now that
I have found one, everything seems possible.”
“You in trouble!” cried Serge, in amazement. It was hard to realize
that this young hero of his admiration, the one who above all others
had seemed so strong and self-reliant and free from care of any kind,
could be in a position in which his humble aid could be of value.
“Indeed I am,” replied Phil; “and to begin with I haven’t a cent in the
world, nor have I eaten a mouthful of food to-day. So if you have any
money in your pockets, you will at once invite me to breakfast. After
that I will tell you the whole story.”
“You poor old chap!” exclaimed Serge, to whom hunger was of all things
the most unpleasant. “Of course I’ve got money”――he had just one
dollar, which represented his entire stock of wealth――“and the ‘Poodle
Dog’ is just around the corner.”
In another minute the lads were seated at a table in the best
restaurant of Victoria, and Phil was giving the waiter a breakfast
order that confirmed that individual in his previously formed opinion
that Americans were not only the wealthiest people in the world, but
were possessed of the most extraordinary appetites.
Although Serge, whose own breakfast had been eaten hours before, would
willingly have shared another with his friend, a prudent regard for his
finances compelled him to resist the temptation, and declare that he
was not the least bit hungry. So he merely sat and watched with real
pleasure Phil’s demolition of the very heartiest and most thoroughly
enjoyable meal of his life. As he ate, his courage and natural buoyancy
of spirits returned to him so fully, that when at length he pushed
away his plate, declaring himself unable to eat another mouthful, he
was again the self-reliant, independent, happy-go-lucky Phil Ryder whom
Serge had known and admired in New London.
The bill for that breakfast amounted to exactly one dollar, and as
Serge paid it, Phil wondered why he did not also tip the waiter, who
had been unusually attentive. He was too polite to mention the matter,
and concluded that his friend’s oversight must be the result of his
early training.
Serge knew well enough what was expected of him, however, and felt
uncomfortable until the restaurant was left behind and he was beyond
reach of the waiter’s reproachful glance. “Now,” said he, as they
gained the street, “let’s have your story. You haven’t told me one word
of yourself and your troubles yet.”
“Troubles?” repeated Phil, inquiringly, as though such things and he
were but the most distant of acquaintances. “Yes, of course, I have
had some troubles; but they don’t bother me now half so much as they
did. I’ll tell you all about them, though; but this is a poor place
for talking. If you don’t mind we’ll go up to my room. It is close at
hand, and we can be there in a minute. Then we can relate our several
adventures, and discuss plans without fear of interruption.”
Why Phil had not returned to his hotel for breakfast the very first
thing after being set at liberty he could not have explained; but
hungry, friendless, and penniless as he was that morning, he could no
more have entered the Driard dining-room than he could have begged for
a meal at a private house. Now, however, the situation seemed to him
so entirely different that he walked into the hotel office as coolly
as a young millionaire, and with quite the air of one demanded the
key of his room, ordered his bag sent up to it, and led the way to the
elevator.
The clerk on duty, who happened to be the same who had witnessed his
unpleasant encounter with an officer the evening before, regarded the
young fellow with a mild surprise, but made no comment. He concluded
that there must have been some mistake after all, but was too well
trained in the hotel business to ask unpleasant questions of a guest.
He did eye Serge a little curiously, for though the lad had on his best
suit it was unmistakably the garb of a sailor.
As for the young Russo-American, he followed his friend into this
swell hotel, listened to the orders that he issued, and which were
so promptly obeyed, and finally accompanied him to his room with so
comical an expression of bewilderment on his face that Phil noticed,
and laughed at it.
“You are evidently thinking that my plea of poverty and these
surroundings do not exactly match each other,” he said.
“Well, yes, I must confess――”
“That I appear very much like an impostor. But really I am not one, old
man. I was in such a desperate fix when you turned up, like a blessed
angel to help me out of it, that in an hour more, if left to my own
devices, I believe I should have jumped overboard.”
“You would have done nothing of the kind,” cried Serge, indignantly.
“You are no such coward as that, and I know it.”
“Well, perhaps not,” replied Phil. “But it seems to me that hunger with
no prospect of its relief can make cowards of the bravest fellows. And
I was hungry, awfully hungry.”
“I can well believe that,” laughed Serge, “after seeing you eat. But
tell me, why do you stay in this hotel?”
“Because I have no other place to go to, and have no money with which
to settle my bill in case I wish to leave.”
“But isn’t it awfully expensive?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose they charge three or four dollars a
day; but if it were only fifty cents a day I couldn’t pay it, and so
would have to stay on all the same. I think it’s very lucky that I am
stranded in so comfortable a place. But let me tell you the whole story
from the beginning, and then you will see just what sort of a position
I am in.”
So Phil related his recent experiences, and when he had finished Serge
only asked,
“What has become of the fur-seal’s tooth I gave you, and which you used
to wear on your watch-chain?”
“Lost it.”
“Then that accounts for everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, according to what the old chief who gave that tooth to
my father told him, it is a most powerful charm for good or evil. He
said that whoever gave it away gave good-luck with it. Whoever received
it as a gift received good-luck. Whoever lost it lost his luck, and
whoever stole it stole bad-luck that would follow him so long as he
retained it in his possession. According to this you who have lost it
are suffering the consequences.”
“Nonsense!” cried Phil. “I hope you don’t believe in any such foolish
superstition, or that a bit of carved ivory can possess the powers you
claim for the fur-seal’s tooth?”
“I don’t claim it,” protested Serge. “I only repeat what the Indian
said. At the same time, almost every one in Alaska, or, at any rate,
every one whom I know, believes in such things, and can tell you lots
of stories about them.”
“Yes. I’ve no doubt they can tell lots of stories, but the thing is to
prove them. Now, I don’t believe in superstitions of any kind, and am
very sorry for those who do. As for my present bad-luck, it is entirely
owing to my own carelessness and hot-headedness, but for which I should
be comfortably on my way to Sitka at this very minute. As it is, here
I am up such a very tall stump that, as far as I can see, there isn’t
the slightest chance of getting down from it inside of several weeks.
My chance of visiting Alaska is knocked higher than a kite, too, for
the money that would have taken me there will now have to be devoted to
paying my hotel bill here.”