AN UNPLEASANT ADVENTURE.
“Couple of whiskeys—straight—for me and the kid,” ordered Grant’s
companion, as he came to a standstill in front of the bar.
“None for me!” said Grant quickly.
But, all the same, two glasses were set out, and the bottle placed
beside them.
“Pour it out!” said the miner to the barkeeper. “I’m afraid the boy will
get away.”
The barkeeper, with a smile, followed directions, and the two glasses
were filled.
The miner tossed his off at a single gulp, but Grant left his standing.
“Why don’t you drink, boy?” demanded his companion, with an oath.
“I told you I wouldn’t,” said Grant angrily.
“We’ll see if you won’t,” said the miner, and, seizing the glass, he
attempted to pour it down Grant’s throat, but his arm was unsteady from
the potations he had already indulged in, and the whiskey was spilled,
partly on the floor, and partly on the boy’s clothes. Grant seized this
opportunity to dash out of the saloon, with the miner after him.
Fortunately for him, Bill Turner, as he called himself, tripped and
fell, lying prostrate for a moment, an interval which Grant improved to
so good purpose that, by the time the miner was again on his feet, he
was well out of harm’s way.
“I thought the drinking habit was bad enough at home,” thought Grant;
“but no one ever tried to _make_ me drink before.”
And now we will go back and see how it fared with Mr. Cooper.
Some quarter of a mile from the Metropolitan Hotel and Restaurant his
attention was drawn to a blacksmith’s shop. That was his own line of
business, and he felt a curiosity to interview his California
brother-workman.
Entering, he saw a stout, black-bearded man in the act of shoeing a
horse.
“Good-morning, friend,” he said.
“Good-morning, stranger.”
“I thought I’d take a look in, as you are in my line of business.”
“Is that so?” asked the blacksmith, looking up with interest. “How long
since you arrived?”
“Just got in this morning.”
“Going to stay in Sacramento?”
“I am ready for anything that will bring money. I suppose I shall go to
the mines.”
“Humph! Why not buy me out, and carry on your old business in
Sacramento?”
“Do you want to sell?” asked Jerry Cooper, surprised.
“Yes; I want a little change. I might go to the mines myself.”
“Can’t you make money blacksmithing?” asked Cooper cautiously.
“Yes; that isn’t my reason. I haven’t seen anything of the country yet.
I bought out this shop as soon as I reached Sacramento, and I’ve been at
work steady. I want a change.”
“How well does it pay you?”
“I get big prices. A dollar for a single shoe, and I have all I can do.
Why, how much money do you think I have made since I took the shop, a
year since?”
“I can’t tell.”
“I’ve laid up three thousand dollars, besides paying all expenses.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed the blacksmith, impressed.
“Yes; I shan’t make as much money at the mines probably, but it’ll be a
change, and not so hard work.”
“Then you want to sell out?”
“Yes.”
“What will you take?”
“A thousand dollars. That buys the shop, too. It’s dirt cheap.”
“It may be, but I haven’t the money.”
“I will take half cash, and a mortgage for the balance.”
“Suppose I bought, is there a house near by where I can live?”
“What family have you?”
“A wife and son; but I suppose Tom will want to go to the mines.”
“There is a cabin across the street with three rooms. It is empty. You
can hire it for fifty dollars a month, likely.”
“Fifty dollars a month for a cabin with three rooms!” ejaculated Cooper.
“Yes; or you can buy it for five hundred dollars, I expect.”
“Seems to me prices are pretty steep in Sacramento.”
“So they are; but you can get rich faster than at home, in spite of the
high prices.”
“Well, that’s a consideration, certainly. How much time will you give me
to consider your offer?”
“Till to-morrow.”
“I’ll let you know by that time.”
Jerry Cooper walked away in a state of excitement. He felt that he would
rather stay in Sacramento and carry on his own old business, with which
he was thoroughly acquainted, than undertake gold-mining, of which he
knew nothing. He was a man of fifty, and was not so enterprising as he
had been when half the age.
“It seems a good chance,” he reflected. “But how will I get the money?”
He had five hundred dollars left, perhaps more; but all this would have
to be paid down for the shop, without leaving anything to provide for
his family in the interval before he got to earning an income.
“If I only had the money I would take the shop,” he said to himself. “I
wonder if I could borrow any. I might send home for some, but it would
come too late.”
He walked slowly back to the hotel and restaurant.
In front of it Mrs. Cooper was waiting for him.
“I’m glad you’ve come, father,” she said. “I was afraid you would be
gone all day.”
“Were you discontented, mother?”
“No; it isn’t that; but I’ve had an offer for the wagon and oxen.”
“You have?”
“Yes; quarter of an hour after you went away a man came in and inquired
of the landlord who owned the team. He was referred to me, and asked me
if I wanted to sell. I told him I didn’t know what your plan might be,
but finally he offered me eight hundred dollars, or a thousand if Dobbin
were thrown in.”
“You should have accepted,” exclaimed her husband excitedly.
“I didn’t dare to. I didn’t know what you would say. But he’s coming
back again, and—there he is!”
Fifteen minutes later the bargain was struck and the money paid, cash
down.
“That settles it!” decided the blacksmith. “Mother and I will stay in
Sacramento.”