A LETTER FROM MR. CROSMONT.
Four more weeks passed. The claim continued to yield richly, and at the
end of this time the two partners reckoned that they had somewhat over
two thousand dollars.
“I wish we could sell the gold-dust, and invest the money where it would
be safe,” said Tom thoughtfully.
“If we were in Sacramento, we should be able to send it by express to
San Francisco.”
“True; but we have no means of doing it here.”
“There are plenty who would undertake the job,” suggested Tom.
“Could we find one that we could trust?” asked Grant shrewdly.
“That’s the question,” said Tom.
That same evening brought a solution of the problem. A man who had just
arrived from San Francisco called at the house.
“Does a boy named Grant Colburn live here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I have a letter for him from San Francisco.”
Grant was summoned, and in some surprise received the communication.
“It is from Mr. Crosmont,” he said joyfully, as he opened the letter and
looked at the signature.
He read it aloud. It ran thus:
DEAR GRANT:
It seems a very long time since I have seen you, and I am in the dark as
to your successes and prospects. As you know, my principal business is
to look for my wayward son Gregory, who, I have reason to think, is in
California. Now, all visitors to California come sooner or later to San
Francisco, and it is for this reason that I have established myself
here. Thus far I have not seen or heard of Gregory, but this is not at
all surprising. He may be somewhere in the interior, and in that case
there would be little chance of my hearing of him.
Meanwhile, I confess that I feel lonely. I am not a man to make many
friends, and I have met no one in whom I feel an interest since I parted
with you. I begin to think that I should like to have you with me, and I
will promise that you will lose nothing by transferring yourself to San
Francisco. Will you, on receipt of this letter, arrange to join me as
soon as you can? I am the more anxious to have you do so, because I have
not felt very well of late, and, if I should fall sick, I should like to
have with me a tried and faithful friend whom I can thoroughly trust.
I don’t know how you are situated. You may be in need. I, therefore,
think it best to send by the bearer fifty dollars, which will pay your
expenses to this city. You will find me at the Alameda Hotel in Stockton
Street.
Though I am doing no business, I have made some investments in town lots
which, I think, will pay me handsomely. I have bought two lots for you,
which are recorded in your name. I look to see the present village of
San Francisco become a large, populous and influential city. I may not
live to see it, but you assuredly will. If you need more money, let me
know. Let me see you soon.
Your old friend,
GILES CROSMONT.
“Well,” said Tom, after the reading was ended, “one question is
settled.”
“What is that?”
“We needn’t look any further for a messenger to take our gold to San
Francisco.”
“You mean that I am to take it?”
“Yes.”
The two partners realized that Grant’s mission would involve some risk.
Californian routes of travel were in those days infested by robbers and
road agents, who preferred making a living in a lawless way to the more
creditable and less hazardous paths of industry. How to reduce the
danger to a minimum was a subject of anxious thought.
“You had better not send all the gold-dust by me, Tom,” said Grant.
“Then, if I am robbed, it won’t be a total loss.”
This plan seemed wise, and Grant set out with about fifteen hundred
dollars’ worth of gold. He carried it in a valise, and, the better to
divert suspicion, wore an old and shabby working suit.
“I am not proud of my appearance,” he said, as he took a position in
front of the mirror in their chamber. “What do I look like?”
“A healthy young tramp,” answered Tom, laughing.
“I agree with you.”
“However, there is one comfort; no one will think you have anything of
value with you.”
“What will Mr. Crosmont think when I make my appearance in San
Francisco?”
“That you are down on your luck. However, you can explain to him.”
The next morning Grant set out on his way to Sacramento. Tom Cooper
accompanied him as far as the cabin of the old man to whom they owed
their present good fortune. It was a long walk, and the valise, with its
weight of gold-dust, was no light burden.
When they reached the cabin, they found Mr. Gilbert—for this was the old
man’s name—sitting on a chair in front of it. His face was naturally
grave, but it lighted up when his glance rested on the two new-comers.
“I am glad to see you,” he said; but, as his glance dwelt on Grant in
his shabby attire, “you don’t seem to have prospered,” he added.
Grant laughed.
“Appearances are deceitful, Mr. Gilbert,” he said. “I am in disguise.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Do I look as if I were worth robbing?”
The old man smiled.
“You look,” he said, “as if you had just escaped from a poorhouse.”
“Then the disguise is effective.” said Tom. “The fact is my young
partner is going to San Francisco, and this valise, which he is taking
with him, contains fifteen hundred dollars in gold-dust.”