THE UNLUCKY MINER
Joe brought out some cold meat and bread and butter, and set it
before his guest.
“The fire’s gone out,” he said, “or I would give you some tea. Here
is a glass of milk, if you like it.”
“Thank you, boy,” said his visitor. “Milk is good enough for
anybody. One thing I can say, I’ve steered clear of liquor. A
brother of mine was intemperate and that was a warning to me. I
took credit to myself for being a steady-going man, compared with
many of my acquaintances out at the mines. But it don’t do to
boast. I’ve done worse, perhaps. I’ve gambled away the provision I
had made for my poor family.”
“Don’t take it too hard,” said Joe, in a tone of sympathy. “You
know how it is out here. Down to-day and up to-morrow.”
“It’ll take me a long time to get up to where I was,” said the
other; “but it’s my fault, and I must make the best of it.”
Joe observed, with satisfaction, that his visitor was doing ample
justice to the supper spread before him. With a full stomach, he
would be likely to take more cheerful views of life and the future.
In this thought Joe proved to be correct.
“I didn’t think I could eat anything,” said the miner, laying down
his knife and fork, twenty minutes later, “but I have made a hearty
supper, thanks to your kindness. Things look a little brighter to
me now. I’ve had a hard pullback, but all is not lost. I’ve got to
stay here a year or two longer, instead of going back by the next
steamer; but I must make up my mind to that. What is your name,
boy?”
“Joe Mason.”
“You’ve been kind to me, and I won’t forget it. It doesn’t seem
likely I can return the favor, but I’ll do it if ever I can. Good
night to you.”
“Where are you going?” asked Joe, surprised, as the miner walked to
the door.
“Out into the street.”
“But where do you mean to pass the night?”
“Where a man without money must--in the street.”
“But you mustn’t do that.”
“I shan’t mind it. I’ve slept out at the mines many a night.”
“But won’t you find it more comfortable here?”
“Yes; but I don’t want to intrude. You’ve given me a good supper
and that is all I can expect.”
“He doesn’t seem much like Hogan,” thought Joe.
“You are welcome to lodge here with me,” he said. “It will cost you
nothing and will be more comfortable for you.”
“You don’t know me, Joe,” said the miner. “How do you know but I
may get up in the night and rob you?”
“You could, but I don’t think you will,” said Joe. “I am not at all
afraid of it. You look like an honest man.”
The miner looked gratified.
“You shan’t repent your confidence, Joe,” he said.
“I’d rather starve than rob a good friend like you. But you mustn’t
trust everybody.”
“I don’t,” said Joe. “I refused a man to-night--a man named Hogan.”
“Hogan?”
“Yes.”
“What does he look like?”
Joe described him.
“It’s the very man,” said the miner.
“Do you know him, then?”
“Yes; he was out at our diggings. Nobody liked him, or trusted him.
He was too lazy to work, but just loafed around, complaining of his
luck. One night I caught him in my tent, just going to rob me. I
warned him to leave the camp next day or I’d report him, and the
boys would have strung him up. That’s the way they treat thieves
out there.”
“It doesn’t surprise me to hear it,” said Joe. “He robbed me of
fifty dollars in New York.”
“He did? How was that?”
Joe told the story.
“The mean skunk!” ejaculated Watson--for this Joe found to be the
miner’s name. “It’s mean enough to rob a man, but to cheat a poor
boy out of all he has is a good deal meaner. And yet you gave him
supper?”
“Yes. The man was hungry; I pitied him.”
“You’re a better Christian than I am. I’d have let him go hungry.”
Both Joe and the miner were weary and they soon retired, but not to
uninterrupted slumber. About midnight they were disturbed, as the
next chapter will show.