[Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this
text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant
spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed is
noted at the end of this ebook.]
THE YOUNG VIGILANTES
[Illustration: Walter and Bill tramping across the Isthmus.--_Page
132._]
THE YOUNG VIGILANTES
A STORY OF CALIFORNIA
LIFE IN THE FIFTIES
BY
SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE
Author of "Watch Fires of '76," "On Plymouth Rock," "Decisive
Events in American History Series," etc.
_ILLUSTRATED BY L. J. BRIDGMAN_
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
1904
Published August, 1904
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY LEE AND SHEPARD
_All rights reserved_
THE YOUNG VIGILANTES
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
Norwood, Mass.
U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A NARROW ESCAPE 9
II. WALTER TELLS HIS STORY 18
III. AND CHARLEY TELLS HIS 30
IV. WHAT HAPPENED ON BOARD THE "ARGONAUT" 37
V. ONE WAY OF GOING TO CALIFORNIA 45
VI. A BLACK SHEEP IN THE FOLD 66
VII. THE FLIGHT 82
VIII. OUTWARD BOUND 100
IX. ACROSS NICARAGUA 117
X. THE LUCK OF YANKEE JIM 141
XI. SEEING THE SIGHTS IN 'FRISCO 154
XII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 165
XIII. IN WHICH A MAN BREAKS INTO HIS OWN
STORE, AND STEALS HIS OWN SAFE 182
XIV. CHARLEY AND WALTER GO A-GUNNING 203
XV. THE YOUNG VIGILANTES 215
XVI. RAMON FINDS HIS MATCH 231
XVII. A SHARP RISE IN LUMBER 241
XVIII. A CORNER IN LUMBER 250
XIX. HEARTS OF GOLD 262
XX. BRIGHT, SEABURY & COMPANY 274
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Walter and Bill tramping across the Isthmus
(_Frontispiece._) 132
Walter rescuing Dora Bright 42
Waiting for the opening of the mail 160
The hunters hunted by a grizzly bear 208
Ramon made to give up his stealings 236
Arrival of the _Southern Cross_ at Sacramento 254
THE YOUNG VIGILANTES
I
A NARROW ESCAPE
From the _Morning Post-Horn_:
"As passenger train Number Four was rounding a curve at full
speed, ten miles out of this city, on the morning of October 4,
and at a point where a deep cut shut out the view ahead, the
engineer saw some one, man or boy, he could not well make out
which, running down the track toward the train, frantically
swinging both arms and waving his cap in the air as if to attract
attention. The engine-man instantly shut off steam, whistled for
brakes, and quickly brought the train to a standstill.
"The engine-man put his head out of the cab window. The conductor
jumped off, followed by fifty frightened passengers, all talking
and gesticulating at once; while the person who had just given the
warning signal slackened his breakneck pace, somewhat, upon seeing
that he had succeeded in stopping the train.
"'What's the matter?' shouted the impatient engine-man when this
person had come within hearing.
"'What do you stop us for?' called out the little conductor
sharply, in his turn, at the same time anxiously consulting the
face of the watch he held in his hand.
"To both questions the young man seemed too much out of breath to
reply, offhand; but turning and pointing in the direction whence
he came, he shook his head warningly, threw himself down on the
roadbed, as limp as a rag, and began fanning himself with his cap.
After getting his breath a little, he made out to say, 'Bridge
afire--quarter mile back. Tried put it out--couldn't. Heard train
coming--afraid be too late. Couldn't run another step.'
"'Get aboard,' said the conductor to him. 'Jake,' to the grinning
engine-man, 'we'll run down and take a look at it. Get out your
flag!' to a brakeman. 'Like as not Thirteen'll be along before we
can make Brenton switch. All aboard!' The delayed train then moved
on.
"As it neared the burning bridge it was clear to every one
that the young man's warning had prevented a disastrous wreck,
probably much loss of life, because the bridge could not be seen
until the train was close upon it. All hands immediately set to
work with pails extinguishing the flames, which was finally done
after a hard fight. To risk a heavy train upon the half-burned
stringers was, however, out of the question. Leaving a man to see
that the fire did not break out again, the train was run back to
the next station, there to await further orders. We were unable
to learn the name of the young man to whose presence of mind
the passengers on Number Four owed their escape from a serious,
perhaps fatal disaster. But we are informed that a collection
was taken up for him on the train, which he, however, refused to
accept, stoutly insisting that he had only done what it was his
duty to do under the circumstances."
Thus far, the _Morning Post-Horn_. We now take up the narrative where
the enterprising journal left off.
While the delayed train was being held for orders, the young man whose
ready wit had averted a calamity stood on the platform with his hands
in his trousers pockets, apparently an unconcerned spectator of what
was going on around him. The little pug-nosed conductor stepped up to
him.
"I say, young feller, what may I call your name?"
"Seabury."
"Zebra, Zebra," repeated the conductor, in a puzzled tone, "then I
s'pose your ancestors came over in the Ark?"
"I didn't say Zebra; I said Seabury plain enough," snapped back the
young man, getting red in the face at seeing the broad grins on the
faces around him.
"Don't fire up so. Got any first name?"
"Walter."
"Walter Seabury," the conductor repeated slowly, while scratching it
down. "Got to report this job, you know. Say, where you goin'?"
"I'm walkin' to Boston."
"Shanks' mare, hey. No, you ain't. Get aboard and save your muscle.
You own this train to-day, and everything in it. Lively now." The
conductor then waved his hand, and the train started on. At the bridge
a transfer was effected to a second train, and this one again was soon
reeling off the miles toward Boston, as if to make up for lost time.
Being left to himself, young Seabury, whom we may as well hereafter
call by his Christian name of Walter, could think of nothing else than
his wonderful luck. Instead of having a long, weary tramp before him,
here he was, riding in a railroad train, and without its costing him a
cent. This was a saving of both time and money.
Pretty soon the friendly conductor came down the aisle to where Walter
sat, looking out of the car window. After giving him a sharp look, the
conductor made up his mind that here was no vagabond tramp. "It's none
of my business, but all the same I'd like to know what you're walkin'
to Boston for, young feller?" he asked.
"Going to look for work."
"What's your job?"
"I'm a rigger." And his hands, tarry and cracked, bore out his story
perfectly.
"Ever in Boston?"
"Never."
"Know anybody there?"
"Nobody."
"Got any of this--you know?" slapping his pocket.
At this question Walter flushed up. He drew himself up stiffly, smiled
a pitying smile, and said nothing. His manner conveyed the idea that
he really didn't know exactly how much he was worth.
"That's first-rate," the conductor went on. "Now, look here. You'll
get lost in Boston. I'll tell you what. When we get in, I'll show you
how to go to get down among the riggers' lofts. You're a rigger, you
say?" Walter nodded. "They're all in a bunch, down at the North End,
riggers, sailmakers, pump- and block-makers, and all the rest. Full
of work, too, I guess, all on account of this Californy business.
Everybody's goin' crazy over it. You will be, too, in a week."
By this time, the train was rumbling over the long waste of salt-marsh
stretching out between the mainland and the dome-capped city, and in
five minutes more it drew up with a jerk in the station, with the
locomotive puffing out steam like a tired racehorse after a hard push
at the finish.
The conductor was as good as his word. He told Walter to go straight
up Tremont Street until he came to Hanover, then straight down Hanover
to the water, and then to follow his nose. "Oh, you can't miss it,"
was the cheerful, parting assurance. "Smell it a mile." But going
straight up this street, and straight down that, was a direction not
so easy to follow, as Walter soon found. The crowds bewildered him,
and in trying to get out of everybody's way, he got in everybody's
way, and was jostled, shoved about, and stared at, as he slowly made
his way through the throng, until his roving eyes caught sight of the
tall masts and fluttering pennants, where the long street suddenly
came to an end. Walter put down his bundle, took off his cap, and
wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Whichever way he looked,
the wharves were crowded with ships, the ships with workmen, and the
street with loaded trucks and wagons. Casting an eye upward he could
see riggers at work among the maze of ropes and spars, like so many
spiders weaving their webs. Here, at least, he could feel at home.
II
WALTER TELLS HIS STORY
Walter's first want was to find a boarding house suited to his means.
Turning into a side street, walled in by a row of two-story brick
houses, all as like as peas in a pod, he found that the difficulty
would be to pick and choose, as all showed the same little tin sign
announcing "Board and Lodging, by the Day or Week," tacked upon the
door. After walking irresolutely up and down the street two or three
times, he finally mustered up courage to give a timid pull at the
bell of one of them. The door opened so suddenly that Walter fell
back a step. He began stammering out something, but before he could
finish, the untidy-looking girl sang out at the top of her voice:
"Miss Hashall, Miss Hashall, there's somebody wants to see you!" She
then bolted off through the back door singing "I want to be an angel,"
in a voice that set Walter's teeth on an edge. To make a long story
short, Walter soon struck a bargain with the landlady,--a fat, pudgy
person in a greasy black poplin, wearing a false front, false teeth,
and false stones in her breastpin. True, Walter silently resented her
demanding a week's board in advance, it seemed so like a reflection
upon his honesty, but was easily mollified by the motherly interest
she seemed to take in him--or his cash.
Bright and early the next morning Walter sallied out in search of
work. His landlady had told him to apply at the first loft he came to.
"Why, you can't make no mistake," the woman declared. "They're all
drove to death, and hands is scurse as hens' teeth, all on account of
this Kalerforny fever what carries so many of 'em off. Don't I wish
I was a man! I'd jest like to dig gold enough to buy me a house on
Beacon Street and ride in my kerridge. You just go and spunk right up
to 'em, like I do. That's the way to get along in this world, my son."
Walter's landlady had told him truly. The demand for vessels for the
California trade was so urgent that even worm-eaten old whaleships
were being overhauled and refitted with all haste, and as Walter
walked along he noticed that about every craft he saw showed the same
sign in her rigging, "For San Francisco with dispatch." "Well, I'll
be hanged if there ain't the old _Argonaut_ that father was mate of!"
Walter exclaimed quite aloud, clearly taken by surprise at seeing an
old acquaintance quite unexpectedly in a strange place, and quickly
recognizing her, in spite of a new coat of paint alow and aloft.
The riggers were busy setting up the standing rigging, reeving new
halliards, and giving the old barky a general overhauling. Walter
climbed on board and began a critical survey of the ship's rigging,
high and low.
"What yer lookin' at, greeny?" one of the riggers asked him, at
seeing Walter's eyes fixed on some object aloft.
"I'm looking at that Irish pennant[1] on that stay up there," was the
quick reply. This caused a broad smile to spread over the faces of the
workmen.
[1] A strand of marline carelessly left flying by a rigger.
"You a rigger?"
"I've helped rig this ship."
"Want a job?"
"Yes."
"Well, here," tossing Walter a marline-spike, "let's see you make this
splice." It was neatly and quickly done. "I'll give you ten dollars
a week." Walter held out for twelve, and after some demurring on the
part of the boss, a bargain was struck. Walter's overalls were rolled
up in a paper, under his arm, so that he was immediately ready to
begin work.
Being, as it were, in the midst of the stream of visitors to the ship,
hearing no end of talk about the wonderful fortunes to be made in
the Land of Gold, Walter did not wholly escape the prevailing frenzy,
for such it was. But knowing that he had not the means of paying for
his passage, Walter resolutely kept at work, and let the troubled
stream pass by. There was still another obstacle. He would have to
leave behind him a widowed aunt, whose means of support were strictly
limited to her actual wants. He had at once written to her of his good
fortune in obtaining work, though the receipt of that same letter had
proved a great shock to the "poor lone creetur," as she described
herself, because she had freely given out among her neighbors that
a boy who would run away from such a good home as Walter had, would
surely come to no good end.
Walter had struck up a rather sudden friendship with a young fellow
workman of about his own age, named Charley Wormwood. On account of
his name he was nicknamed "Bitters." Charley was a happy-go-lucky sort
of chap, valuing the world chiefly for the amusement it afforded,
and finding that amusement in about everything and everybody. Though
mercilessly chaffed by the older hands, Charley took it all so
good-naturedly that he made himself a general favorite. The two young
men soon arranged to room together, and had come to be sworn friends.
One pleasant evening, as the two sat in their room, with chairs
tilted back against the wall, the following conversation was begun by
Charley: "I say, Walt, we've been together here two months now, to
a dot, and never a word have you said about your folks. Mind now, I
don't want to pry into your secrets, but I'd like to know who you are,
if it's all the same to you. Have you killed a man, or broke a bank,
or set a fire, or what? Folks think it funny, when I have to tell them
I don't know anything about you, except by guess, and you know that's
a mighty poor course to steer by. Pooh! you're as close as an oyster!"
Walter colored to his temples. For a short space he sat eyeing
Charley without speaking. Then he spoke up with an evident effort
at self-control, as if the question, so suddenly put, had awakened
painful memories. "There's no mystery about it," he said. "You want to
hear the story? So be it, then. I'll tell mine if you'll tell yours.
"I b'long to an old whaling port down on the Cape. I was left an
orphan when I was a little shaver, knee-high to a toadstool. Uncle
Dick, he took me home. Aunt Marthy didn't like it, I guess. All she
said was, 'Massy me! another mouth to feed?' 'Pooh, pooh, Marthy,'
uncle laughed, 'where there's enough for two, there's enough for
three.' She shut up, but she never liked me one mite."
"An orphan?" interjected Charley. "No father nor mother?"
"I'll tell you about it. You see, my father went out mate on a whaling
voyage in the Pacific, in this very same old _Argonaut_ we've been
patchin' and pluggin' up. It may have been a year we got a letter
telling he was dead. Boat he was in swamped, while fast to a whale--a
big one. They picked up his hat. Sharks took him, I guess. Mother was
poorly. She fell into a decline, they called it, and didn't live long.
We had nothin' but father's wages. They was only a drop in the bucket.
Then there was only me left."
"That was the time your uncle took you home?"
"Yes; Uncle Dick was a rigger by trade. He used to show me how to
make all sorts of knots and splices evenings; and bimeby he got me a
chance, when I was big enough, doin' odd jobs like, for a dollar a
week, in the loft or on the ships. Aunt Marthy said a dollar a week
didn't begin to pay for what I et. Guess she knew. Pretty soon, I got
a raise to a dollar-half."
"But what made you quit? Didn't you like the work?"
"Liked it first-rate. Like it now. But I couldn't stand Aunt Marthy's
sour looks and sharp tongue. Nothing suited her. She was either as
cold as ice, or as hot as fire coals. When she wasn't scolding, she
was groaning. Said she couldn't see what some folks was born into this
world just to slave for other folks for." A frown passed over Walter's
face at the recollection.
"Nice woman that," observed the sententious Charley. "But how about
the uncle?" he added. "Couldn't he make her hold her yawp?"
"Oh, no better man ever stood. He was like a father to me--bless him!"
(Walter's voice grew a little shaky here.) "But he showed the white
feather to Aunt Marthy. Whenever she went into one of her tantrums, he
would take his pipe and clear out, leaving me to bear the brunt of it.
"A good while after mother died, father's sea-chest was brought home
in the _Argonaut_. There was nothing in it but old clothes, this watch
[showing it], and some torn and greasy sea-charts, with the courses
father had sailed pricked out on 'em. Those charts made me sort o'
hanker to see the world, which I then saw men traveled with the aid of
a roll of paper, and a little knowledge, as certainly, and as safely,
as we do the streets of Boston. You better believe I studied over
those charts some! Anyhow, I know my geography." And Walter's blue
eyes lighted up with a look of triumph.
"Bully for you! Then that was what started you out on your travels,
was it?"
"No: I had often thought of slipping away some dark night, but
couldn't make up my mind to it. It did seem so kind o' mean after all
Uncle Dick had done for me. But one day (one bad day for me, Charley)
a man came running up to the loft, all out of breath, to tell me that
Uncle Dick had fallen down the ship's hatchway, and that they were now
bringing him home on a stretcher. I tell you I felt sick and faint
when I saw him lying there lifeless. He never spoke again.
"Shortly after the funeral, upon going to the loft the foreman told me
that work being slack they would have to lay off a lot of hands, me
with the rest. Before I went to sleep that night I made up my mind to
strike out for myself; for now that Uncle Dick was gone, I couldn't
endure my life any longer. I set about packing up my duds without
saying anything to my aunt, for I knew what a rumpus she would make
over it, and if there's anything I hate it's a scene."
"Me too," Charley vigorously assented. "Rather take a lickin'."
"Well," Walter resumed, "I counted up my money first. There was
just forty-nine dollars. Lucky number: it was the year '49 too. I
put ten of it in an envelope directed to my aunt, and put it on the
chimney-piece where she couldn't help seeing it when she came into
my room. Then I took a piece of chalk and wrote on the table top:
'I'm going away to hunt for work. When I get some, I'll let you know.
Please take care of my chest. Look on the mantelpiece. Good-bye. From
Walter.'
"Then, like a thief, I slipped out of the house by a back way, in my
stocking feet, and never stopped running till I was 'way out of town.
There I struck the railroad. I knew if I followed it it would take me
to Boston. And it did. That's all."
III
AND CHARLEY TELLS HIS
There was silence for a minute or two, each of the lads being busy
with his own thoughts. Apparently they were not pleasant thoughts.
What a tantalizing thing memory sometimes is!
But it was not in the nature of things for either to remain long
speechless. Walter first broke silence by reminding Charley of his
promise. "Come now, you've wormed all that out of me about my folks,
pay your debts. I should like to know what made you leave home. Did
you run away, too?"
At this question, Charley's mouth puckered up queerly, and then
quickly broke out into a broad grin, while his eyes almost shut tight
at the recollection Walter's question had summoned up. "It was all
along of 'Rough on Rats,'" he managed to say at last.
"'Rough on Rats?'"
"Yes, 'Rough on Rats.' Rat poison. You just wait, and hear me through.
"I've got a father somewhere, I b'leeve. Boys gen'ally have, I s'pose,
though whether mine's dead or alive, not knowin', can't say. We were
poor as Job's turkey, if you know how poor that was. I don't. Anyway,
he put me out to work on a milk and chicken farm back here in the
country, twenty miles or so, to a man by the name of Bennett, and then
took himself off out West somewhere."
"And you've never seen him since?"
"No; I ha'n't never missed him, or the lickin's he give me. Well,
my boss he raised lots of young chickens for market. We was awfully
pestered with rats, big, fat, sassy ones, getting into the coops
nights, and killing off the little chicks as soon's ever they was
hatched out. You see, they was tender. Besides eating the chicks they
et up most of the grain we throw'd into the hens. The boss he tried
everything to drive those rats away. He tried cats an' he tried traps.
'Twan't no use. The cats wouldn't tech the rats nor the rats go near
the traps. You can't fool an old rat much, anyhow," he added with a
knowing shake of his head.
"Well, the boss was a-countin' the chicks one mornin', while ladling
out the dough to 'em. 'Confound those rats,' he sputtered out;
'there's eight more chicks gone sence I fed last night. I'd gin
something to red the place on 'em, I would.'
"'Uncle,' says I (he let me call him uncle, seein' he'd kind of
adopted me like)--'uncle,' says I, 'why don't you try Rough on Rats?
They say that'll fetch 'em every time.'
"'What's that? Never heer'd on't. How do you know? Who says so?' he
axed all in one breath."
"'Anyhow, I seen a big poster down at the Four Corners that says
so,' says I. 'The boys was a-talkin' about what it had done up to
Skillings' place. Skillings allowed he'd red his place of rats with
it. Hadn't seen hide nor hair of one sence he fust tried it. Everybody
says it's a big thing.'
"The old man said nothin' more just then. He didn't let on that my
advice was worth a cent; but I noticed that he went off and bought
some Rough on Rats that same afternoon, and when the old hens had gone
to roost and the mother hens had gathered their broods under 'em for
the night, uncle he slyly stirred up a big dose of the p'isen stuff
into a pan of meal, which he set down inside the henhouse.
"Uncle's idea was to get up early in the mornin', so's to count up the
dead rats, I s'pose.
"But he did not get up early enough. When he went out into the
henhouse to investigate, he found fifteen or twenty of his best hens
lying dead around the floor after eatin' of the p'isen'd meal.
"When I come outdoors he was stoopin' down, with his back to me
pickin' 'em up."
Walter laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks, sobered down,
and then broke out again. Charley found the laugh infectious and
joined in it, though more moderately.
"Go ahead. Let's have the rest, do," Walter entreated. "What next?"
"I asked Uncle Bennett what he was goin' to do with all those dead
hens. He flung one at my head. Oh! but he was mad. 'Just stop where
you be, my little joker,' says he, startin' off for the stable; 'I've
got somethin' that's Rough on Brats, an' you shall have a taste on't
right off. Don't you stir a step,' shakin' his fist at me, 'or I'll
give you the worst dressin' down you ever had in all your life.'
"While he was gone for a horsewhip, I lit out for the Corners. You
couldn't have seen me for dust.
"I darsen't go back to the house and I had only a silver ninepence in
my pocket and a few coppers, but I managed to beg my way to Boston.
Oh! Walt, it was a long time between meals, I can tell you. I slept
one night in a barn, on the haymow. Nobody saw me slip in after dark.
I took off my neckerchief and laid it down within reach, for it was
hot weather on that haymow, and I was 'most choked with the dust I
swallowed. I overslept. In the morning I heard a noise down where the
hosses were tied up. Some one was rakin' down hay for 'em. I reached
for my neckerchief, thinkin' how I should get away without being seen,
when a boy's voice gave a shout, 'Towser! Towser!' and then I knew it
was all up, for that boy had raked down my neckerchief with the hay,
and he knew there was a tramp somewhere about.
"The long and short of it is, that the dog chased me till I was ready
to drop or until another and a bigger one came out of a yard and
tackled him. Then it was dog eat dog.
"When I got to Boston it was night. I had no money. I didn't know
where to go. Tired's no name for it. I was dead-beat. So I threw
myself down on a doorstep and was asleep in a minnit. There was an
alarm of fire. An ingine came jolting along. I forgot all about being
tired and took holt of the rope, and ran, and hollered, with the rest.
The fire was all out when we got there, so I went back to the ingine
house, and the steward let me sleep in the cellar a couple of hours
and wash up in the mornin'. But I'm ahead of my story. They had hot
coffee and crackers and cheese when they got back from the fire. No
cheese ever tasted like that before. Give me a fireman for a friend
at need. I hung round that ingine house till I picked up a job. The
company was all calkers, gravers, riggers, and the like. Tough lot!
How they could wallop that old tub over the cobblestones, to be sure!"
And here Charley fell into a fit of musing from which Walter did not
attempt to rouse him. In their past experiences the two boys had found
a common bond.
IV
WHAT HAPPENED ON BOARD THE "ARGONAUT"
Seeing that Walter also had fallen into a brown study, Charley quickly
changed the subject. "See here, Walt!" he exclaimed, "the _Argonaut's_
going to sail for Californy first fair wind. To-morrow's Sunday, and
Father Taylor's goin' to preach aboard of her. He's immense! Let's go
and hear him. What do you say?"
Walter jumped at the proposal. "I want to hear Father Taylor ever so
much, and I shouldn't mind taking a look at the passengers, too."
Sunday came. Walter put on his best suit, and the two friends strolled
down to the wharf where the _Argonaut_ lay moored with topsails
loosened, and flags and streamers fluttering gayly aloft. The ship
was thronged not only with those about to sail for the Land of Gold,
but also with the friends who had come to bid them good-bye; besides
many attracted by mere curiosity, or, perhaps, by the fame of Father
Taylor's preaching. There was a perfect Babel of voices. As Walter was
passing one group he overheard the remark, "She'll never get round the
Horn. Too deep. Too many passengers by half. Look at that bow! Have to
walk round her to tell stem from starn."
"Oh, she'll get there fast enough," his companion replied. "She knows
the way. Besides, you can't sink her. She's got lumber enough in her
hold to keep her afloat if she should get waterlogged."
"That ain't the whole story by a long shot," a third speaker broke in.
"Don't you remember the crack ship that spoke an old whaler at sea,
both bound out for California? The passengers on the crack ship called
out to the passengers on the old whaler to know if they wanted to be
reported. When the crack ship got into San Francisco, lo and behold!
there lay the 'old tub' quietly at anchor. Been in a week."
Strange sight, indeed, it was to see men who, but the day before, were
clerks in sober tweeds, farmers in homespun, or mechanics in greasy
overalls, now so dressed up as to look far more like brigands than
peaceful citizens; for it would seem that, to their notion, they could
be no true Californians unless they started off armed to the teeth. So
the poor stay-at-homes were given to understand how wanting they were
in the bold spirit of adventure by a lavish display of pistols and
bowie-knives, rifles and carbines. Poor creatures! they little knew
how soon they were to meet an enemy not to be overcome with powder and
lead.
Between decks, if the truth must be told, many of the passengers
were engaged in sparring or wrestling bouts, playing cards, or
shuffleboard, or hop-scotch, as regardless of the day as if going
to California meant a cutting loose from all the restraints of
civilized life. The two friends made haste to get on deck. As they
mingled with the crowd again, Walter exchanged quick glances with a
middle-aged gentleman on whose arm a remarkably pretty young lady was
leaning. Walter was saying to himself, "I wonder where I have seen
that man before," when the full and sonorous voice of Father Taylor,
the seaman's friend, hushed the confused murmur of voices around him
into a reverential silence. With none of the arts and graces of the
pulpit orator, that short, thick-set, hard-featured man spoke like one
inspired for a full hour, and during that hour nobody stirred from
the spot where he had taken his stand. Father Taylor's every word had
struck home.
The last hymn had been sung, the last prayer said. At its ending the
crowd slowly began filing down the one long, narrow plank reaching
from the ship's gangway to the wharf. Nobody seemed to have noticed
that the rising tide had lifted this plank to an incline that would
make the descent trying to weak nerves, especially as there were five
or six feet of clear water to be passed over between ship and shore.
It was just as one young lady was in the act of stepping upon this
plank that two young scapegraces ahead of her ran down it with such
violence as to make it rebound like a springboard, causing the young
lady first to lose her balance, then to make a false step, and then to
fall screaming into the water, twenty feet below.
Everybody ran to that side, and everybody began shouting at once:
"Man overboard!" "A boat: get a boat!" "Throw over a rope!--a plank!"
"She's going down!" "Help! help!" but nobody seemed to have their wits
about them. With the hundreds looking on, it really seemed as if the
girl might drown before help could reach her.
Both Charley and Walter had witnessed the accident: coats and hats
were off in a jiffy. Snatching up a coil of rope, it was the work of
a moment for Walter to make a running noose, slip that under his arms,
sign to Charley to take a turn round a bitt, then to swing himself
over into the chains and be lowered down into the water on the run by
the quick-witted Charley.
Meantime, the young lady's father was almost beside himself. In one
breath he called to his daughter, by the name of Dora, to catch at
a rope that was too short to reach her; in the next he was offering
fifty, a hundred dollars to Walter if he saved her.
[Illustration: Walter rescuing Dora Bright.--_Page 42._]
Giving himself a vigorous shove with his foot, in two or three strokes
Walter was at the girl's side and with his arms around her. It was
high time, too, as her clothes, which had buoyed her up so far, were
now water-soaked and dragging her down. Only her head was to be seen
above water. At Walter's cheery "Haul away!" fifty nervous arms
dragged them dripping up the ship's side. The young lady fell, sobbing
hysterically, into her father's arms, and was forthwith hurried off
into the cabin, while Walter, after picking up his coat and hat,
slipped off through the crowd, gained the wharf unnoticed, and with
the faithful, but astonished, Charley at his heels, made a bee-line
for his lodgings. Moreover, Walter exacted a solemn promise from
Charley not to lisp one word of what had happened, on pain of a good
drubbing.
"My best suit, too!" he ruefully exclaimed, while divesting himself
of his wet clothes. "No matter: let him keep his old fifty dollars.
Pretty girl, though. I'm paid ten times over. A coil of rope's a handy
thing sometimes. So's a rigger--eh, Charley?"
Charley merely gave a dissatisfied grunt. He was very far from
understanding such refined sentiments. Besides, half the money, he
reflected, would have been his, or ought to have been, which was much
the same thing to his way of thinking. And when he thought of the many
things he could have done with his share, the loss of it made him feel
very miserable, and more than half angry with Walter. "Fifty dollars
don't grow on every bush," he muttered. "Then, what lions we'd 'a'
been in the papers!" he lamented.
"You look here. Can't you do anything without being paid for it? I'd
taken thanks from the old duffer, but not money. Can't you understand?
Now you keep still about this, I tell you."
Though still grumbling, Charley concluded to hold his tongue, knowing
that Walter would be as good as his word; but he inwardly promised
himself to keep his eyes open, and if ever he should see a chance to
let the cat out of the bag without Walter's knowing it, well, the
mischief was in it if he, Charley, didn't improve it, that was all.
V
ONE WAY OF GOING TO CALIFORNIA
The _Argonaut_ affair got into the newspapers, where it was correctly
reported, in the main, except that the rescuer was supposed to be one
of the _Argonaut's_ passengers, and as she was now many miles at sea,
Mr. Bright, the father of Dora, as a last resort, put an advertisement
in the daily papers asking the unknown to furnish his address without
delay to his grateful debtors. But as this failed to elicit a reply,
there was nothing more to be done.
Walter, however, had seen the advertisement, and he had found out
from it that Mr. Bright was one of the _Argonaut's_ principal owners.
He therefore felt quite safe from discovery when he found himself
reported as having sailed in that vessel.
Time moved along quietly enough with Walter until the Fourth of July
was near at hand, when it began to be noised about that the brand-new
clipper ship then receiving her finishing touches in a neighboring
yard would be launched at high water on that eventful day. What was
unusual, the nameless ship was to be launched fully rigged, so that
the riggers' gang was to take a hand in getting her off the ways.
Everybody was consequently on the tiptoe of expectation.
The eventful morning came at last. It being a holiday, thousands
had repaired to the spot, attracted by the novelty of seeing a ship
launched fully rigged. At a given signal, a hundred sledges, wielded
by as many brawny arms, began a furious hammering away at the blocks,
which held the gallant ship bound and helpless to the land. The men
worked like tigers, as if each and every one had a personal interest
in the success of the launch. At last the clatter of busy hammers
ceased, the grimy workmen crept out, in twos and threes, from
underneath the huge black hull, and a hush fell upon all that vast
throng, so deep and breathless that the streamers at the mast-head
could be heard snapping like so many whiplashes in the light breeze
aloft.
"All clear for'ard?" sang out the master workman. "All clear, sir,"
came back the quick response. "All clear aft?" the voice repeated.
"Aye, aye, all clear." Still the towering mass did not budge. It
really seemed as if she was a living creature hesitating on the brink
of her own fate, whether to make the plunge or not. There was an
anxious moment. A hush fell upon all that vast throng. Then, as the
stately ship was seen to move majestically off, first slowly, and then
with a rush and a leap, one deafening shout went up from a thousand
throats: "There she goes! there she goes! hurrah! hurrah!" Every one
declared it the prettiest launch ever seen.
Just as the nameless vessel glided off the ways a young lady, who
stood upon a tall scaffold at the bow, quickly dashed a bottle of
wine against the stem, pronouncing as she did so the name that the
good ship was to bear henceforth, so proudly, on the seas--the _Flying
Arrow_. Three rousing cheers greeted the act, and the name. The crowd
then began to disperse.
As Walter was standing quite near the platform erected for this
ceremony, his face all aglow with the vigorous use he had made of
the sledge he still held in his hand, the young lady who had just
christened the _Flying Arrow_ came down the stairs. In doing so, she
looked Master Walter squarely in the face. Lo and behold! it was the
girl of the _Argonaut_. The recognition was instant and mutual.
Walter turned all colors at once. Giving one glance at his greasy duck
trousers and checked shirt, his first impulse was to sneak off without
a word; but before he could do so he was confronted by Mr. Bright
himself. Walter was thus caught, as it were, between two fires. Oh,
brave youth of the stalwart arm and manly brow, thus to show the white
feather to that weak and timid little maiden!
Noticing the young man's embarrassment, Mr. Bright drew him aside,
out of earshot of those who still lingered about. "So, so, my young
friend," he began with a quizzical look at Walter, "we've had some
trouble finding you. Pray what were your reasons for avoiding us?
Neither of us [turning toward his daughter] is a very dangerous
person, as you may see for yourself."
"Now, don't, papa," pleaded Dora. Then, after giving a sidelong and
reproachful look at Walter, she added, "Why, he wouldn't even let us
thank him!"
Walter tried to stammer out something about not deserving thanks. The
words seemed to stick in his throat; but he did manage to say: "Fifty
stood ready to do what I did. I only got a little wetting, sir."
"Just so. But they didn't, all the same. Come, we are not ungrateful.
Can I depend on you to call at my office, 76 State Street, to-morrow
morning about ten?"
"You can, sir," bowing respectfully.
"Very good. I shall expect you. Come, Dora, we must be going." Father
and daughter then left the yard, but not until Dora had given Walter
another reproachful look, out of the corner of her eye.
"Poor, proud, and sheepish," was the merchant's only comment upon this
interview, as they walked homeward. Mentally, he was asking himself
where he had seen that face before.
Dora said nothing. Her stolen glances had told her, however, that
Walter was good-looking; and that was much in his favor. To be sure,
he was plainly a common workman, and he had appeared very stiff and
awkward when her father spoke to him. Still she felt that there was
nothing low or vulgar about him.
Punctual to the minute, Walter entered the merchant's counting room,
though, to say truth, he found himself ill at ease in the presence of
half a dozen spruce-looking clerks, who first shot sly glances at him,
then at each other, as he carefully shut the door behind him. Walter,
however, bore their scrutiny without flinching. He was only afraid of
girls, from sixteen to eighteen years old.
Mr. Bright immediately rose from his desk, and beckoned Walter to
follow him out into the warehouse. "You are prompt. That's well,"
said he approvingly. "Now then, to business. We want an outdoor clerk
on our wharf. You have no objection, I take it, to entering our
employment?"
Walter shook his head. "Oh, no, sir."
"Very good, then. I'll tell you more of your duties presently. I hear
a good account of you. The salary will be six hundred the first year,
and a new suit of clothes, in return for the one you spoiled. Here's
a tailor's address [handing Walter a card with the order written upon
it]. Go and get measured when you like, and mind you get a good fit."
Walter took a moment to think, but couldn't think at all. All he could
say was: "If you think, sir, I can fill the place, I'll try my best to
suit you."
"That's right. Try never was beat. You may begin to-morrow." Walter
went off feeling more happy than he remembered ever to have felt
before. In truth, he could hardy realize his good fortune.
This change in Walter's life brought with it other changes. For
one thing it broke off his intimacy with Charley, although Walter
continued to receive occasional visits from his old chum. He also
began attending an evening school, kept by a retired schoolmaster, in
order to improve his knowledge of writing, spelling, and arithmetic,
or rather to repair the neglect of years; for he now began to feel his
deficiencies keenly with increasing responsibilities. He was, however,
an apt scholar, and was soon making good progress. The work on the
wharf was far more to his liking than the confinement of the warehouse
could have been; and Walter was every day storing up information which
some time, he believed, would be of great use to him.
Time wore on, one day's round being much like another's. But once
Walter was given such a fright that he did not get over it for weeks.
He was sometimes sent to the bank to make a deposit or cash a check.
On this particular occasion he had drawn out quite a large sum, in
small bills, to be used in paying off the help. Not knowing what else
to do with it, Walter thrust the roll of bills into his trousers
pocket. It was raining gently out of doors, and the sidewalks were
thickly spread with a coating of greasy mud. There was another call
or two to be made before Walter returned to the store. At the head of
the street Walter stopped to think which call he should make first.
Mechanically he thrust his hand in his pocket, then turned as pale as
a sheet, and a mist passed before his eyes. The roll of bills was not
there. A hole in the pocket told the whole story. The roll had slipped
out somewhere. It was gone, and through his own carelessness.
After a moment's indecision Walter started back to the bank, carefully
looking for the lost roll at every step of the way. The street was
full of people, for this was the busiest hour of the day. In vain he
looked, and looked, at every one he met. No one had a roll of bills
for which he was trying to find an owner. Almost beside himself, he
rushed into the bank. Yes, the paying teller remembered him, but was
quite sure the lost roll had not been picked up there, or he would
have known it. So Walter's last and faintest hope now vanished. Go
back to the office with his strange story, he dared not. The bank
teller advised his reporting his loss to the police, and advertising
it in the evening editions. Slowly and sadly Walter retraced his
steps towards the spot where he had first missed his employer's
money, inwardly scolding and accusing himself by turns. Vexed beyond
measure, calling himself all the fools he could think of, Walter
angrily stamped his foot on the sidewalk. Presto! out tumbled the
missing roll of bills from the bottom of his trousers-leg when he
brought his foot down with such force. It had been caught and held
there by the stiffening material then fashionable.
Walter went home that night thanking his lucky stars that he had come
out of a bad scrape so easily. He was thinking over the matter, when
Charley burst into the room. "I say, Walt, old fel, don't you want to
buy a piece of me?" he blurted out, tossing his cap on the table, and
falling into a chair quite out of breath.
Walter simply stared, and for a minute the two friends stared at each
other without speaking. Walter at length demanded: "Are you crazy,
Charles Wormwood? What in the name of common sense do you mean?"
"Oh, I'm not fooling. You needn't be scared. Haven't you ever heard of
folks buying pieces of ships? Say?"
"S'pose I have; what's that got to do with men?"
"I'll tell you. Look here. When a feller wants to go to Californy
awful bad, like me, and hasn't got the chink, like me, he gets some
other fellers who can't go, like you, to chip in to pay his passage
for him."
"Pooh! That's all plain sailing. When he earns the money he pays it
back," Walter rejoined.
"No, you're all out. Just you hold your hosses. It's like this. The
chap who gets the send-off binds himself, good and strong, mind you,
to divide what he makes out there among his owners, 'cordin' to what
they put into him--same's owning pieces of a ship, ain't it? See? How
big a piece'll you take?" finished Charley, cracking his knuckles in
his impatience.
Walter leaned back in his chair, and burst out in a fit of
uncontrollable laughter. Charley grew red in the face. "Look here,
Walt, you needn't have any if you don't want it." He took up his cap
to go. Walter stopped him.
"There, you needn't get your back up, old chap. It's the funniest
thing I ever heard of. Why, it beats all!"
"It's done every day," Charley broke in. "You won't lose anything by
me, Walt," he added, anxiously scanning Walter's face. "See if you do."
Walter had saved a little money. He therefore agreed to become a
shareholder in Charles Wormwood, Esquire, to the tune of fifty
dollars, said Wormwood duly agreeing and covenanting, on his part, to
pay over dividends as fast as earned. So the ingenious Charley sailed
with as good a kit as could be picked up in Boston, not omitting a
beautiful Colt's revolver (Walter's gift), on which was engraved,
"Use me; don't abuse me." Charles was to work his passage out in the
new clipper, which arrangement would land him in San Francisco with
his capital unimpaired. "God bless you, Charley, my boy," stammered
Walter, as the two friends wrung each other's hands. He could not
have spoken another word without breaking down, which would have been
positive degradation in a boy's eyes.
"I'll make your fortune, see if I don't," was Charley's cheerful
farewell. "On the square I will," he brokenly added.
The house of Bright, Wantage & Company had a confidential clerk for
whom Walter felt a secret antipathy from the first day they met. We
cannot explain these things; we only know that they exist. It may be
a senseless prejudice; no matter, we cannot help it. This clerk's
name was Ramon Ingersoll. His manner toward his fellow clerks was so
top-lofty and so condescending that one and all thoroughly disliked
him. Some slight claim Ramon was supposed to have upon the senior
partner, Mr. Bright, kept the junior clerks somewhat in awe of him.
But there was always friction in the counting-room when the clerks
were left alone together.
The truth is that Ramon's father had at one time acted as agent for
the house at Matanzas, in Cuba. When he died, leaving nothing but
debts and this one orphan child, for he had buried his wife some
years before, Mr. Bright had taken the little Ramon home, sent him to
school, paid all his expenses out of his own pocket and finally given
him a place of trust in his counting-house. In a word, this orphaned,
penniless boy owed everything to his benefactor.
As has been already mentioned, without being able to give a reason for
his belief, Walter had an instinctive feeling that Ramon would some
day get him into trouble. Fortunately Walter's duties kept him mostly
outside the warehouse, so that the two seldom met.
One day Ramon, with more than ordinary cordiality, asked Walter to
visit him at his room that same evening In order to meet, as he
said, one or two particular friends of his. At the appointed time
Walter went, without mistrust, to Ingersoll's lodgings. Upon entering
the room he found there two very flashy-looking men, one of whom was
short, fat, and smooth-shaven, with an oily good-natured leer lurking
about the corners of his mouth; the other dark-browed, bearded, and
scowling, with, as Walter thought, as desperately villainous a face as
he had ever looked upon.
"Ah, here you are, at last!" cried Ramon, as he let Walter in. "This
is Mr. Goodman," here the fat man bowed, and smiled blandly; "and
this, Mr. Lambkin." The dark man looked up, scowled, and nodded. "And
now," Ramon went on, "as we have been waiting for you, what say you to
a little game of whist, or high-low-jack, or euchre, just to pass away
the time?"
"I'm agreeable," said Mr. Goodman, "though, upon my word and honor,
I hardly know one card from another. However, just to make up your
party, I will take a hand."
The knight of the gloomy brow silently drew his chair up to the table,
which was, at least, significant of his intentions.
Walter had no scruples about playing an innocent game of whist. So he
sat down with the others.
The game went on rather languidly until, all at once, the fat man
broke out, without taking his eyes off his cards, "Bless me!--why, the
strangest thing!--if I were a betting man, I declare I wouldn't mind
risking a trifle on this hand."
Ramon laughed good-naturedly, as he replied in an offhand sort of way:
"Oh, we're all friends here. There's no objection to a little social
game, I suppose, among friends." Here he stole an inquiring look at
Walter. "Besides," he continued, while carelessly glancing at his own
hand, "I've a good mind to bet a trifle myself."
Though still quite unsuspicious, Walter looked upon this interruption
of the harmless game with misgiving.
"All right," Goodman resumed, "here goes a dollar, just for the fun of
the thing."
The taciturn Lambkin said not a word, but taking out a well-stuffed
wallet, quietly laid down two dollars on the one that Goodman had just
put up.
"I know I can beat them," Ramon whispered in Walter's ear. "By Jove,
I'll risk it just this once!"
"No, don't," Walter whispered back, pleadingly, "it's gambling."
"Pshaw, man, it's only for sport," Ramon impatiently rejoined,
immediately adding five dollars of his own money to the three before
him.
Walter laid down his cards, leaned back in his chair, and folded his
arms resolutely across his chest. "And the fat man said he hardly knew
one card from another. How quick some folks do learn," he said to
himself.