TOM FINDS HIMSELF RICH.
In ten minutes Tom found himself sitting at the hospitable board of his
two friends. It was literally a board. A broad plank, or rather two
side by side, were stretched across the tops of two barrels, and upon
this humble table Peter Brush spread a plain but substantial supper.
Cold meat, bread and butter and tea--that was all it consisted of, but
of these there was plenty, and Tom made a fierce onslaught upon them.
“I’m sorry we haven’t any pudding or pie, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “I know
somethin’ about cookin’, but I ain’t up to that.”
“Brush made a pie once,” said the doctor, shuddering. “It looked pretty
well, but I tasted it, and the taste is still in my mouth. He tried to
eat it himself, but couldn’t. A pig came along, and we gave it to him.
I never saw that pig again. I suspect he died of the colic.”
Peter Brush laughed good-naturedly at this story, and only retorted:
“How much better would you have succeeded, doctor?”
“Worse, if possible. Don’t suppose I’m running down your culinary
skill, friend Brush. I freely admit that it exceeds mine.”
“I never tasted anything so good in my life,” said Tom, with a large
sense of enjoyment.
“Hunger is a good sauce, my lad. To-morrow you may be more critical.”
Supper was over at length, and the three friends sat down before the
cabin door.
“Tom, now I come to look at you,” said Brush, “you are the most
complete ragamuffin I ever saw. Isn’t he, doctor?”
Tom laughed and looked rather ruefully at his dilapidated garb.
“I’ve worn this suit seven or eight months,” he said, “through woods
and underbrush, sleeping in it at night when I lived with the Indians,
and roughing it as I never expected to. Do you see those shoes?”
They scarcely hung about his feet, while his suit was torn, soiled and
tattered.
“If mother should see me now, she would be in despair,” he said, “and
that isn’t the worst of it.”
“What is the worst of it, Tom?”
“I am not only ragged, but penniless.”
Peter Brush and the doctor exchanged a look of satisfaction. They were
glad that Tom was penniless, because their help would be so much the
more welcome.
“How is that, my lad?” asked Lycurgus. “The Indians didn’t take away
your money, did they?”
“No; but after I left them and joined the party I finished my journey
with, I had a use for all my funds. I had to buy a horse, and just as I
came to the last stage of my journey he either ran away or was stolen.
The last fifty miles I made on foot. As to the rest of the money it
went for incidental expenses. Do you want to know how much I have left?”
He took from his pocket two cents.
“Those won’t pass here, Tom. Nobody will take so small a coin as that.”
“Not even for a suit of clothes?” asked Tom.
“No.”
“Then I must go to work and earn enough. What are the chances around
here, Mr. Brush?”
“I’ll show you what we’ve done, Tom.”
Peter Brush led the way to his treasury, as he called the place where
he had stored his gold dust.
“What do you say to that?”
“Is it gold dust?” asked Tom, taking up a handful in curiosity.
“Yes.”
“How much is all that worth?”
“Six thousand dollars.”
“You don’t mean to say you found it all here?” asked Tom, amazed.
“Yes, I do. We struck a rich vein.”
“Is there more?” asked Tom, eagerly. “I will go to work to-morrow.”
“You don’t ask who this belongs to,” said Peter Brush, rather
ungrammatically.
“To you and the doctor, of course.”
“And to you.”
“But I didn’t gather any of it,” said Tom.
“It makes no difference,” said Brush. “The firm was Spooner, Brush &
Thatcher, and a third of it belongs to you as junior partner. Tom, you
are worth two thousand dollars.”
“But I can’t take it, Mr. Brush,” cried Tom. “I can’t accept your great
kindness. I had no hand in collecting this gold.”
“Because you were with the Indians when we left you.”
“You couldn’t help it.”
“But we saved our own lives by leaving you there. You had the worst of
it. Do you want to make us ashamed of deserting you?”
“No, but----”
“Then you must take your share of the money. If you don’t, we’ll throw
it away, won’t we doctor?”
“Yes, Tom must take it.”
“Then, my dear, kind friends, I will take it, for your sake and my
mother’s. I wish I could change a part of it for a suit of clothes.”
“You can. There’s a trader in the village who keeps a general stock of
goods. We’ll fit you out in the morning.”
“And is there a chance to mail a letter. Mother hasn’t heard from me
for months; she may think I am dead.”
“There’s no regular post-office, but you can leave the letter at the
trader’s, and it will go to ’Frisco by the first chance. Letters don’t
often have to wait over a week.”
“It seems like a dream,” said Tom. “An hour ago I came here a
penniless tramp. Now, thanks to you, I am a rich boy. I can’t realize
that I am worth two thousand dollars.”
“Now, Tom, you must tell us how you escaped from the Indians. You
haven’t told us a word yet.”
“True, Mr. Brush; I will begin at once.”
So Tom told his story, and you may be sure he had attentive listeners.
It will not, of course, be necessary to repeat it here, since we
already know what is of most interest. In response to questions, Tom
mentioned many details which were of greater interest to his friends
than they would be to us.
“That Indian boy is a regular trump, and no mistake!” said Mr. Brush.
“I wish you had brought him with you.”
“I shall never forget his kindness,” said Tom. “I shall think the
better of all Indians for his sake all my life.”
So the evening wore on, and bed-time came. Tom wrapped himself in a
blanket, and, weary with his long journey, was soon in the land of
dreams.