The Golden Dream | Page 2

of burnished gold; "look at yourself there."
Ned looked, and started back with horror on observing that he himself
had been converted into gold. There could be no mistake whatever
about it. There he stood, staring at himself like a yellow statue. His
shooting-jacket was richly chased with alternate stripes of burnished
and frosted work; the buttons on his vest shone like stars; his
pantaloons were striped like the coat; his hair was a mass of dishevelled
filigree; and his hands, when, in the height of his horror, he clasped
them together, rang like a brass-founder's anvil.
For a few moments he stood before the mirror speechless. Then a
feeling of intense indignation unaccountably took possession of him,
and he turned fiercely on the old gentleman, exclaiming--
"You have done this, sir! What do you mean by it? eh!"
"You're quite mistaken, Ned. I didn't do it. California has done it. Ha!
ha! my boy, you're done for! Smitten with the yellow fever, Neddy?
California for ever! See here--"

As he spoke, the old gentleman threw out one leg and both arms, and
began to twirl round, after the fashion of a peg-top, on one toe. At first
he revolved slowly, but gradually increased his speed, until no part of
him could be distinctly observed. Ned Sinton stood aghast. Suddenly
the old gentleman shot upwards like a rocket, but he did not quit the
ground; he merely elongated his body until his head stuck against the
roof of the cave. Then he ceased to revolve, and remained in the form
of a golden stalactite--his head surrounded by stars and his toe resting
on the ground!
While Ned stood rooted to the spot, turning the subject over in his mind,
and trying to find out by what process of chemical or mechanical action
so remarkable a transformation could have been accomplished, he
became aware that his uncle, old Mr. Shirley, was standing in the
middle of the cave regarding him with a look of mingled sarcasm and
pity. He observed, too, that his uncle was not made of gold, like the
people around him, but was habited in a yeomanry uniform. Mr.
Shirley had been a yeoman twenty years before his nephew was born.
Since that time his proportions had steadily increased, and he was now
a man of very considerable rotundity--so much so, that his old uniform
fitted him with excessive tightness; the coat would by no means button
across his capacious chest, and, being much too short, shewed a very
undignified amount of braces below it.
"Uncle!" exclaimed Ned Sinton, rushing up to his relative, "what can
be the meaning of all this? Everybody seems to be mad. I think you
must be mad yourself, to come here such a figure as that; and I'm quite
sure I shall go mad if you don't explain it to me. What does it all
mean?"
"California," replied Mr. Shirley, becoming more sarcastic in
expression and less pitiful.
"Why, that's what everybody cries," exclaimed Ned, who was now
driven almost to desperation. "My dear uncle, do look like yourself and
exercise some of your wonted sagacity. Just glance round at the cave
and the company, all made of gold, and look at me--gold too, if not
pinchbeck, but I'm not a good-enough judge of metals to tell which.

What has done it, uncle? Do look in a better humour, and tell me how it
has happened."
"California," replied Mr. Shirley.
"Yes, yes; I know that. California seems to be everything here. But how
has it come about? Why are you here, and what has brought me here?"
"California," repeated Mr. Shirley.
"Uncle, I'll go deranged if you don't answer me. What do you mean?"
"California," reiterated Mr. Shirley.
At the same moment a stout golden lady with a filigree turban shouted,
"for ever!" at the top of a very shrill voice, and immediately the
company took up the cry again, filling the cave with deafening sounds.
Ned Sinton gave one look of despair at his relative--then turned and
fled.
"Put him out," shouted the company. "Down with the intruder!"
Ned cast a single glance backward, and beheld the people pushing and
buffeting his uncle in a most unceremonious manner. His helmet was
knocked down over his eyes, and the coat--so much too small for
him--was rendered an easy fit by being ripped up behind to the neck.
Ned could not stand this. He was stout of limb and bold as a lion,
although not naturally addicted to fighting, so he turned suddenly round
and flew to the rescue. Plunging into the midst of the struggling mass
of golden creatures, Ned hit out right and left like a young Hercules,
and his blows rang upon their metal chests and noses like the sound of
sledge-hammers,