The Golden Dream | Page 3

but without any other effect.
Suddenly he experienced an acute sensation of pain, and--awoke to find
himself hammering the bed-post with bleeding knuckles, and his uncle
standing beside his bed chuckling immensely.
"O uncle," cried Ned, sitting up in his bed, and regarding his knuckles

with a perplexed expression of countenance, "I've had such an
extraordinary dream!"
"Ay, Ned," interrupted his uncle, "and all about California, I'll be
bound."
"Why, how did you guess that?"
"It needs not a wizard to guess that, lad. I've observed that you have
read nothing in the newspapers for the last three months but the news
from the gold-diggings of California. Your mind has of late been
constantly running on that subject, and it is well-known that
day-dreams are often reproduced at night. Besides, I heard you
shouting the word in your sleep as I entered your room. Were you
fighting with gold-diggers, eh! or Indians?"
"Neither, uncle; but I was fighting with very strange beings, I assure
you, and--"
"Well, well," interrupted Mr. Shirley, "never mind the dream just now;
we shall have it at some other time. I have important matters to talk
over with you, my boy. Morton has written to me. Get up and come
down as quickly as you can, and we'll discuss the matter over our
breakfast."
As the door closed after the retreating form of his uncle, Edward Sinton
leaped out of bed and into his trousers. During his toilet he wondered
what matters of importance Mr. Shirley could intend to discuss with
him, and felt half inclined to fear, from the grave expression of his
uncle's face when he spoke of it, that something of a disagreeable
nature awaited him. But these thoughts were intermingled with
reminiscences of the past night. His knuckles, too, kept constantly
reminding him of his strange encounter, and, do what he would, he
could not banish from his mind the curious incidents of that remarkable
golden dream.
Chapter II.

Our Hero.
We have entered thus minutely into the details of our hero's dream,
because it was the climax to a long series of day-dreams in which he
had indulged ever since the discovery of gold in California.
Edward Sinton was a youth of eighteen at the time of which we write,
and an orphan. He was tall, strong, broad-shouldered, fair-haired,
blue-eyed, Roman-nosed, and gentle as a lamb. This last statement may
perhaps appear inconsistent with the fact that, during the whole course
of his school-life, he had a pitched battle every week--sometimes two
or three in the week. Ned never began a fight, and, indeed, did not like
fighting. But some big boys will domineer over little ones, and Ned
would not be domineered over; consequently he had to be thrashed. He
was possessed, even in boyhood, of an amount of physical courage that
would have sufficed for any two ordinary men. He did not boast. He
did not quarrel. He never struck the first blow, but, if twenty boys had
attacked him, he would have tried to fight them all. He never tyrannised
over small boys. It was not his nature to do so; but he was not perfect,
any more than you are, dear reader. He sometimes punched small boys'
heads when they worried him, though he never did so without repenting
of it, and doing them a kindness afterwards in order to make up. He
was very thoughtless, too, and very careless; nevertheless he was fond
of books--specially of books of adventure--and studied these like a
hero--as he was.
Boys of his own size, or even a good deal bigger, never fought with
Ned Sinton. They knew better than that; but they adored him, in some
cases envied him, and in all cases trusted and followed him. It was only
very big boys who fought with him, and all they got by it was a good
deal of hard pummelling before they floored their little adversary, and a
good deal of jeering from their comrades for fighting a small boy. From
one cause or another, Ned's visage was generally scratched, often cut,
frequently swelled, and almost always black and blue.
But as Ned grew older, the occasions for fighting became less frequent;
his naturally amiable disposition improved, (partly owing, no doubt, to
the care of his uncle, who was, in every sense of the term, a good old

man,) and when he attained the age of fifteen and went to college, and
was called "Sinton," instead of "Ned," his fighting days were over. No
man in his senses would have ventured to attack that strapping youth
with the soft blue eyes, the fair hair, the prominent nose, and the firm
but smiling lips, or, if he had, he would have had to count on an hour's
extremely hard work, whether the