The Young Miner | Page 6

in a democratic clay pipe.
John Miles threw himself on the ground between Tom and his Scotch friend, and watched complacently the wreaths of smoke as they curled upwards.
"Tom, you ought to smoke," he said. "You don't know how much enjoyment you lose."
"Don't tempt the lad," said Ferguson. "It's a bad habit."
"You smoke yourself."
"That is true, but it isn't well for a growing boy. It can do him no good."
"I smoked before I was as old as Tom."
"So did I, but I wish I had not."
"Well, perhaps you're right, but it's a comfort when a man's tired or out of spirits."
"I am not troubled in that way," said Tom. "I mean with being out of spirits."
"Youth is a hopeful age," said the Scotchman. "When we are young we are always hoping for something good to befall us."
"And when one is older, how is it, Mr. Ferguson?"
"We fear ill more than we hope for good," he replied.
"Then I want to remain young as long as I can."
"A good wish, Tom. Some men are always young in spirit; but those that have seen the evil there is in the world find it harder to be hopeful."
"You speak as if you had had experience of the evil, Mr. Ferguson."
"So I have," answered the Scotchman slowly. Then, after a pause, "I will tell you about it: it's no secret."
"Not if it is going to pain you."
"Oh, the pain is past. It's only a matter of money, and those wounds heal."
"Only a matter of money!" said John Miles to himself. "I must have misjudged Ferguson. I thought money was all in all with him. I did not think he would speak so lightly of it."
"When I was a young man," Ferguson began, "my father died, leaving me a thousand pounds, and a small annuity to my mother. With this money I felt rich, but I knew it would not support me, nor was I minded to be idle. So I began to look about me, to consider what business I had best go into, when a young man, about my own age, a clerk in a mercantile house, came to me and proposed a partnership. He was to put in five hundred pounds, and contribute his knowledge of business, which was greater than mine. He was a young man of good parts, and had a brisk, pleasant way with him, that made him a favorite in business circles. I thought it was a good chance, and, after taking a little time for thought, agreed to his proposal. So the firm of McIntire and Ferguson was formed. We went into business, and for a time all seemed to go well. As my partner chose to keep the books, I was not so clear as I wished to be about matters, but we seemed to be prospering. One morning, however, on coming to business, I found that my partner had disappeared, after possessing himself of all the money he could collect on the credit of the firm. Of course we were bankrupts, or rather I was, for he left me to bear the brunt of failure."
"Have you ever seen him since, Mr. Ferguson?"
"From that day to this--twenty years--I have never set eyes on Sandy McIntire."
"It was a mean trick to serve you, Ferguson," said Miles.
"Yes," said the Scotchman, soberly. "I minded the loss of money, but the loss of confidence was a sore thought too, after all the trust I had put in that man."
Presently Miles rose to go.
"I'll take care of your money, Tom," he said, "and do my best to get it safely to your father."
"Thank you, John."
As Miles left the tent, he did not observe a crouching figure on the other side of it. It was the figure of Bill Crane, a crony of Missouri Jack, in fact, the man who helped him to fleece poor Peabody of his scanty hoard.
Bill looked after Miles enviously.
"I wonder how much money he's got?" thought Bill. "I'd like some of it, for I'm bust. I must tell Jack. I don't dare to tackle him alone."
CHAPTER IV.
A FOILED ROBBER.
In the grand rush to the newly discovered gold-fields all classes were represented. There were men of education, representatives of all the learned professions, men versed in business, and along with them adventurers and men of doubtful antecedents, graduates of prisons and penitentiaries. Bill Crane, introduced in the last chapter, belonged to the latter undesirable class. He had served a term at Sing-Sing as a housebreaker, and later another term in a Western penitentiary. He had come to California with a prejudice against honest labor, and a determination to make a living by the use of the peculiar talents on which he had hitherto relied. He had spent a week at River Bend, chiefly at the saloon of Missouri Jack, whom