Part 7 (2/2)
In the providence of G.o.d he had been led, some years before, to become an abstainer from all intoxicating drinks, and, remaining firm to his pledge throughout the course of his downward career, was thus saved from the rapid destruction which too frequently overtook those who to the exciting influences of gambling added the maddening stimulus of alcohol.
But the constant mental fever under which he laboured was beginning to undermine a naturally-robust const.i.tution, and to unstring the nerves of a well-made, powerful frame. Sometimes, when fortune favoured him, he became suddenly possessor of a large sum of money, which he squandered in reckless gaiety, often, however, following the dictates of an amiable, sympathetic disposition, he gave the most of it away to companions and acquaintances in distress. At other times he had not wherewith to pay for his dinner, in which case he took the first job that offered in order to procure a few dollars. Being strong and active, he frequently went down to the quays and offered his services as a porter to any of the gold-hunters who were arriving in shoals from all parts of the world. It was thus, as we have seen, that he first met with Ned Sinton and his friends.
All this, and a great deal more, did Ned worm out of his companion in the course of half-an-hour's stroll in the Plaza.
”Now,” said he, when Collins had finished, ”I'm going to make a proposal to you. I feel very much interested in all that you have told me; to be candid with you, I like your looks, and I like your voice--in fact, I like _yourself_, and--but what's your Christian name?”
”Tom,” replied the other.
”Very well; then I'll call you Tom in future, and you'll call me Ned.
Now, Tom, you must come with me and Captain Bunting to the gold-fields, and try your fortune over again--nay, don't shake your head, I know what you would say, you have no money to equip yourself, and you won't be indebted to strangers, and all that sort of stuff; but that won't do, my boy. I'm not a stranger; don't I know all your history from first to last?”
Tom Collins sighed.
”Well, perhaps I don't know it all, but I know the most of it, and besides, I feel as if I had known you all my life--”
”Ned,” interrupted the other, in an earnest tone of voice, ”I feel your kindness very much--no one has spoken to me as you have done since I came to the diggings--but I cannot agree to your proposal to-day. Meet me at the Parker House to-morrow, at this time, and I shall give you a final answer.”
”But why not give it now?”
”Because--because, I want to--to get paid for a job I expect to get--”
”Tom,” said Ned, stopping and laying his hand on the shoulder of his companion, while he looked earnestly into his face, ”let us begin our friends.h.i.+p with mutual candour. Do you not intend to make a few dollars, and then try to increase them by another throw at the gaming-table!”
The youth's brow flushed slightly as he answered, ”You are right, I had half an intention of trying my fortune for the last time--”
”Then,” said Ned firmly and emphatically, ”you shall do nothing of the sort. Gambling for money is a mean, pitiful, contemptible thing--don't frown, my dear fellow, I do not apply these terms to _you_, I apply them to the principle of gambling--a principle which you do not hold, as I know from your admission, made to me not many minutes ago, that you have often striven against the temptation. Many men don't realise the full extent of the sinfulness of many of their practices, but although that renders them less culpable, it does not render them innocent, much less does it justify the evil practices. Gambling is all that I have styled it, and a great deal worse; and you _must_ give it up--I insist on it.
Moreover, Tom, I insist on your coming to dine with me at the Parker House. I shall introduce you to my friend Captain Bunting, whom you already know by sight--so come along.”
”Well, I will,” said Tom, smiling at his friend's energy, but still hanging back; ”but you must permit me to go to my lodgings first. I shall be back immediately.”
”Very good. Remember, we dine in the course of an hour, so be punctual.”
While Tom Collins hurried away to his lodgings, Ned Sinton proceeded towards the sh.o.r.es of the bay in a remarkably happy frame of mind, intending to pa.s.s his leisure hour in watching the thousands of interesting and amusing incidents that were perpetually taking place on the crowded quays, where the pa.s.sengers from a newly-arrived brig were looking in bewildered anxiety after their luggage, and calling for porters; where traffic, by means of boats, between the fleet and the land created constant confusion and hubbub; where men of all nations bargained for the goods of all climes in every known tongue.
While he gazed in silence at the exciting and almost bewildering scene, his attention was attracted to a group of men, among whose vociferating tones he thought he distinguished familiar voices.
”That's it; here's your man, sir,” cried one, bursting from the crowd with a huge portmanteau on his shoulder. ”Now, then, where'll I steer to?”
”Right ahead to the best hotel,” answered a slim Yankee, whose black coat, patent-leather boots, and white kids, in such a place, told plainly enough that a superfine dandy had mistaken his calling.
”Ay, ay, sir!” shouted Bill Jones, as he brushed past Ned, in his new capacity of porter.
”Faix, ye've cotched a live Yankee!” exclaimed a voice there was no mistaking, as the owner slapped Bill on the shoulder. ”He'll make yer fortin', av ye only stick by him. He's just cut out for the diggin's, av his mother wos here to take care of him.”
Larry O'Neil gave a chuckle, slapped his pockets, and cut an elephantine caper, as he turned from contemplating the retreating figure of his s.h.i.+pmate's employer, and advanced towards the end of the quay.
”Now, thin, who's nixt?” cried he, holding out both arms, and looking excited, as if he were ready to carry off any individual bodily in his arms to any place, for mere love, without reference to money. ”Don't all spake at wance. Tshoo dollars a mile for anythin' onder a ton, an'
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