Part 38 (2/2)

Overpowering sleep at last put an end to Ned's wandering thoughts, and he too bade the stars good-night, and sought his pillow. In due course the vessel cast anchor off the town of San Francisco.

”There is many a slip 'tween the cup and the lip.” It is an old proverb that, but one which is proved, by frequent use, on the part of authors in all ages, to be a salutary reminder to humanity. Its truth was unpleasantly exemplified on the arrival of the steamer. As the tide was out at the time, the captain ordered the boats to be lowered, in order to land the pa.s.sengers. The moment they touched the water they were filled by impatient miners, who struggled to be first ash.o.r.e. The boat into which Ned and his friends got was soon overloaded with pa.s.sengers, and the captain ordered her to be shoved off.

”Hold on!” shouted a big coa.r.s.e-looking fellow, in a rough blue jacket and wide-awake, who was evidently drunk; ”let me in first.”

”There's no room!” cried several voices. ”Shove off.”

”There's room enough!” cried the man, with an oath; at the same time seizing the rope.

”If ye do come down,” said a sailor, sternly, ”I'll pitch ye overboard.”

”Will ye!” growled the man; and the next instant he sprang upon the edge of the boat, which upset, and left its freight struggling in the water.

The other boats immediately picked them all up; and, beyond a wetting, they were physically none the worse. But, alas! the bags of gold which our adventurers were carrying ash.o.r.e with them, sank to the bottom of the sea! They were landed on the wharf at San Francisco as penniless as they were on the day of their arrival in California.

This reverse of fortune was too tremendous to be realised in a moment.

As they stood on the wharf; dripping wet, and gazing at each other in dismay, they suddenly, as if by one consent, burst into a loud laugh.

But the laugh had a strong dash of bitterness in its tone; and when it pa.s.sed, the expression of their countenances was not cheerful.

Bill Jones was the first to speak, as they wandered, almost helplessly, through the crowded streets, while little Nelly ever and anon looked wistfully up into Larry's face, as he led her by the hand.

”It's a stunnin' smash,” said Bill, fetching a deep sigh. ”But w'en a thing's done, an' can't be undone, then it's unpossible, that's wot it is; and wot's unpossible there's no use o' tryin' for to do. 'Cause why? it only wastes yer time an' frets yer sperrit--that's _my_ opinion.”

Not one of the party ventured to smile--as was their wont in happier circ.u.mstances--at the philosophy of their comrade's remark. They wandered on in silence till they reached--they scarce knew how or why-- the centre plaza of the town.

”It's of no use giving way to it,” said Ned Sinton, at last, making a mighty effort to recover: ”we must face our reverses like men; and, after all, it might have been worse. We might have lost our lives as well as our gold, so we ought to be thankful instead of depressed.”

”What shall we do now?” inquired Captain Bunting, in a tone that proved sufficiently that he at least could not benefit by Ned's advice.

”Sure we'll have to go an' work, capting,” replied Larry, in a tone of facetious desperation; ”but first of all we'll have to go an' see Mr Thompson, and git dry clo'se for Nelly, poor thing--are ye cowld, darlin'?”

”No, not in the least,” answered the child, sadly. ”I think my things will dry soon, if we walk in the sun.”

Nelly's voice seemed to rouse the energies of the party more effectually than Ned's moralising.

”Yes,” cried the latter, ”let us away to old Thompson's. His daughter, Lizette, will put you all to rights, dear, in a short time. Come along.”

So saying, Ned led the way, and the whole party speedily stood at the door of Mr Thompson's cottage.

The door was merely fastened by a latch, and as no notice was taken of their first knock, Ned lifted it and entered the hall, then advancing to the parlour door, he opened it and looked in.

The sight that met his gaze was well calculated to make him open his eyes, and his mouth too, if that would in any way have relieved his feelings.

Seated in old Mr Thompson's easy-chair, with one leg stretched upon an ottoman, and the other reposing on a stool, reclined Tom Collins, looking, perhaps, a little paler than was his wont, as if still suffering from the effects of recent illness, but evidently quite happy and comfortable.

Beside Tom, on another stool, with her arm resting on Tom's knee, and looking up in his face with a quiet smile, sat Elizabeth Thompson.

”Tom! Miss Thompson!” cried Ned Sinton, standing absolutely aghast.

<script>