CHAPTER IX.

ON THE STEAMER.

Oliver Bright was so taken aback by the announcement that Colonel Mendix had left New York that he hardly knew what to do. Since the day before he had calculated upon having a talk with the Spanish gentleman, and hoped to gain some important knowledge without revealing his own identity.

But now that chance was lost. The colonel had gone, and it was not likely that the two would meet this side of San Francisco.

“Took the train last night?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes, sir,” replied the clerk. “Did you wish to see him very much?”

“I did indeed. What time did the train start?”

“At nine fifteen.”

“Thank you.”

Oliver left the desk, and walked slowly from the hotel. He was in no humor for eating his breakfast, and strolled up Broadway for a considerable distance, and up and down a number of the side streets.

“He will reach the West long before I do,” he reflected. “Perhaps before I get to San Francisco he will be at the mines. Still, he may stop over to buy that machinery he spoke of. Heigh-ho! it’s a chance lost anyway.”

Oliver was not naturally of a desponding disposition, and in an hour his spirits had brightened, and he was once more himself. He walked into a modest looking restaurant and procured a light breakfast, and then, in lieu of something more important to do, started out to see the sights.

The morning passed quickly enough. At noon Oliver found himself far over by the East River. He walked down the Bowery until he came to the Brooklyn Bridge, and taking a walk over this magnificent structure, procured his dinner in Brooklyn. By the time it was finished, and he had recrossed the bridge, it was nearly three o’clock.

“I’ll wait until six, and then see if there are any letters for me,” he said to himself, as he passed the post-office building. “Father may write to me at once, or get some one to write for him.”

For a long time Oliver stood on Park Row, watching the newsboys folding their papers and disposing of them. One little mite of a chap, who was certainly not over five years of age, interested him greatly.

The boy was so small he could hardly carry his bundle of papers, and yet he seemed to drive a brisk trade, often selling a paper where some one larger than he had met with a rebuff. Crimpsey, he heard some of the other boys call him; and finally Oliver patronized him to the extent of buying an afternoon paper for a cent.

“How’s trade?” he said, as he waited for his change.

“Nuthin’ extra,” was the little chap’s reply. “There ain’t no extra news in ter day.” And away he went shouting, “Extra! Last ’dition!”

“I shouldn’t want to be a newsboy,” thought Oliver; “yet I would rather do that than starve.”

Walking over to the little park in front of the City Hall, he sat down on one of the benches and read the paper he had bought. There was but little in it to interest him, and he had soon finished. Then he threw down the sheet. In an instant a man sitting near snatched it up.

“Through?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Oliver.

“Thanks;” and immediately the man was deeply absorbed in the journal.

“Evidently he is too poor to buy a paper, and yet he is hungry for something to read,” thought Oliver, and he hit it exactly.

The boy found the time hanging heavily upon his hands after this. He detested spending a day in idleness, yet it could not be helped. He walked over to the North River, and then up West Street, and finally returned up Vesey Street to the post-office.

Here he hunted up the right window, and asked if there were any letters.

For reply one was handed out.

How eagerly Oliver took it up! It bore the Rockvale postmark. It was from home!

Stepping over to one of the windows, he tore the epistle open. It was from his father, and ran as follows:――

MY DEAR OLIVER,――As you supposed, I was greatly astonished to find that you had left home to go to California to hunt up the Aurora mine. I was inclined to think that it was a foolhardy undertaking; but upon reflection I will only say, now you have started, take care of yourself, and don’t run into unnecessary danger.

I have not time to write all I desire, as I am afraid you will not receive the letter if I do not put it in the morning mail.

You say you have enough money for the present. When you reach San Francisco there will be a letter with a money order or express order for you.

I can understand what a surprise it was to meet Colonel Mendix. Have you seen him again? Be sure and keep out of trouble. I have no doubt but that he was deceiving me all the time, and cannot forgive myself for having trusted him as I did.

I suppose you did not return home Tuesday because you thought I might detain you. Well, Oliver, perhaps I might have done so, but as it is, you may go, and God be with you.

I am feeling as well as can be expected. Dr. Kitchell says I must keep quiet and all will be well. It is hard to do so, but I will try to be content.

Let me hear from you as often as possible, and do not hesitate to return at any time, no matter whether you accomplish anything or not. Although if you fail it will be a bitter blow, we will manage somehow to get along.

Now I must close. With all my love I remain, your father,

ARTHUR BRIGHT.

Oliver had quite some trouble in deciphering the letter, which had been written in great haste. It is needless to say its contents pleased him greatly. A heavy load was lifted from his heart, for he had dreaded the thought of being recalled, and giving up the quest.

“I must not fail,” he murmured to himself, as he put the letter in his pocket. “Father expects me to succeed, even if he doesn’t say so. I am sure if I do not he will never get over the blow.”

There was some truth in this, though not as much as Oliver was inclined to believe. Yet the boy walked from the post-office with a firmer determination to follow his purpose to its end and recognize no such word as fail.

He spent the evening in writing a long reply to his father, and also in sending several letters to intimate friends, including one to Gus Gregory, which was destined never to reach his chum for reasons that will soon appear.

Oliver slept more comfortably that night than he had the first. He was up, however, at seven o’clock; and after getting breakfast and settling his bill made his way down to the steamer which was to afford him passage to Aspinwall.

Here he found all bustle and confusion. Passengers and the last of the cargo, as well as the mails, were arriving all at the same time. He sought out his stateroom and stowed away his valise, and then went on deck to view the scene.

He wondered who his room-mate was to be; but though he asked several he was unable to find out, and no one appeared.

“Maybe I will have the room all to myself,” he thought; “that will be much nicer.”

But the stream of people that were coming aboard seemed to indicate otherwise. What a motley crowd it was! Americans, Spaniards, Englishmen, several Chinamen, and half a dozen blacks.

Surely time would not hang heavily among such people. Oliver was already interested in the manners and speeches to be seen and heard around him.

At length the time for sailing came; and lashed fast to an energetic little steam-tug, the steamer swung off from the pier and moved slowly down the stream.

There was a crowd left behind that waved a parting adieu, cheers and tears well mixed. On board some were laughing, some crying.

Oliver felt mighty sober. There was no one to see him off; yet he was leaving home and friends behind. When would he see all again?

Before long a tear stole down his cheek. He brushed it away hastily and took a deep breath. How he wished they were well on their way, and this parting was over! And yet he strained his eyes until the pier could be seen no longer, and eagerly watched the shore with its varied shipping.

“No use in talking, there is nothing like home,” he murmured to himself; “if it wasn’t for what I hope to accomplish, you wouldn’t catch me leaving it.”

Suddenly a snatch of song reached his ears,――

“The dearest spot on earth to me is home, sweet home.”

“Paine spoke the truth when he wrote that,” said Oliver to a man standing near.

“You’re right, Oliver,” added a voice from behind, and turning, the boy was dumfounded to see Gus Gregory standing close at hand.