The Golden Dream by Robert Michael Ballantyne (speld decodable readers TXT) 📖

gains--and lost.

Ned's attention was drawn particularly to this player, whom he thought he had seen before. On looking more fixedly at him, he recognised the young porter who had carried up the box to the merchant's house. His next stake was again made recklessly. He laid down all he possessed-- and lost. Then he rose suddenly, and drawing a pistol from his breast, rushed towards the door. None of the players who crowded the saloon paid him more than momentary attention. It mattered not to them whether he meditated suicide or murder. They made way for him to pass, and then, closing in, were deep again in the all-absorbing game.

But our hero was not thus callous. A strong feeling of sympathy filled his breast, prompting him to spring through the doorway, and catch the youth by the shoulder just as he gained the street. He turned round instantly, and presented the revolver at Ned's breast, but the latter caught his right arm in his powerful grasp and held it in the air.

"Be calm, my poor fellow," he said, "I mean you no harm; I only wish to have a word of conversation with you. You are an Englishman, I perceive."

The young man's head fell on his breast, and he groaned aloud.

"Come, come," said Ned, releasing his arm, "don't give way like that."

"I'm lost," said the youth, bitterly. "I have struggled against this passion for gaming, but it has overcome me again and again. It is vain to fight against it any longer."

"Not a bit of it, man," said Ned, in a cheering tone, as he drew the arm of the young man within his own, and led him slowly along the street. "You are excited just now by your disappointments. Let us walk together a while, for I have something to say to you. I am quite a stranger here, and it's a comfort to have a countryman to talk with."

The kind words, and earnest, hearty manner of our hero, had the effect of soothing the agitated feelings of his new friend, and of winning his confidence. In the course of half-an-hour, he drew from him a brief account of his past history.

His name, he said, was Collins; he was the son of a clergyman, and had received a good education. Five years before the period of which we now write, he had left his home in England, and gone to sea, being at that time sixteen years of age. For three years he served before the mast in a South-Sea whale-ship, and then returned home to find his father and mother dead. Having no near relations alive, and not a sixpence in the world, he turned once more towards the sea, with a heavy heart and an empty pocket, obtained a situation as second mate in a trading vessel which was about to proceed to the Sandwich Islands. Encountering a heavy gale on the western coast of South America, his vessel was so much disabled as to be compelled to put into the harbour of San Francisco for repairs. Here the first violent attack of the gold-fever had set in. The rush of immigrants was so great, that goods of all kinds were selling at fabulous prices, and the few bales that happened to be on board the ship were disposed off for twenty times their value. The captain was in ecstasies, and purposed sailing immediately to the nearest civilised port for a cargo of miscellaneous goods; but the same fate befell him which afterwards befell Captain Bunting, and many hundreds of others--the crew deserted to the mines. Thereupon the captain and young Collins also betook themselves to the gold-fields, leaving the ship to swing idly at her anchor. Like most of the first arrivals at the mines, Collins was very successful, and would soon--in diggers' parlance--have "made his pile,"--i.e. his fortune, had not scurvy attacked and almost killed him; compelling him to return to San Francisco in search of fresh vegetables and medicine, neither of which, at that time, could be obtained at the mines for love or money. He recovered slowly; but living in San Francisco was so expensive that, ere his health was sufficiently recruited to enable him to return to the gold-fields, his funds were well-nigh exhausted. In order to recruit them he went, in an evil hour, to the gaming-saloons, and soon became an inveterate gambler.

In the providence of God 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 constitution, 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 friendship 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 shores of the bay in a remarkably happy frame of mind, intending to pass his leisure hour in watching the thousands of interesting and amusing incidents that were perpetually taking place on the crowded quays, where the passengers 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 shipmate'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' yerself on the top of it for four! Horoo, Mister Sinton, darlint, is it yerself? Och, but this is the place intirely--goold and silver for the axin' a'most! Ah, ye needn't grin. Look here!"

Larry plunged both hands into the pockets of his trousers, and pulled them forth full of half and quarter dollars, with a few shining little nuggets of gold interspersed among them.

Ned opened his eyes in amazement, and, taking his excited comrade apart from the crowd, asked how he had come by so much