Philosopher Jack by Robert Michael Ballantyne (life changing books to read .TXT) 📖

is a fate that no sensible man ought to court--a fate, let me add, that seems to await Ben Trench if he continues at this sort o' thing much longer. And, lastly, it's not fair that my Polly should spend her prime in acting the part of cook and mender of old clothes to a set of rough miners. For all of which reasons I vote that we now break up our partnership, pack up the gold-dust that we've got, and return home."

To this speech Polly Samson replied, promptly, that nothing pleased her more than to be a cook and mender of old clothes to rough miners, and that she was willing to continue in that capacity as long as her father chose. Philosopher Jack also declared himself willing to remain, but added that he was equally willing to leave if the rest of the firm should decide to do so, as he was quite content with the fortune that had been sent him. Simon O'Rook, however, did not at first agree to the proposal.

"It's rich enough that I am already, no doubt," he said, "but sure, there's no harm in bein' richer. I may be able to kape me carriage an' pair at present, but why shudn't I kape me town house an' country house an' me carriage an four, if I can?"

"Because we won't stay to keep you company," answered Watty Wilkins, "and surely you wouldn't have the heart to remain here digging holes by yourself? Besides, my friend Ben is bound to go home. The work is evidently too hard for him, and he's so fond of gold that he won't give up digging."

"Ah! Watty," returned Ben with a sad smile, "you know it is not my fondness for gold that makes me dig. But I can't bear to be a burden on you, and you know well enough that what I do accomplish does little more than enable me to pay my expenses. Besides, a little digging does me good. It occupies my mind and exercises my muscles, an' prevents moping. Doesn't it, Polly?"

In this estimate of his case Ben Trench was wrong. The labour which he undertook and the exposure to damp, despite the remonstrances of his companions, were too much for a constitution already weakened by disease. It was plain to every one--even to himself--that a change was necessary. He therefore gladly agreed to the captain's proposal.

Baldwin Burr, however, dissented. He did not, indeed, object to the dissolution of the partnership of Samson and Company, but he refused to quit the gold-fields, saying that he had no one in the Old Country whom he cared for, and that he meant to settle in California.

It was finally agreed that the captain, Philosopher Jack, Watty Wilkins, Ben Trench, Simon O'Rook, and Polly should return home, while Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley should enter into a new partnership and remain at the fields.

Although, as we have said, most of our adventurers had sent their gold home in the form of bills of exchange for investment, they all had goodly sums on hand in dust and nuggets--the result of their more recent labours--for which strong boxes were made at Higgins's store. Simon O'Rook, in particular,--who, as we have said, did not send home any of his gold,--had made such a huge "pile" that several strong boxes were required to hold all his wealth. The packing of these treasure-chests occupied but a short time. Each man cut his name on the lid of his box inside, and printed it outside, and nailed and roped it tight, and took every means to make it secure. Then, mounting their mules and travelling in company with a trader and a considerable party of miners, they returned to San Francisco, having previously secured berths in a ship which was about to sail for England _via_ Cape Horn.

Baldwin Burr and Buckley convoyed them a day's journey on the way.

"I'm sorry you're goin', Miss Polly," said Baldwin, riding up alongside of our little heroine, who ambled along on a glossy black mule.

"I am _not_ sorry that we're going," replied Polly, "but I'm sorry--very sorry--that we are leaving you behind us, Baldwin. You're such a dear old goose, and I'm so fond of teaching you. I don't know how I shall be able to get on without you."

"Yes, that's it, Miss Polly," returned the bluff seaman, with a look of perplexity. "You're so cram full of knowledge, an' I'm sitch an empty cask, that it's bin quite a pleasure to let you run over into me, so to speak."

"Come, Baldwin, don't joke," said Polly, with a quick glance.

"I'm far from jokin', Miss Polly," returned the seaman; "I'm in downright earnest. An' then, to lose Philosopher Jack on the selfsame day. It comes hard on an old salt. The way that young man has strove to drive jogriffy, an' 'rithmetic, an navigation into my head is wonderful; an' all in vain too! It's a'most broke his heart--to say nothin' of my own. It's quite clear that I'll never make a good seaman. Howsever, it's a comfort to know that I've got edication enough for a landsman--ain't it, Miss Polly?"

Polly laughed, and admitted that that was indeed a consoling reflection.

While these two were conversing thus, Jack and Jacob Buckley were riding together in the rear of the party. They had been talking as if under some sort of restraint. At last Jack turned to his companion with a kind, straightforward look.

"It's of no use, Buckley, my beating about the bush longer. This is likely to be the last time that you and I shall meet on earth, and I can't part without saying how anxious I am that you should persevere in the course of temperance which you have begun."

"Thank you, Jack, thank you," said the miner heartily, "for the interest you take in me. I do intend to persevere."

"I know that, Jacob, I know it; but I want you to believe that you have no chance of success unless you first become a follower of Jesus Christ. He is the _only_ Saviour from sin. Your resolutions, without Him, cannot succeed. I have found that out, and I want you to believe it, Jacob."

"I _do_ believe it," said the miner earnestly. "Dear Dan used to tell me that--often--often. Dear Dan!"

"Now," added Jack, "we shall have to part soon. There is another thing I want to mention. There is a bag of gold with my name on it, worth some few hundred pounds, more or less. I want you to accept it, for I know that you have not been so successful as we have during our short--"

"But I won't take it, Jack," interrupted Buckley.

"Yes you will, Jacob, from an old friend and comrade. It may tide you over a difficulty, who knows? Luck does not always last, as the saying goes."

Still Buckley shook his head.

"Well, then," continued Jack, "you can't help yourself, for I've left the bag under your own pillow in the tent!"

Buckley's reply was checked by a shout from Captain Samson. They had reached the parting point--a clump of trees on an eminence that overlooked a long stretch of undulating park-like region. Here they dismounted to shake hands and say farewell. Little was said at the time, but moistened eyes and the long grasp of hard muscular hands told something of feelings to which the lips could give no utterance.

The party could see that knoll for miles after leaving it, and whenever Polly reined up and looked back, she saw the sturdy forms of Baldwin Burr and Jacob Buckley waving a kerchief or a hat, standing side by side and gazing after them. At last they appeared like mere specks on the landscape, and the knoll itself finally faded from their view.

At San Francisco they found their vessel, the _Rainbow_, a large full-rigged ship, ready for sea. Embarking with their boxes of gold-dust they bade farewell to the golden shore, where so many young and vigorous men have landed in hopeful enthusiasm, to meet, too often, with disappointment, if not with death.

Our friends, being among the fortunate few, left it with joy.

The _Rainbow_ shook out her sails to a favouring breeze, and, sweeping out upon the great Pacific, was soon bowling along the western coast of South America, in the direction of Cape Horn.


CHAPTER TEN.


CHANGE OF SCENE AND FORTUNE.

The fair wind that swept the good ship _Rainbow_ away from California's golden shores carried her quickly into a fresh and purer atmosphere, moral as well as physical. It seemed to most, if not all, of the gold-finders as if their brains had been cleared of golden cobwebs. They felt like convalescents from whom a low fever had suddenly departed, leaving them subdued, restful, calm, and happy.

"It's more like a dream than a reality," observed Ben Trench one day, as he and Polly sat on the after part of the vessel, gazing out upon the tranquil sea.

"What seems like a dream?" asked Philosopher Jack, coming aft at the moment with Watty Wilkins, and sitting down beside them.

"Our recent life in California," replied Ben. "There was such constant bustle and toil, and restless, feverish activity, both of mind and body; and now everything is so calm and peaceful, and we are so delightfully idle. I can hardly persuade myself that it is not all a dream."

"Perhaps it is," said Philosopher Jack. "There are men, you know, who hold that everything is a dream; that matter is a mere fancy or conception, and that there is nothing real or actually in existence but mind."

"Bah!" exclaimed Watty with contempt; "what would these philosophers say if matter, in the shape of a fist, were to hit them on their ridiculous noses?"

"They'd say that they only imagined a fist and fancied a blow, I suppose," returned Jack.

"And would they say that the pain and the blood were imagination also?"

"I suppose they would."

"But what if I were to come on them slily behind and hit them on their pates before they had a chance to see or to exert their terribly real and powerful minds?" demanded Watty.

"You must ask one of themselves, Watty, for I don't know much about their views; indeed, I'm not sure that I have represented them correctly, though it's very likely I have, for there is no species of nonsense under the sun that men have not been found to hold and defend with more or less vigour."

"Would you not call that a proof of the Creator's intention that man should exercise the investigative powers of his mind?" asked Ben.

"I would call it a proof of man's depravity," said Wilkins.

"What does Polly think?" asked Jack, with an amused look at the child, whose fair brow wore an anxious little frown as she tried to understand.

"I think it's a proof of both," replied Polly, with a blush and a laugh; "we have got the power to think and speak and reason, and we are sometimes very naughty."

"Well said, Polly; we must call _you_ the philosopher in future," cried Watty. "But Jack," he added, with a perplexed air, "it seems to me that