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The Young Miner; or, Tom Nelson in California, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 14. A New Acquaintance |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE Having made all necessary preparations, Ferguson and Tom set out on their way. They took a course differing somewhat from that chosen by John Miles, one object being to survey the country, and find, if possible, a suitable place for continuing their search for gold. After their three months' steady work both of our travellers were prepared to enjoy the journey. Their road was difficult at times, from its steepness, and more than once they found it necessary, out of consideration for the horse, to get out and walk. But this only added to the romantic charm of the trip. "It's like a constant picnic," said Tom. "I should like to travel this way for a year, if I did not feel the need of working." "We might tire of it after a while," suggested Ferguson,--"in the rainy season, for example." "That would not be so pleasant, to be sure," Tom admitted. "Do you have such fine scenery in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?" "Our mountains are not so high, my lad, nor our trees so gigantic; but it's the associations that make them interesting. Every hill has a legend connected with it, and our great novelist, Walter Scott, has invested them with a charm that draws pilgrims from all parts of the world to see them. Now this is a new country--beautiful, I grant, but without a history. Look around you, and you will see nothing to remind you of man. It is nature on a grand scale, I admit, but the soul is wanting." "I like mountains," said Tom, thoughtfully. "There is something grand about them." "There are some famous mountains in your native State, New Hampshire, are there not, Tom?" "Yes; but I have only seen them from a distance. They are not above thirty miles away from where I was born; but poor people don't travel in search of scenery, Mr. Ferguson." "No, my lad, and there's another thing I have noticed. We don't care much for the curiosities that are near us. The people about here, if there are any settled inhabitants, care nothing about the mountains, I doubt." "That is true. In our village at home there is an old man nearly eighty years old who has never visited the mountains, though he has lived near them all his life." "I can well believe it, my lad. But what is that?" The sound which elicited this exclamation was a loud "Hollo!" evidently proceeding from some one in their rear. Both Tom and the Scotchman turned, and their eyes rested on a horseman evidently spurring forward to overtake them. Tom, who was driving, reined in the horse, and brought him to a stop. The horseman was soon even with them. He was evidently a Yankee. All Yankees do not carry about with them an unmistakable certificate of their origin, but Ebenezer Onthank was a typical New Englander. His face was long and thin, his expression shrewd and good-natured, his limbs were long and ungainly. In later life, with the addition of forty or fifty pounds of flesh, he would be much improved in appearance. "Good-morning, gentlemen," said he. "It seems kinder good to see a human face again. It ain't very populous round here, is it?" "We haven't seen any large towns," said Tom, smiling. "Where are you steerin'?" inquired the Yankee. "I'm expectin' to fetch up at San Francisco some time, if I don't get lost in the woods." "That is our destination, my friend," returned Ferguson. "Would you mind my joining your party?" asked Onthank. "It's lonesome travelin' by one's self without a soul to speak to." "We shall be glad of your company," said the Scotchman, sincerely, for, though naturally cautious, he could not suspect the new-comer of anything which would make him an undesirable companion. "Perhaps you'd like to know who I am," said the new acquaintance. "My name is Ebenezer Onthank, from Green Mountain Mills, in Vermont. My father is deacon of the Baptist Church at home." "I suppose you will take his place when you get older," said Tom, gravely. "No, I guess not. I wonder what Susan Jones would say to my bein' a deacon!" and Ebenezer burst into a loud laugh. "Is Miss Jones a particular friend of yours?" asked Tom, slyly. "I should say she was. Why, I expect to marry her when I get home." "I congratulate you." "Don't be too fast. We ain't hitched yet. Say, boy, where do you come from?" "From Vernon, in New Hampshire." "You don't say! Why, that ain't more'n fifty miles from Green Mountain Mills; cu'rus we should meet so fur away from hum, ain't it? When did you start?" "Seven or eight months ago." "I've been in California six months. Does that gentleman come from your town?" "My friend," answered the Scotchman, not without a touch of pride, "I am not an American; I am from the Highlands of Scotland." "You be? Sho! Well, of course you can't help that." "Help it, sir? I am proud of hailing from the land of Scott and Burns." "Well, I guess it's a pretty nice sort of country," said Mr. Onthank, patronizingly. "I guess you'll like America best, though." "I am by no means sure of that, my friend," said Ferguson, a little nettled. "America's all very well, but--" "Why, you could put Scotland into its waist-coat pocket, and there'd be plenty of room left," said Ebenezer, energetically. "I admit that, as regards size, Scotland cannot compare with this country." "Say, have you got mountains as high as them, or trees as high as that?" pointing to a gigantic redwood. "No; but size is not everything." "That's so. Vermont is a little State, but she's smart, I tell you. But you haven't told me your names yet." "I am called Donald Ferguson, Mr. Onthank. My young friend here answers to the name of Thomas Nelson." "Commonly called Tom," added our hero, smiling. "Why, I've got a brother Tom," said Mr. Onthank. "Cu'rus, isn't it?" Considering that Tom is by no means an uncommon name, it could hardly be called very remarkable, but Tom politely assented. "Is he older than I am?" he inquired. "Yes, my brother Tom is twenty-one years old. I expect he voted at the last town-meeting. I'm four years older than Tom." "Have you been fortunate so far in California, Mr. Onthank?" "Can't say I have. I guess I've wandered round too much. Been a sort of rollin' stone; and my granny used to say that a rollin' stone gathers no moss. I've got about enough money to get me to San Francisco, and I own this animal; but I haven't made a fortune yet. What luck have you two had?" "Pretty fair, but it will take a good while to make our fortunes. We own this team, and that's about all we do own." "A sort of an express wagon, isn't it?" "Yes." "Ain't goin' into the express business, be you?" "Probably not. We bought it on speculation." "That reminds me of old Sam Bailey in our town. He was always tradin' horses. Sometimes he made money, and then again he didn't. How much did you give?" Tom told him. "That was a pretty stiff price, wasn't it?" "It would be considered so at home, but we hope to get a good deal more, when we come to sell it." Their new friend kept on with them, amusing them with his homely sayings, and original views of things. His conversation beguiled the tedium of the journey, so that all were surprised when the shadows deepened, and supper-time came. Selecting a favorable place they encamped for the night. _ |
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