SAN FRANCISCO AGAIN-A TERRIBLE MISFORTUNE AN OLD FRIEND IN SURPRISINGLY NEW CIRCUMSTANCES-SEVERAL REMARKABLE DISCOVERIES AND NEW LIGHTS

There is no time or place, perhaps, more suitable for indulging in ruminations, cogitations, and reminiscences, than the quiet hours of a calm night out upon the sea, when the watchful stars look down upon the bosom of the deep, and twinkle at their reflections in placid brilliancy.

Late at night, when all the noisy inmates of the steamer had ceased to eat, and drink, and laugh, and had sought repose in their berths, Edward Sinton walked the deck alone, meditating on the past, the present, and the future.  When he looked up at the serene heavens, and down at the tranquil sea, whose surface was unruffled, save by the long pure white track of the vessel, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that the whirl of incident and adventure in which he had been involved during the last few and short months was real.  It seemed like a brilliant dream.  As long as he was on shore it all appeared real enough, and the constant pressure of something to be done, either immediately, or in an hour, or to-morrow, kept his mind perpetually chained down to the consideration of visible, and tangible, and passing events; but now the cord of connexion with land had been suddenly and completely severed.  The very land itself was out of sight.  Nothing around him tended to recall recent events; and, as he had nothing in the world to do but wait until the voyage should come to an end, his mind was left free to bound over the recent-past into the region of the long-past, and revel there at pleasure.

But Ned Sinton was not altogether without anxieties.  He felt a little uneasy as to the high-handed manner, in which he had carried off Nelly Morgan from her late guardian; and he was a good deal perplexed as to what the important affairs could be, for which he had so hastily overturned all the gold-digging plans of his whole party.  With these thoughts mingled many philosophic inquiries as to the amount of advantage that lay ­if, indeed, there was any advantage at all ­in making one’s fortune suddenly and at the imminent hazard of one’s life.  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 passengers.  The moment they touched the water they were filled by impatient miners, who struggled to be first ashore.  The boat into which Ned and his friends got was soon overloaded with passengers, and the captain ordered her to be shoved off.

“Hold on!” shouted a big coarse-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 ashore 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 passed, 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 circumstances ­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.

Miss Thompson sprang up with a face of crimson, but Tom sat coolly still, and said, while a broad grin overspread his handsome countenance, “No, Ned, not Miss Thompson ­Mrs Collins, who, I know, is rejoiced to see you.”

“You are jesting, Tom,” said Ned, as he advanced quickly, and took the lady’s hand, while Tom rose and heartily welcomed his old companions.

“Not a bit of it, my dear fellow,” he repeated.  “This, I assure you, is my wife.  Pray, dear Lizette, corroborate my statement, else our friends won’t believe me.  But sit down, sit down, and let’s hear all about you.  Go, Lizette, get ’em something to eat.  I knew you would make your appearance ere long.  Old Thompson’s letter ­halloo! why what’s this?  You’re wet! and who’s this ­a wet little girl?”

“Faix, ye may well be surprised, Mister Tom,” said Larry, “for we’re all wet beggars, ivery wan o’ us ­without a dollar to bless ourselves with.”

Tom Collins looked perplexed, as he turned from one to the other.  “Stay,” he shouted; “wife, come here.  There’s a mystery going on.  Take this moist little one to your room; and there,” he added, throwing open a door, “you fellows will all find dry apparel to put on ­though I don’t say to fit.  Come along with me, Ned, and while you change, give an account of yourself.”

Ned did as he was desired; and, in the course of a lengthened conversation, detailed to Tom the present condition of himself and his friends.

“It’s unfortunate,” said Tom, after a pause; “ill-luck seems to follow us wherever we go.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself;” cried Ned, “for saying so, considering the wife you have got.”

“True, my boy,” replied the other, “I ought indeed to be ashamed, but I spoke in reference to money matters.  What say you to the fact, that I am as much a beggar as yourself?”

“Outward appearances would seem to contradict you.”

“Nevertheless, it is true, I assure you.  When you left me, Ned, in the hotel at Sacramento, I became so lonely that I grew desperate; and, feeling much stronger in body, I set off for this town in the new steamer ­that in which you arrived.  I came straight up here, re-introduced myself to Mr Thompson; and, two days after ­for I count it folly to waste time in such matters when one’s mind is made up ­I proposed to Lizette, and was accepted conditionally.  Of course, the condition was that papa should be willing.  But papa was not willing.  He said that three thousand dollars, all I possessed, was a capital sum, but not sufficient to marry on, and that he could not risk his daughter’s happiness, etcetera, etcetera ­you know the rest.  Well, the very next day news came that one of Thompson’s best ships had been wrecked off Cape Horn.  This was a terrible blow, for the old man’s affairs were in a rickety condition at any rate, and this sank him altogether.  His creditors were willing enough to wait, but one rascal refused to do so, and swore he would sequestrate him.  I found that the sum due him was exactly three thousand dollars, so I paid him the amount in full, and handed Thompson the discharged account. `Now,’ said I, `I’m off to the diggings, so good-bye!’ for, you see, Ned, I felt that I could not urge my suit at that time, as it would be like putting on the screw ­taking an unfair advantage of him.

“`Why, what do you mean, my lad?’ said he.

“`That I’m off to-morrow,’ replied I.

“`That you must not do,’ said he.

“`Why not?’ said I.

“`Because,’ said he, `now that things are going smooth, I must go to England by the first ship that sails, and get my affairs there put on a better footing, so you must stay here to look after my business, and to ­to ­take care of Lizette.’

“`Eh! what!’ said I, `what do you mean?  You know that is impossible.’

“`Not at all, boy, if you marry her!’

“Of course I could not refuse, and so, to cut it short, we were married right off and here we are, the representatives of the great firm of Thompson and Company, of California.”

“Then, do you mean to say that Thompson is gone?” Inquired Ned, with a look of horror.

“Near the Horn, I should think, by this time; but why so anxious?”

“Because,” sighed Ned, sitting down on the edge of the bed, with a look of despair, “I came here by his invitation; and ­”

“Oh! it’s all right,” interrupted Tom; “I know all about it, and am commissioned by him to settle the affair for you.”

“But what is the affair?” inquired Ned, eagerly.

“Ah! my dear boy, do try to exercise patience.  If I tell you everything before we go down to our comrades, I fear we shall have to send a message to say that we are not coming till to-morrow morning.”

Tom rose as he spoke, and led the way to the parlour, where bread and cheese were spread out for them.

“The only drawback to my felicity,” whispered Tom to Sinton, as they entered, “is that I find Thompson’s affairs far worse than he himself was aware of; and it’s a fact, that at this moment I can scarcely draw enough out of the business to supply the necessaries of life.”

There was a slight bitterness in Tom’s tone as he said this, but the next moment he was jesting with his old companions as lightheartedly as ever.  During the meal he refused, however, to talk business, and, when it was concluded, he proposed that they should go out for a stroll through the town.

“By the way,” remarked Ned, as they walked along, “what of Captain Bunting’s old ship?”

“Ay!” echoed the captain, “that’s the uppermost thing in my mind; but master Tom seems determined to keep us in the dark.  I do believe the Roving Bess has been burned, an’ he’s afraid to tell us.”

“You’re a desperately inquisitive set,” cried Tom Collins, laughing.  “Could you not suppose that I wanted to give you a surprise, by shewing you how curiously she has been surrounded by houses since you last saw her.  You’ll think nothing of it, now that I have told you.”

“Why, where are ye goin’?” cried Larry, as Tom turned up a street that led a little away from the shore, towards which they had been walking!

Tom made no reply, but led on.  They were now in that densely-crowded part of the town where shops were less numerous, warehouses more plentiful, and disagreeable odours more abundant, than elsewhere.  A dense mass of buildings lay between them and the sea, and in the centre of these was a square or plaza, on one side of which stood a large hotel, out of the roof of which rose a gigantic flag-staff.  A broad and magnificent flight of wooden steps led up to the door of this house of entertainment, over which, on a large board, was written its name ­“The Roving Bess Tavern.”

“Dear me! that’s a strange coincidence,” exclaimed the captain, as his eye caught the name.

“Tare an’ ages!” yelled Larry, “av it isn’t the owld ship!  Don’t I know the mizzen-mast as well as I know me right leg?”

“The Roving Bess Tavern!” muttered Captain Bunting, while his eyes stared incredulously at the remarkable edifice before him.

Bill Jones, who, up to this point, had walked beside his comrades in silent meditation, here lost presence of mind and, putting both hands to his mouth, sang out, in true stentorian boatswain tones, “All hands ahoy! tumble up there ­tumble up!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” roared half-a-dozen jack tars, who chanced to be regaling themselves within, and who rushed out, hat in hand, ready for a spree, at the unexpected but well-known summons.

“Major Whitlaw,” said Tom Collins, springing up the steps, and addressing a tall, cadaverous-looking Yankee, “allow me to introduce to you your landlord, Captain Bunting ­your tenant, captain.  I dare say you have almost forgotten each other.”

The captain held out his hand mechanically and gazed at his tenant unbelievingly, while the major said ­

“Glad to see ye, cap’n, I guess.  Wanted to for a long time.  Couldn’t come to terms with old Thompson.  Won’t you step in and take a cocktail or a gin-sling?  I’d like to have a private talk ­this way.”

The landlord of the Roving Bess Tavern led the captain to what was once his own cabin, and begged him to be seated on his own locker at the head of his own table.  He accepted these civilities, staring round him in mute wonder all the time, as if he thought it was a dream, out of which he should wake in due course, while, from all parts of the tavern, came sounds of mirth, and clatter of knives and forks and dishes, and odours of gin-slings and bear-steaks and pork-pies.

“Jist sit there a minute,” said the Yankee, “till I see to your friends bein’ fixed off comfortable; of course, Mr Collins may stay, for he knows all about it.”

When he was gone, the captain rose and looked into his old berth.  It had been converted into a pantry, so he shut the door quickly and returned to his seat.

“Tom,” said he, in a low whisper, as if he feared to break the spell, “how did they get her up here!”

“She’s never been moved since you left her,” answered Tom, laughing; “the town has gradually surrounded her, as you see, and crept out upon the shore, filling up the sea with rubbish, till it has left her nearly a quarter of a mile inland.”

The captain’s eyes opened wider than ever, but before he could find words again to speak, Major Whitlaw returned.

“They’re all square now, gentlemen, so, if you please, we’ll proceed to business.  I suppose your friend has told you how the land lies?”

“He certainly has,” replied the captain, who accepted the phrase literally.

“Wall, I reckon your property’s riz since ye wor here; now, if you give me leave to make the alterations I want to, I’ll give you 1000 dollars a month, payable in advance.”

“You’d better tell Captain Bunting what the alterations you refer to are,” suggested Tom Collins, who saw that the captain’s state of mind rendered him totally incapable of transacting business.

“That’s soon done.  I’ll give it ye slick off.  I want to cut away the companion-hatch and run up a regular stair to the deck; then it’s advisable to cut away at least half o’ the main deck to heighten the gamin’ saloon.  But I guess the main point is to knock out half-a-dozen windows in the hold, for gas-light is plaguey dear, when it’s goin’ full blast day and night.  Besides, I must cut the entrance-door down to the ground, for this tree-mendous flight o’ stairs’ll be the ruin o’ the business.  It’s only a week since a man was shot by a comrade here in the cabin, an’ as they rushed out after him, two customers fell down the stair and broke their arms.  And I calc’late the gentlemen that’s overtaken by liquor every night won’t stand it much longer.  There isn’t a single man that quits this house after 12 p.m. but goes down that flight head-foremost.  If you don’t sanction that change, I guess I’ll have to get ’em padded, and spread feather-beds at the foot.  Now, cap’n, if you agrees to this right off, I’ll give the sum named.”

Captain Bunting’s astonishment had now reached that point at which extremes are supposed to meet, and a reaction began to take place.

“How much did you propose?” he inquired, taking out a pencil and an old letter, as if he were about to make notes, at the same time knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look intensely sagacious.

“One thousand dollars a month,” answered the Yankee; “I railly can’t stand more.”

“Let me see,” muttered the captain slowly, in an under tone, while he pressed his forehead with his fore-finger; “one thousand dollars ­200 pounds sterling ­hum, equal to about 2400 pounds a year.  Well,” he added, raising his voice, “I don’t mind if I do.  I suppose, Tom, it’s not much below the thing, as rents go!”

“It’s a fair offer,” said Tom, carelessly; “we might, perhaps, get a higher, but Major Whitlaw is in possession, and is, besides, a good tenant.”

“Then I’ll conclude the bargain ­pray get pen, ink, and paper.”

While the major turned for a moment to procure writing materials, the captain looked at Tom and winked expressively.  Then, a document was drawn up, signed, and witnessed, and then the captain, politely declining a brandy-smash, or any other smash whatever, left the Roving Bess Tavern with his friends, and with 200 pounds ­the first month’s rent ­in his pocket.

It is needless to remark, that his comrades congratulated him heartily, and that the worthy captain walked along the streets of San Francisco chuckling.

In a few minutes, Tom Collins stopped before a row of immense warehouses.  There was one gap in the row, a space of several yards square, that might have held two good-sized houses.  Four wooden posts stood at the corners of the plot, and an old boat, turned keel up, lay in the middle of it.

“I know it!” cried Ned Sinton, laughing in gleeful surprise; “it’s my old boat, isn’t it?  Well, I can scarcely credit my eyes!  I saw it last on the sea-shore, and now it’s a quarter of a mile into the town!”

“More than that, Ned,” said Tom Collins, “the plot of ground is worth ten thousand dollars at this moment.  Had it been a little further south, it would have been worth ten times that sum.  And more than that still, the Irish family you lent the boat to ­you remember them ­well, they dug up a bag from under the boat which contained five thousand dollars; the honest people at once gave it up, and Mr Thompson rewarded them well; but they did not live to enjoy it long, they’re all dead now.  So you see, Ned, you’re just 3000 pounds richer than you thought you were this morning.”

“It’s a great day!” remarked Larry O’Neil, looking round upon his comrades, who received all this information with an expression of doubting surprise; “a great day intirely!  Faix, I’m only hopin’ we won’t waken up an’ find it’s all a dhrame!”

Larry’s companions quite agreed with him.  They did not indeed say so, but, as they returned home after that stroll, talking eagerly of future plans and prospects, the ever-recurring sentiment broke from their lips, in every style of phrase, “It’s a great day, intirely!”