EDWARD STRATEMEYER’S BOOKS

Old Glory Series

Six Volumes. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.25.

• UNDER DEWEY AT MANILA.
• A YOUNG VOLUNTEER IN CUBA.
• FIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS.
• UNDER OTIS IN THE PHILIPPINES.
• THE CAMPAIGN OF THE JUNGLE.
• UNDER MacARTHUR IN LUZON.

Stratemeyer Popular Series

Ten Volumes. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $0.75.

• THE LAST CRUISE OF THE SPITFIRE.
• REUBEN STONE’S DISCOVERY.
• TRUE TO HIMSELF.
• RICHARD DARE’S VENTURE.
• OLIVER BRIGHT’S SEARCH.
• TO ALASKA FOR GOLD.
• THE YOUNG AUCTIONEER.
• BOUND TO BE AN ELECTRICIAN.
• SHORTHAND TOM, THE REPORTER.
• FIGHTING FOR HIS OWN.

Soldiers of Fortune Series

Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.25.

• ON TO PEKIN.
• AT THE FALL OF PORT ARTHUR.
• UNDER THE MIKADO’S FLAG.
• WITH TOGO FOR JAPAN.

American Boys’ Biographical Series

Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.25.

• AMERICAN BOYS’ LIFE OF WILLIAM McKINLEY.
• AMERICAN BOYS’ LIFE OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

Colonial Series

Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.25.

• WITH WASHINGTON IN THE WEST.
• MARCHING ON NIAGARA.
• AT THE FALL OF MONTREAL.
• THE FORT IN THE WILDERNESS.
• ON THE TRAIL OF PONTIAC.
• TRAIL AND TRADING POST.

Pan-American Series

Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.25.

• LOST ON THE ORINOCO.
• THE YOUNG VOLCANO EXPLORERS.
• YOUNG EXPLORERS OF THE ISTHMUS.
• YOUNG EXPLORERS OF THE AMAZON.

Dave Porter Series

Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume $1.25.

• DAVE PORTER AT OAK HALL.
• DAVE PORTER IN THE SOUTH SEAS.

• TWO YOUNG LUMBERMEN. Price $1.25.
• BETWEEN BOER AND BRITON. Price $1.25.
• JOE, THE SURVEYOR. Price $1.00.
• LARRY, THE WANDERER. Price $1.00.

[Before the other could interfere, Oliver was on the rail and over the side.]

Oliver Bright’s Search

OR

The Mystery of a Mine

BY

EDWARD STRATEMEYER

AUTHOR OF “UNDER DEWEY AT MANILA,” “A YOUNG VOLUNTEER IN CUBA,”
“FIGHTING IN CUBAN WATERS,” “RICHARD DARE’S VENTURE,”
“TO ALASKA FOR GOLD,” ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Copyright, 1895,

By THE MERRIAM COMPANY.

Copyright, 1899, by Lee and Shepard.

All Rights Reserved.

Oliver Bright’s Search.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

“Oliver Bright’s Search,” the second volume of the “Bound to Succeed” Series, relates the adventures of a manly American youth who goes West to locate a mine in which his invalid father owns a large interest. Oliver is just out of school, and has but little experience in travelling, yet he does not hesitate to take the trip to California, by way of the Isthmus of Panama, and thence into the interior on horseback.

Oliver is, in every respect, an up-to-date boy; one who will stand no nonsense when dealing with those who would defraud his father out of his lawful property; yet the boy’s moral principles are of a high order, and he is not unmerciful when the object of his long search has been gained.

It was hoped, when the book was first issued, that the story would stand well beside “Richard Dare’s Venture,” which had preceded it. It has been even more successful than the other volume named, and once more the author must thank the readers and critics who have taken such an interest in what he has written.

In conclusion, the author would say a word in regard to the scenes in the mining districts of California. These were drawn very largely from the narratives of a close and dear relative who spent much time out there, going as an Argonaut of ’49, and to whom the vicinity of Sutter’s Mill and the Mokelumne River became as an open book, not only then but later on. To write down these descriptions was, therefore, not only a work of interest, but of love.

EDWARD STRATEMEYER.

Newark, N.J.,
April 1, 1899.

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

OLIVER BRIGHT’S SEARCH.

CHAPTER I.
AN UNEXPECTED DISCLOSURE.

“If you please, Master Oliver, your father wishes to see you at once,” said Donald, the man of all work, as he entered the summer-house where Oliver Bright sat poring over a volume of travels.

“What does he want of me?” asked the youth, as he reluctantly closed the book.

“He didn’t say; but he wants you to come at once.”

“Very well, Donald; where is he?”

“In the library.”

Oliver rose to his feet somewhat slowly. He was in no humor just then to face his respected sire. A few words will explain why.

Oliver was afraid he was in for a lecture, and perhaps worse. He was not a boy of bad disposition, but for once the combination of circumstances had led him into serious difficulty.

Oliver was a student at the Rockvale Academy, also catcher for the local baseball nine. Two days before, on the very afternoon that the nine was to play an important game with the club from Elmport, Oliver had been kept in by Dr. Tangus for a supposed fault of which he was not guilty. This had angered Oliver, and as his particular chum, Gus Gregory, was kept in at the same time, the two planned to “get square,” as they termed it.

Their plan of action was simple and harmless enough, but it bore grievous results. Gus proposed to take the doctor’s pet calf from her pasture and lead her into the schoolroom, and Oliver agreed that if this was done he would make the old cow follow.

At dead of night the two boys started to carry out their plan. But both the calf and the cow made such a noise that the doctor’s whole household was aroused, and the two boys had to run for it.

In making their escape Gus Gregory had stumbled over a hothouse bed, smashing a dozen panes of glass or more, thus provoking a shot from the doctor’s hired man, who imagined burglars were around.

When Oliver reached home he found he had quite a severe cut upon his left hand, obtained in his effort to help Gus out of the hotbed frame.

In the morning the wound, despite the fact that he had bathed it in arnica, appeared as bad as ever. But Oliver did not dare to ask permission to remain at home, and so set out for the academy in anything but a cheerful mood.

Gus Gregory met him at the gate with a long-drawn face; and small wonder.

Dr. Tangus had found them out. Gus had dropped his note-book in the hotbed and the gardener had picked it up. In a terrible rage, the doctor soon after called at the Gregory home, and forced a full confession from Gus. Mr. Gregory had promised to pay his full share of the damage done, and to bring his son to account, and the doctor left saying he would call on Oliver’s father later.

When Oliver entered the academy he was at once called aside by the doctor. But little was said; Dr. Tangus merely stating what he had discovered, and declaring his intention to settle the matter outside of the school.

This had happened Friday morning. It was now Saturday, and Oliver firmly believed that the hour of retribution had come. He took all the time possible to walk up the gravel path and through the broad hall, and hesitated several seconds before turning the handle of the library door.

When he entered the room he found his father seated at the desk, his forehead resting on his hand. Mr. Bright was a man well past the middle age of life, and somewhat broken down in health.

He was tall and slender, with brown hair and eyes. His manner as a general rule was gentle, and as Oliver gazed at his parent, his heart smote him for the trouble he had brought about.

“You sent for me, father,” he said, as he stopped by the door.

Mr. Bright started up from the revery into which he had fallen.

“Yes, Oliver,” he replied. “Come in and sit down. I want to have a talk with you.”

The boy did as requested, taking a chair that stood in the bay-window at the farther end of the room. He could not help but look at his father closely. Surely he did not appear to be much provoked over what had occurred.

“Come closer, Oliver; here, take this chair by my side,” went on Mr. Bright. “I do not wish any one to overhear what I have to say.”

The boy took the seat indicated. Then for the first time he noticed how careworn his father appeared. There were numerous wrinkles upon Mr. Bright’s brow and his eyes were sunken and troubled.

“You are nearly seventeen years old, I believe,” began Mr. Bright after a moment of silence.

“I’ll be seventeen next May,” replied the boy, relieved at being asked such an ordinary question.

“And your term at the academy closes next month, I believe?”

“Yes, sir; three weeks from yesterday.”

“And when you have finished your course there have you thought of what was to be done next?”

“Why I thought I was to go to college,” said Oliver, somewhat astonished at the question. “Of course you didn’t say I was to go; but all the others were going, and—”

“It was my full intention to have you go, Oliver. But circumstances will make a change necessary. I hate to disappoint you, but I am afraid it cannot be helped.” And Mr. Bright turned away his face.

Oliver’s heart grew cold in an instant. Give up going to college! Give it up after having anticipated it so long, after having talked it over so many times with the other boys! Surely his father intended to punish him too severely altogether.

“Oh, don’t say that, father!” he cried. “I will try to do better in the future! I did not mean to do so wrong! I—I did not stop to think.”

Mr. Bright straightened up and looked at his son curiously.

“What are you talking about, Oliver?” he asked. “I am not finding fault with the way you have conducted yourself at the academy. In fact, I must congratulate you on the general excellence of the reports Dr. Tangus sends in. By the last I see that you stood next to the highest in the class, and that counts for much where there are so many bright boys. I have no doubt that the doctor is proud of you.”

Oliver was completely mystified by this speech. It was evident that his father knew nothing concerning what had taken place. The boy gave an inward groan as he thought of what a change there would be when exposure came.

“Then Dr. Tangus has not been here?” he asked.

“No. What put that in your head?”

“I thought he had come to report me.”

“No; I have not seen the doctor in a month, though I expect him to call soon.” Oliver started. “I have had no reasons to find fault with you for the way in which you conduct yourself. The trouble in this case comes from an entirely different quarter.”

Mr. Bright paused. Oliver noted that there was a slight quiver in his father’s voice. Surely something quite out of the ordinary was wrong.

“You are the only one who is left to me, Oliver,” Mr. Bright continued. “It was always my intention to give you the best education that money can buy, for I know the value of such, and then give you a first-class start in whatever professional pursuit you might choose to enter. But now, my poor boy”—

Mr. Bright broke off short.

“What is the matter, father?” cried Oliver. “Why cannot you do as you intended? I thought sure I would go to college and then, after perhaps a year or so of traveling, I would settle down and become a lawyer—that is, if you thought I was smart enough.”

“That programme would have suited me exactly, Oliver. Your Uncle William was a lawyer, and you take after him a good deal. But now it cannot be thought of.”

“Why?”

“Ah, it is a bitter story, my boy, and I do not see how I can tell it to you. I was very blind and foolish, trusting those that were not worthy of my confidence, and now both of us must suffer for it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“And perhaps you never will, quite. I was never of a speculative nature; but this was apparently so easy, and so sure to turn out profitably, that I entered into it without due consideration.”

“It is money-matters, then, father, that makes you say that I must change my plans; must give up thinking of going to college, and all that?” faltered Oliver.

“[Yes, Oliver, alas!] yes.” Mr. Bright heaved a deep sigh. “[I am ruined]; I am not worth a dollar in the world!” he added.

[“Yes, Oliver, alas! I am ruined.”]

CHAPTER II.
THE STORY OF THE AURORA MINE.

Oliver Bright was greatly astonished by his father’s disclosure. There had been nothing said or done heretofore to indicate that Mr. Arthur Bright was on the brink of financial disaster. The two had lived in exceedingly comfortable, if not elegant, style, and the boy was granted every reasonable desire.

“You are ruined?” he repeated, with eyes wide open at the announcement.

“Yes, Oliver, completely ruined. This very roof that shelters us is no longer my own.”

“And is there no hope?”

Mr. Bright shook his head.

“I have hoped, until now; all hope is useless—that is”—and the man paused.

“What, father? What is the chance?” asked the boy eagerly.

“It is hardly worth considering, Oliver, it is so small. We had better face the truth, bitter as it is.”

Oliver drew a long breath. To endure poverty is no pleasant thing, especially when one has once been rich. The boy was so completely taken aback that for a moment he did not say a word.

“I should have spoken of this before and prepared you for its coming,” went on Mr. Bright; “but day after day I trusted that matters would take a better turn and all would be right. I am to blame there.”

“Never mind; you did what you thought was right,” responded Oliver as bravely as he could. “But I wish I had known; I would not have laid so many plans for the future. I might have got ready to go to work instead.”

“I have not yet decided what I shall do when we leave this home. I have been out of active business so long that I suppose it will come hard to resume it again. Perhaps I will go back to the book business, that is, if I can find a suitable opening.”

Oliver looked at his father in dismay. For a man in Mr. Bright’s state of health to go back to active life after a retirement of eight years would be hard indeed.

“I wish I knew something of the book business; I’d sail right in and work for both of us,” he declared with considerable vim. “But I don’t know the first thing about business of any kind,” he added with a sigh.

“You are bright by nature as well as by name, Oliver,” said his father with a faint smile. “I think you will stand a fair chance of making your way.”

“I hope so. Any way, I intend to try. But, father, won’t you tell me something of your affairs?”

“Yes, Oliver; I intend to tell you as much as you can understand. It may prove a useful lesson to you.” Mr. Bright ran his hand over his forehead as if to collect his thoughts. “About a year after I sold out my interest in the Franklin Book Company and settled here, I became acquainted with Colonel Mendix. Do you remember him?”

“Oh, yes. He was a dark, Spanish gentleman, with a heavy black beard.”

“You are right, saving that he was far from being a gentleman, though I did not know that at the time. This Mendix was introduced to me by James Barr, an intimate friend of mine, who was a surveyor and who had become interested in several mining schemes.”

“I remember him also.”

“This Mendix visited me several times, and finally unfolded to me a simple plan for making a fortune on the outlay of a comparatively small sum of money. As you say, he was of Spanish descent, his people coming from some place in South America. He had also a number of relatives among the early settlers in California, who, you know, settled there before the gold fever broke out.”

“Yes, I have heard of those Spanish settlements.”

“Colonel Mendix said that among these relatives were two old men who had in their possession a paper containing the full directions for reaching and locating a very valuable mine somewhere up among the mountains. These two men were too old to work the mine themselves, and they were willing to sell out their secret and rights for ten thousand dollars, to be paid when the mine was located and found to be as they represented.”

“What was the mine supposed to be worth?” asked Oliver with interest.

“Colonel Mendix placed its value at not less than seventy-five thousand dollars, and said it might be worth several hundred thousand.”

“It’s a wonder he didn’t buy the mine himself, without saying anything about it.”

“He said he had not the cash, and he did not wish to apply to any of his Spanish friends for fear they would make inquiries and buy the mine for themselves. Mendix was a very plausible talker, and before I was aware of what I was doing, I had agreed to advance the money, stipulating, however, that James Barr should be the one to locate the mine and determine its value. I had known Barr so long that I felt sure I could trust him.

“Well, the contract was drawn up and signed. By it Mendix was to have a quarter interest in the Aurora Mine, as we had christened it, and James Barr was to have an eighth. The remainder was to be mine. I was to advance the purchasing money as well as the cash to open up the place, either to work it ourselves or place it on the market. Do you follow, Oliver?”

“Easily enough; it’s as plain as day.”

“As soon as this was done, Mendix and Barr set out for California. Two months later I received word that they had obtained the directions and were about setting out for the mine, which was located somewhere back of a place called Sutter’s Mill.

“Four months passed. Then came a long letter from Mendix and a note from Barr. The mine had been found even better than represented, and they wished to close the bargain at once, and asked me to forward a draft for five thousand dollars additional, which they intended to use in purchasing the machinery of an abandoned mine some ten miles distant, and have it transported to the Aurora. The outlook seemed so favorable that I complied without hesitation.

“Another letter came a month later from Mendix, saying the mine had been opened, but that another five thousand dollars would be needed to put in additional machinery for draining the water and crushing the rock. This I also paid, although in order to do it I was compelled to take a mortgage on this place for three thousand.”

“Didn’t you have other money?”

“Only in stocks, and those I did not care to sell as they were then low and I thought they would rise. I found that Dr. Tangus had money to loan, and so I went to him.”

“Dr. Tangus!” cried Oliver, thinking of what was to come.

“Yes. He let me have the money and took a mortgage on this place. The money fell due last week, and yesterday I received a note from the doctor asking for payment.”

Oliver gave a groan. Was it possible his own doings had hurried Dr. Tangus’s actions?

“And you cannot pay him?”

“No. But I am ahead of my story. Time went on and I heard no more from the mine. I wrote to Mendix and to Barr, but received no reply. Then came a draft for four thousand dollars to pay for some more machinery Mendix had ordered. I paid the claim, but immediately sent word not to contract any more debts, as I would not pay them, and demanding an accounting.

“None came, and I sent an agent to San Francisco to find out how matters stood. At the end of two months I received word from this man, Bentwell, and also from Mendix, that the mine had become flooded with water, that it could not be drained, and that in making surveys of the place James Barr had been drowned.

“This news was so disheartening I knew not what to do. I was out twenty-four thousand dollars, and had not a thing to show for it. I was on the point of starting for California myself when a friend of Mendix appeared on the scene.

“This man had been out to the mine, and knew all about it. He said the Aurora was utterly worthless, that Mendix had at last found it so, and that the man had left in disgust for South America. Private creditors had levied upon such machinery as was above ground, and that I might as well give up all hope of ever receiving a dollar out of the thing.

“This news all but prostrated me; for in the meanwhile stocks here in the East were declining rapidly. I kept up as long as I could, but now it is no use to do so longer. As I said before, every dollar is gone.”

Mr. Bright turned away to hide his emotion. The story had been a hard one to tell. Oliver knew not what to say.

At this juncture there was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hanson, the housekeeper, appeared.

“Dr. Tangus is here to see you,” she said to Mr. Bright.

CHAPTER III.
MR. BRIGHT’S RESOLVE.

The announcement that Dr. Tangus had come to see his father filled Oliver Bright with dismay. Considering the story he would have to tell, the doctor’s arrival at any time would have been unpleasant for the boy, but under existing circumstances it was a thing to be dreaded. What would his father think when the whole miserable story came to light?

And yet, if it must be told, he wished that his father should first hear it from his own lips. He knew the doctor could turn the case so that it might look very black indeed.

Therefore, before Mr. Bright had time to tell the housekeeper to show the schoolmaster in, the boy leaned over and whispered,—

“I would like to speak a few words with you before the doctor comes in.”

His father nodded, thinking that his son wished to continue the conversation that had just been interrupted.

“Take the doctor in the parlor, Mrs. Hanson,” he said. “Say I will see him in a moment.”

Mrs. Hanson at once disappeared. When the two were left alone Mr. Bright looked at Oliver inquiringly.

“There is nothing more to tell,” he said; “Dr. Tangus’s visit caps the climax. He, no doubt, has called for his money; and unless I get an extension of time in which to pay up, the matter will be put into the sheriff’s hands, and the place will be sold.”

“It is too bad,” returned the boy. “But there is something else I wish to speak about.” He colored up painfully. “I did not think so much of it at the time—that is, I did not think it was so wicked a deed to do. When I came in I thought Dr. Tangus had been here and told you all about it.”

“About what?”

In a few words, and with a very troubled look upon his face, Oliver told his tale. Mr. Bright listened in silence.

“I know now just how bad and senseless a thing it was to do,” said the boy, at the conclusion.

“I trust you do,” replied his father. “Pranks of that kind to my mind show only a lack of wit. You ought to be above such things, Oliver.” Mr. Bright heaved a sigh. “I am afraid this will tend to make the doctor stiff in his demands. I thought the tone of yesterday’s letter was rather severe.”

“I am afraid so too.” Oliver bit his lip in vexation. “I wish he had punished me in school instead. It isn’t fair to make you suffer for what I have done!” he cried.

“When we do wrong we are not always sure who will suffer for it. But we will say no more about it. What I have revealed will be punishment enough for you. Now I must go; it will not do to keep the doctor waiting any longer.”

Mr. Bright rose and left the library. Oliver remained where he sat, his chin resting in the palm of his hand.

What a change had taken place since he had entered that room only a short hour before! He had thought himself a well-to-do boy, with every prospect of a brilliant future; now he knew he was as poor as the humblest lad in Rockvale. Instead of going to college and taking things easy for a year or so thereafter, he must roll up his sleeves and go to work. What had brought this great change about?

Carefully he reviewed all the facts which his father had related. Not an incident was forgotten. He wished he had the letters from California to read over; they might contain some particulars his father had forgotten to mention.

“I would like to see that Aurora mine, and satisfy myself that everything is as this Colonel Mendix claimed,” he thought. “He was a thorough sharper in my opinion; and if I was father I would not take his word for the matter.”

His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Bright, accompanied by Dr. Tangus, a stout and highly important looking individual.

Oliver rose and greeted the visitor, offering him a chair at the same time, his face flushing the while. Dr. Tangus looked at him sharply.

“Well, young man, your father tells me you have told him of your mischief-making,” began the schoolmaster.

“Yes, doctor; and I am quite sorry for what I have done.”

“Humph! boys generally are after they are found out,” sniffed the learned gentleman. “However, now that you have told your father, I intend to leave the case in his hands. You are generally a pretty good boy, and I am sorry you have broken your record.”

Oliver did not reply, and the doctor turned to Mr. Bright.

“Then you will grant me an extension of time?” asked the latter anxiously.

“I will give you two months, Mr. Bright,” was the somewhat slow response; “but more than that I cannot do. If at the end of that time you cannot pay I will foreclose.”

“Very well, we will so understand it,” said Oliver’s father; “and I thank you for the accommodation,” he added politely. “Here are the papers.”

The document in the matter was duly drawn up and signed. Then Dr. Tangus took his leave.

“I trust you are able to meet the claim when due,” said he on departing.

“I shall try my best,” responded Mr. Bright.

When the door was closed he sank down in his chair.

“We have two months’ grace, Oliver. If I cannot pay at the end of that time, out we go.”

“Two months is quite a while,” replied the boy as bravely as he could. “A good deal may happen in that time. Any way, it will give us both a chance to look around for situations. But tell me, isn’t this place worth more than the mortgage he holds?”

“Yes; but it wouldn’t bring it at a forced sale. I am quite sure we will be left without anything but our personal effects. Of course they amount to considerable; but oh, how I hate to part with any of them!”

“I hope it won’t become necessary, father. But will you let me see those letters that Colonel Mendix wrote you? I have an idea he didn’t tell you the truth about that mine.”

Mr. Bright started.

“The same thought has occurred to me,” he said. “I often wished I had gone to the place and seen for myself.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was ill, and too much interested in bonds here. The bonds that I carried were of the par value of one hundred thousand dollars, four times what the mine cost. I gave my attention to the larger deal. Besides, there was another reason; I did not know exactly where the mine was located nor how to reach it.”

“You did not?”

“No. Mendix had all the papers; and he kept them, or destroyed them, I do not know which.”

“Then for all you know the mine may be valuable and in running order to-day,” went on Oliver excitedly.

“I doubt it, Oliver; and yet”—

“If Mendix was a rascal, his saying that the mine was flooded might only be a ruse to get you to abandon your claim to it.”

“That is so. To tell the truth, more than once, since I lost my other property, I have thought of going out and making an examination.”

“Then why don’t you go? It will do no harm, and may save you from ruin.”

Mr. Bright started up.

“I will go, Oliver,” he cried.

CHAPTER IV.
AN ACCIDENT.

His sudden resolve seemed to liven up Mr. Bright considerably. He rubbed his hands and strode up and down the room.

“Yes; I will go,” he repeated. “As you say, it can do no harm, and may save us from ruin.”

“May I go too?” asked Oliver eagerly.

Mr. Bright thought in silence for a moment.

“I would like to have you with me,” he said; “but I think you had better remain behind. One of us ought to stay here, and, besides, the expense of the journey will be considerable.”

“I am sorry,” said the boy; “I would like to go first-rate.”

“Come, we will go over what letters and papers I have together. Perhaps you will see something in them that I have overlooked,” said Mr. Bright.

Opening one of the locked drawers of the desk, Mr. Bright brought forth the various communications he had received from Colonel Mendix and James Barr. Both father and son read them over carefully.

“It is my impression that this Mendix did not wish you to visit the Aurora mine,” said Oliver. “If you will notice, throughout the letters he speaks of the hard road to travel to get there, and the unhealthiness of the climate, and all that. He knew you were not strong, and he hoped that would deter you from venturing.”

“Perhaps you are right, Oliver. I did not think of that before.”

“Are you sure this Mendix has gone to South America?”

“I was; but your questions fill me with doubt. I begin to think that perhaps I have been blind all this time. I think—my! my! What is the matter with Jerry?”

Oliver’s gaze followed that of his father out of the window. There, on the smooth lawn, a spirited horse was acting in an exceedingly strange manner, throwing his head viciously from side to side.

“Donald has been whipping him again,” said Oliver. “He ought to know better.”

Mr. Bright did not reply. Springing from his chair, he hurried from the library, his son following.

In his day Mr. Bright had been quite a horseman, and Oliver, too, liked to ride. Both hated to see an animal abused, and both were excited over the present sight.

“Whoa! Jerry! whoa!” cried Mr. Bright, running up to the horse.

He caught the animal by the halter, which had been broken off rather short, and attempted to soothe him. But Jerry’s blood was up, and before Mr. Bright was aware he was thrown in the air and came down heavily against the grape arbor.

“Oh!” He gave a deep groan of pain. “Catch him, Oliver; but be careful about it.”

The boy was already advancing. He caught the halter, and then vaulted upon Jerry’s back.

For a moment there was a fierce struggle, but Oliver kept his seat, and feeling himself mastered, the horse subsided. Then the boy jumped to the ground and turned him over to the man of all work.

“Take him back to the stable, Donald,” he said; “and mind you, he is to be whipped no more.”

“I only struck him once”—began the man.

“That was once too often. Jerry is too nervous to be handled in that manner.”

Oliver saw the horse led away, and then turned his attention to his father. To his surprise Mr. Bright had fainted.

Running to the well, the boy procured some cold water, which he sprinkled in his father’s face. It had the effect of reviving him almost immediately.

“Are you hurt?” asked Oliver in deep anxiety.

“I—I am afraid I am. My chest hurts, and I cannot use my right leg.”

“I’ll call Dr. Kitchell,” replied Oliver.

Fortunately the physician lived directly across the road. He was at home, and in less than three minutes the boy had him over.

“Humph! two ribs broken, and also the right leg!” said Dr. Kitchell. “Rather a serious accident. Come, we will carry him into the house.”

Donald was called, and the three succeeded in carrying the unfortunate man into the house and placing him on the lounge in the sitting-room.

Then the man of all work was dispatched to the drug-store, and the doctor went to work to set the broken limb and fix up the fractured ribs. Oliver assisted all he could, the tears standing in his eyes meanwhile.

“Never mind,” said Dr. Kitchell, noticing his grief. “It will be all right. All your father wants is quietness for a couple of months. There is small danger.”

Oliver felt relieved at this statement. And yet he could not help but think of the trip to California. His father would have to abandon that now, and he would hardly be well before they would be obliged to leave the house and seek a home elsewhere.

Towards evening Mr. Bright felt somewhat easier, and he and Oliver had quite a talk. He demurred strongly at being compelled to rest quietly for eight weeks or longer, and spoke of the plans that must now be cast aside.

“Why not let me go?” said Oliver suddenly. “I am sure I can get along all right.”

“No, Oliver; it would be asking too much of you.”

“No, it would not. Can you get along without me?”

“I suppose I might; Mrs. Hanson is a capital nurse. But it is too big an undertaking for a boy.”

“You forget, father, that I am nearly seventeen years old.”

“No, I do not; nor do I forget that you are smart for your age. But still I would hate to send you on a journey that might prove full of danger. If their accounts be true, the road is a perilous one, and the mining districts are full of rough characters.”

“After I left San Francisco I could go well armed. I don’t think it would be so dangerous. A good class of settlers are pouring into the place, and they would surely not molest me. You must remember that things are not as they were at the close of the war.”

“What you say is true, Oliver; but I would hate to send you into the midst of danger, however slight. If you were only going to San Francisco it would be different. But to go away up in the mountains, and utterly alone”—

Mr. Bright did not finish, a violent twitch of pain stopping him short. Seeing that his father could not stand conversing, Oliver withdrew.

He ascended to his own room, and, taking a chair by the window, sat down to think. For fully half an hour he did not move. Then he went below and made his way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hanson was preparing some broth for the sick man.

“Mrs. Hanson,” he said, calling her aside, “father was planning to go on a journey, and now that he can’t go, I’ve been thinking of going for him without letting him know—that is, for several days. Do you think you could get along without me while I am gone?”

“Why, bless you, Oliver, yes! I’ve been a nurse these ten years before I was a housekeeper. It will be no trouble whatever.”

“And you will not let him know that I have gone—that is, for a few days? It might only worry him.”

“If you wish it.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“When will you go?”

“Monday morning early.”

“Very well; I won’t say a word. It’s business, I suppose?”

“Yes; father’s business; something that must be attended to.”

All that evening Oliver was busy with his preparations. There was a big valise to pack, and numerous other things to do. At ten o’clock, when the others had retired, he stole down to the library, and seating himself at the table, took complete copies of all the letters and papers relating to the Aurora mine and Colonel Mendix’s peculiar method of transacting business.

“Now I am ready to start,” he said to himself, as he arose. “When I arrive in New York I will either sell or pawn my gold watch and my diamond pin, and then—ho, for the Aurora mine!”

CHAPTER V.
LEAVING HOME.

On the following morning Oliver found his father somewhat recovered from the rude shock he had received. Of course the man was unable to move from the couch upon which he rested, but he was able to sit up and converse without, apparently, more than an occasional dull pain.

Mr. Bright was, however, much worried over the disarrangement of his plans, sighing out continually his disappointment at not being able to leave on a tour of discovery. To all this Oliver made no reply, saving to urge his parent not to worry, as all would yet turn out right.

During the day, the boy managed, by skillful questioning, to gain all the additional information that was to be had. In the afternoon he attended Sunday-school, the last time, he thought, for many weeks and perhaps months to come.

In the class with Oliver was Gus Gregory, his chum, a short and exceedingly stout youth, with a freckled but not unpleasant face. At the close of the service he and Oliver left together.

“Well, how did you make out over our fun at the doctor’s?” was Gus’s first question.

Oliver told him.

“My, but you got off easier than I did!” exclaimed the stout youth. “Didn’t pop give it to me though! I haven’t been able to sit down with any kind of comfort since.”

Oliver did not reply. He was silent for a moment, and then laid his hand on his chum’s shoulder.

“Say, Gus,” he said, “will you keep a secret if I tell it to you?”

“Why, of course, Olly,” was the prompt reply. “Did I ever let out anything I shouldn’t?”

“Well, then, I’m going away.”

“Going away? Where?”

“To California.”

“Phew! you don’t mean it!”

“Yes, I do. I’m going to start to-morrow morning first thing. I thought I’d tell you and say good-by.”

“Does your father know?”

“No. Only Mrs. Hanson, and now you.”

“What are you going for? just to run away? I thought you said your father didn’t touch you for the trouble we got into.”

“Neither did he. I’m going on business. Come, let us sit under that tree, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

And seated under a stately elm that grew by the roadside, Oliver related all there was in his mind.

Gus Gregory was deeply interested.

“I hope you’ll succeed,” he said. “My, how I wish I was going along! Nothing would suit me better.”

“And nothing would suit me better than to have you,” replied Oliver; “but that can’t be thought of.”

“Which way are you going?”

“By the way of Panama.”

“It will cost quite a bit.”

“Something less than a hundred dollars.”

“That is quite a sum, but not so much as I thought. Have you got your ticket yet?”

“No; I intend to get that in New York to-morrow. The steamer sails for Aspinwall on Wednesday.”

The two boys talked the matter over for some time. Gus was intensely interested.

“Well, I hope you’ll meet with success,” he said on parting. “I think it is a big undertaking for a boy, but I wish it was I instead of you.”

The remainder of the Sunday passed quickly. In the evening Oliver spent another pleasant hour with his father.

When the time came for parting, the boy could hardly keep back the tears. Who knew how long it would be before he should see his father again? He was almost tempted to tell all, but the fear of being told to give up the project kept back the words.

Oliver slept but little that night, and he was up at early dawn. Making a hasty toilet, he took up his valise and stole down-stairs. Mrs. Hanson had anticipated him, and a warm breakfast stood ready to which he did but scant justice.

Half an hour later he was off, the housekeeper wishing him Godspeed. The railroad station was half a mile distant; but it took the boy scarcely any time to cover that distance, so fearful was he of being discovered and told to return.

Rockvale was a town of considerable size, situated some forty miles from the metropolis. There were over a dozen trains daily to Jersey City, the first at half-past six in the morning. This was the one Oliver had calculated on taking, and buying a ticket, he waited a few moments, and then, as the train came rolling in, got aboard.

There was a sudden jerk, and the train started and rolled out away from the station. Oliver Bright was off on his strange quest at last.

He felt queer as he settled back in his seat which he occupied alone. What would the outcome of his trip be? Would he succeed or fail?

The run to Jersey City was an uneventful one. Oliver had taken it a great number of times, so it was no novelty, and he occupied the time in studying a guide-book he had purchased at the news-stand. When they arrived at the ferry he followed the stream of people on to the boat, and off again at the other side.

“New York!” he thought to himself as he passed up Liberty Street. “Now to sell or pawn the watch and the pin, and then I will go to the steamship ticket-office and engage a berth.”

Before leaving home, the boy had cut from the metropolitan paper Mr. Bright was in the habit of taking the names and addresses of several pawnbrokers, and toward one of these Oliver now bent his steps.

He much preferred pawning the articles to selling them, as both the watch and the diamond scarf-pin were gifts from his father, and he wanted the chance to recover them.

Entering the establishment, he drew out the gold watch, and passing it over to the clerk, asked how much would be allowed upon it.

“Your own?” was the first question.

“Yes, sir; a birthday gift.”

The clerk sent the watch to the back part of the store for examination.

“Fifty dollars,” he said upon his return.

“Fifty dollars!” exclaimed Oliver, in some dismay. “I thought I could get more! The watch cost over a hundred.”

“That is all we can allow.”

“I cannot let it go for that;” and Oliver slipped the timepiece in his pocket.

The clerk paid another visit to the office.

“We will make that sixty dollars,” he said, coming back. “You will not get more anywhere.”

“I shall try,” replied Oliver.

Another establishment was close at hand. But here the proprietor would not go above fifty dollars; so Oliver went back to the first place.

“I guess I’ll take that sixty dollars,” he said.

“Told you you couldn’t get any more,” returned the clerk coolly, as he made out the ticket and handed over the money.

“And now how much will you allow me for this pin?” asked Oliver, as he drew it from his wallet. “It is a pure diamond.”

“Is this also a gift?”

“Yes, sir.”

The clerk took it back to the private office. When he returned he told Oliver to go back, as the proprietor would like to see him.

Oliver did so, and found himself face to face with a thin, sharp nosed individual.

“Where did you get that pin?” was the man’s question.

“My father gave it to me on Christmas, two years ago.”

“Rather a fine Christmas gift.”

“It was, sir.”

“What is your name and address, please?” And the man prepared to write it down.

Oliver told him.

“And you are sure your father gave you this pin for Christmas?”

“Certainly I am,” replied the boy, flushing. “I hope you don’t think I—”

“I have nothing to say, excepting that a gold watch and a diamond pin were stolen from a boarding-house in Twenty-fourth Street last evening.”

“And you think—” began Oliver, his heart rising in his throat.

“Never mind what I think, young man. Of course you may be innocent. But we must always be on our guard. I have sent my clerk around to the police precinct close by. You will please remain here until he returns.”

CHAPTER VI.
AT THE STEAMSHIP OFFICE.

Oliver was astonished and dismayed by the pawnbroker’s statement. What if the police should think he was the thief? It would cause him no end of trouble, and might prove the means of compelling him to return home.

“I don’t see what reasons you have for supposing the things are not mine,” he began.

“I do not say they are not,” was the reply. “In fact, I must say you look thoroughly honest. But, as I said before, we must be careful. We cannot afford to take in things that have been stolen and then give them up to the police.”

Oliver sank down in a chair. He had but a short ten minutes to wait, but the time seemed an eternity.

He was glad to see the clerk return alone.

“It’s all right,” were his words. “The goods taken were recovered an hour ago.”

How relieved Oliver felt! He sprang to his feet.

“Please give me the pin,” he said.

The man handed it over.

“I am sorry I suspected you,” he said. “But business is business.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I thought you wanted to pawn that pin?”

“So I do; but I shall take it elsewhere now.”

And without waiting to be questioned further, Oliver hurried from the place.

About a block down the street he came to a similar establishment—indeed, the neighborhood was full of them. The proprietor took the pin and examined it closely.

“What did you give for this pin?” he asked cautiously.

“I did not buy it. My father gave it to me.”

“How much do you want on it?”

Oliver hesitated. He knew he had better place the figure high.

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“The pin did not cost that.”

“It cost more than that.”

“I will let you have forty dollars on it.”

“I must have at least sixty.”

Finally a compromise was effected, and Oliver received his ticket and fifty dollars.

“That makes one hundred and ten dollars for the two,” he said to himself when on the street once more; “and that, added to what I have saved up from my spending money, gives me a capital of one hundred and eighty-five dollars. By hook or by crook that amount must see me through.”

From the pawnbroker’s Oliver made his way to lower Broadway, where the steamship office was located. It was a busy place, and the boy was compelled to wait for his turn.

While he stood in line he meditated on what he would have to pay for a ticket. If there was any such thing as going second or third class he intended to do so. In his present straitened circumstances every dollar counted.

Suddenly a young man behind him touched him on the elbow and said,—

“Say, do you know if they take back tickets here?”

“What do you mean?” asked Oliver.

“I mean tickets to California. I have a ticket for Wednesday’s steamer and I can’t go because my uncle has just died, and I must take charge of part of his business.”

“I don’t know,” said Oliver. “I am just here to buy a ticket for myself,” he continued.

“Is that so? Then let me sell you mine. I paid eighty dollars for it, and I’ll let you have it for sixty; that is, if they won’t take it back.”

“Is that the cheapest passage?”

“It is on the regular lines.”

“Then I’ll take it, if they won’t take it back.”

At the desk it was found that the ticket could be exchanged for a later boat, but could not be canceled. As the young man did not know whether, under the present condition of things, he would go to California or not, he decided to sell the ticket to Oliver; and the transfer was made on the spot.

Oliver was told that the boat would leave at ten o’clock Wednesday morning from the pier on the North River. He made a note of the time and the number of the pier, and then quitted the place.

As he did so, he ran plump into a man who was hurrying up the steps.

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed. “I did not mean”—

And then he stopped short. And small wonder. The man he had encountered was Colonel Mendix!

In all his life Oliver was never more astonished. He knew not what to say or do.

Colonel Mendix, having seen him but once, and that many years previous, did not recognize the boy. He stepped back, then passed Oliver, and entered the steamship office.

“Has the Rosabel sailed yet?” Oliver heard him ask.

“Yes, sir; half an hour ago.”

“Ha, too bad! And the next steamer?”

“Sails Wednesday.”

“Was there a passenger on the Rosabel named Whyland—Thomas Whyland?” continued the colonel anxiously.

The clerk looked over the register.

“No, sir.”

“You are sure?”

“His name is not here. If he was aboard he must have sailed on some one else’s ticket.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you.”

Colonel Mendix turned and left the building. Almost mechanically Oliver followed him.

He knew not what to make of the unexpected meeting. Had Mendix just returned from South America or had he never been to that country?

“I must find out,” thought the boy. “Perhaps if I discover his business here I may be able to find out something about the Aurora mine also. I wish I had caught the name of the man he asked for.”

He had the day before him, and also Tuesday, and he resolved to make good use of the time. Who knew but what he might be able to gain a deal of information before starting for the West?

Colonel Mendix walked rapidly up Broadway until he reached Trinity Church. Then he crossed over and hurried down Wall Street. Oliver was close behind and saw him enter an office not far away.

Walking past the place, he read the sign,—

EZRA DODGE & CO.,
California Mining Stocks,

over the door. He would have liked to follow Colonel Mendix inside, but could find no pretext for so doing until he noticed a slip on the window which read,—

Free Circulars Inside.

Entering the place, he saw that the colonel had taken a seat within the office railing and was in earnest conversation with an elderly gentleman, presumably Mr. Dodge.

Oliver stepped up to a clerk in charge.

“Will you kindly give me a circular of stocks?” he asked.

“Certainly,” was the reply. “Think of investing?”

“I wish to see what you have.”

“Offer you some fine inducements,” said the clerk, handing over a folded paper.

Oliver opened the circular, and pretended to look it over.

“Now, Dodge, about this Aurora mine,” he heard Colonel Mendix say, and immediately he was all attention.

CHAPTER VII.
A CONVERSATION OF IMPORTANCE.

Oliver Bright was sure that he was going to hear something of importance, and he determined that not a word of the conversation between Colonel Mendix and Ezra Dodge should escape him. With his eyes fixed upon the circular in his hand, he kept his ears wide open for whatever might be said.

“Yes, about the Aurora mine,” rejoined Ezra Dodge. “I want to know if you have a clear title to it?”

“Why, of course—that is, I and another have.”

“Then that’s all right. I wanted to know what I was loaning money on.”

“Didn’t I give enough other security?” asked the colonel, with a slight sneer in his tones.

“Certainly. If you hadn’t I wouldn’t have loaned you a dollar. Why, I don’t even know where your mine is located, excepting that it is somewhere on the Mokelumne River.”

“Well, whether you know it or not, the mine is there, and that is enough for me.”

“Does it pay?”

“Perhaps it does.”

“Are you working it?”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Oh, pshaw! if you don’t want to say anything about it, tell me so,” cried Ezra Dodge, in evident disgust.

“Well, I don’t. What I want to know is, where can that machinery be bought?”

“Right in San Francisco.”

“You are sure?”

“Positive. If you don’t care to believe me, buy it in New York and have it shipped out.”

“Come, Dodge, don’t get mad. If I want to keep the location of my mine to myself, it ought to be all right. I intend”—

Oliver did not hear any more of the conversation. The clerk in the establishment approached him, and talked stocks so persistently that the boy was glad to escape from the office.

He had, however, overheard several important facts. The mine was located on the Mokelumne River; Mendix did not care to speak of its value, but was evidently investing considerable money in buying machinery, which would tend to show that the claim was worth a good deal.

“How fortunate that I met the man!” thought Oliver. “I wouldn’t have missed this chance for a hundred dollars! And to tell father that he was in South America while he has been in California all the while! On the Mokelumne River. That ought not to be so hard to locate.”

Oliver did not stop to consider that the spot mentioned was many miles in extent, and in a very wild and mountainous region. His mind was filled only with the desire to reach the place, and view with his own eyes his father’s property.

Walking to the opposite side of the street, he stood in the shadow of a doorway and waited for Colonel Mendix to appear. Five minutes passed, and then the man came from Ezra Dodge’s office, walked up Wall Street, and turned down into Broad.

Oliver followed him as best he could, but suddenly Mendix turned another corner, and before the boy could reach the spot the man had disappeared.

In vain Oliver hunted up and down and in the several side streets; Colonel Mendix was nowhere to be seen, and after half an hour’s search Oliver gave up the task.

It was now half-past twelve, and walking about had made Oliver hungry. He moved along until he came to a restaurant, and entering, ordered dinner.

While at the table he was astonished at the bustle and confusion around him. It was true he had been to the metropolis many times, but on every succeeding occasion the city seemed to be more busy, more full of life.

Having eaten his meal, and settled the amount of the check at the desk, Oliver sauntered out upon the street once more. He had a day and a half before him, and hardly knew what to do. He walked up Nassau Street to Park Row, and then turning, drifted with the tide of humanity down Broadway. The knowledge that he was carrying so much cash about worried him, but each time he felt for it he found that his money was still safe in the inside pocket of his vest.

At length Oliver reached the Battery, and sat down on one of the benches that line the promenades. His long walk in the afternoon sun had tired him, and his head was beginning to ache.

The sights around him interested him not a little. Directly opposite to him was a poor women with a sick baby, the little thing fairly gasping for breath. To his right sat a shabby workman, or he might have been a tramp, half asleep, and beside him a tall, gaunt, almost starved looking boy, certainly not much older than himself.

Upon another bench three emigrant Germans were holding an animated conversation in their own tongue, though Oliver occasionally heard the names Chicago and Milwaukee mentioned.

The sick baby interested the boy most of all. His heart ached to see the little one in such misery, and when he saw the mother wipe the tears from her eyes, he hastily rose and walked over to her.

“You seem in distress,” he said kindly. “Can I do anything for you?”

She looked up into his honest, open face.

“My baby is so sick!” she cried. “I would not care if it was myself—but baby”—and she broke down completely.

“You ought to go to a doctor,” he went on.

“Alas! I have no money!” she replied. “I spent the last fifty cents I had yesterday.”

Oliver’s hand went down into his pocket on the instant. He could ill spare the money, but he would have done anything rather than refuse the woman assistance.

“Here is a dollar for you,” he said, holding out that amount. “I wish I could make it more; but that will help you some.”

For an instant the woman stared at him. Then she snatched the silver coin from his hand.

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” she cried; “I did not expect it. You are too kind.”

“I would advise you to get medicine for the baby at once.”

“I will, sir; I know something that I think will just cure my poor Ellie. Oh, thank you, sir, and God bless you!”

And with tears of joy streaming down her face the woman hurried away.

A warm feeling surged through Oliver’s heart as he slowly followed, the feeling that always comes when one has done a noble action.

“Poor woman, poor baby,” he murmured to himself. “I hope she gets the medicine and that it cures her Ellie. What a dear baby it was!”

He had hardly gone a dozen steps before he felt a hand upon his shoulder. It was the gaunt-looking boy.

“Will you please help me a little?” he asked pleadingly. “I have been out of work for three weeks and can’t get anything to do anywhere.”

“You are telling the truth?” asked Oliver sharply, to make sure that he was not being deceived.

“Yes, sir. I worked in Haddan’s piano action factory that burnt down.”

“And you cannot get work anywhere?”

“No, sir. Oh, you don’t know how hard I have tried! Every morning I answer the advertisements in the papers, but there are always a hundred men for one place.”

By the way the boy spoke Oliver knew that he told the truth. He hesitated for a moment, and then handed out another dollar.

“There,” he said. “I cannot afford that very well, but I hate to see any one in want. I hope by the time that is gone you will find work. Are you alone in the world?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, if you cannot get work here, I advise you to strike out for some other place.”

“Thank you; I won’t stay in New York much longer.”

Oliver did not reply, and the two separated.

“Cannot find work anywhere,” mused the boy; “it must be hard indeed. What will father and I do if the Aurora mine scheme proves a failure? I would be nearly as badly off as that poor chap. God grant it does not come to that!”

CHAPTER VIII.
A NIGHT IN NEW YORK.

From the Battery, Oliver made his way back to Wall Street. He was in hopes of seeing Colonel Mendix again, and for this reason passed and repassed Ezra Dodge’s office several times.

But his watching was fruitless, and finally by five o’clock he gave up. By this time the financial center was almost deserted, and he saw Ezra Dodge’s clerk close the office up for the day, and walk away.

Instantly he decided to follow and accost the young man, and this he did before he had formed any clear plan of action.

“Excuse me,” he said; “but I think I saw you down in Mr. Dodge’s office.”

“You did,” replied the clerk wonderingly.

“Wasn’t Colonel Mendix there?”

“Yes, he was; this morning.”

“Can you tell me where he is stopping?”

“At the Gilliford House.”

“The Gilliford House?”

“Yes. It is on Broadway near Sixth Avenue. Did you want to see him?”

“I did. Do you suppose he is there now?”

“I don’t know. He intends to start for California soon.”

“So I understand. He has a mine there, I believe.”

“Yes.” The clerk hesitated. “I don’t know much about Colonel Mendix,” he continued.

“Does he live here?”

“Oh, no; he comes from Sacramento City.”

“Thank you. And you think he is up at the Gilliford House?”

“He is if he hasn’t left for the West yet.”

“Did he speak of leaving so soon?”

“I heard him tell Mr. Dodge he might take the train for St. Louis to-day.”

The clerk nodded and then boarded a Broadway car. Oliver stood on the pavement in wonder.

“Might take the train for St. Louis to-day!” he murmured; “and I thought all the while that he intended to stay in New York for some time at least! If he has gone he will have a full day’s start of me, to say nothing of the difference in the trip overland and the one by the way of the isthmus. I wish I was going by train instead.”

After a moment’s reflection, he resolved to go at once to the Gilliford House and see if the colonel had yet departed. If he had, then there was nothing to do but wait for the steamer on Wednesday.

On the corner was a policeman, and the officer quickly directed the boy to the proper elevated road by which he could reach the hotel mentioned. Oliver climbed the steps, procured his ticket, dropped it into the box, and a moment later was aboard the train.

Though he had been to New York a number of times, the ride in the air as it were was somewhat of a novelty to him. He sat in one of the little cross seats in the middle of the car, and thoroughly enjoyed the panorama that swept by—a panorama that was so close to him that he could note every detail.

At length Thirty-third Street was reached. Here Oliver left the train, went down the long stairs, and inquired his way to the Gilliford House.

It was not a long distance off, and in five minutes more he had entered the office.

“Is Colonel Mendix stopping here?” he asked of the clerk at the desk.

The young man looked at the register.

“Yes, sir. Wish to see him?”

Oliver hesitated for a moment.

“Yes, sir.”

“I will send up your card.”

“I—I— He would not know me,” stammered Oliver. “Cannot you say that a young man wishes to see him?”

“Certainly. Just wait a moment. I’ll send right up.”

Oliver took a seat and waited. The bell-boy was gone probably five minutes.

“Colonel Mendix is out,” were the clerk’s words upon his return.

“Have you any idea when he will be back?” asked Oliver, somewhat disappointed, and yet relieved to think he would not have to face the man just then, when he was hardly prepared.

“No, sir.”

Oliver stood for a moment in thought. He would have to remain in New York over that night and the next. Why not stay where he was?

“Can I engage a room here for to-morrow night and to-night?” he asked.

“Certainly. What kind of a room do you desire?”

“Not too high priced.”

“European or American plan?” was the clerk’s question, meaning thereby, as many of my readers know, if he wished it without or including meals.

“European.”

“From one to three dollars.”

“I will take the dollar room, sir.”

“Very well. Pay in advance.”

“I will pay for to-night. If I stay to-morrow I will pay that in the morning.”

Oliver paid the money. He did not wish to arrange for meals at the hotel, for he did not know where he would be during the following day.

“John, show this gentleman to room 234.”

“And if Colonel Mendix comes in, will you let me know?”

“I will if I see him.”

Taking Oliver’s valise, the porter led the way to the elevator, and they were raised to the fifth floor. Number 234 proved to be a cozy room at the rear of the hall. It was well furnished, with all conveniences, even to the pens and ink that stood on a side table.

Throwing off his coat, vest, and hat, the boy took a good wash in the marble bowl and combed his hair. This refreshed him and made his head feel better. Then locking up the room so that his baggage would be safe, he went below to a neighboring restaurant, and procured a light supper.

The sight of the pens and ink in his room made him think of writing a letter to his father, and he spent the best part of the evening doing so. He told of all that had happened, and begged his father not to be angry at his having taken the matter in hand.

The letter finished, Oliver went out and posted it. Upon returning he asked about Colonel Mendix, and was told the gentleman had not yet come back.

At ten o’clock Oliver retired. He was quite worn out, but the strangeness of his situation caused him to sleep but little. At seven o’clock he was dressed and at the desk.

“Colonel Mendix has sent word that his baggage be taken to the depot,” said the clerk. “He took the train last night for the West.”

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.

CHAPTER X.
THE STORM OFF CAPE HATTERAS.

For the moment Oliver could not believe his eyesight. He stared at his chum without saying a word.

“Yes, it is I,” said Gus Gregory finally. “Do you think it is my ghost?”

“Gus!” gasped Oliver. “Where in the world did you come from?”

“Where did you suppose? From Rockvale.”

“And what—what are you doing here?”

“I’m bound for California; going to accompany you.”

“You are! Why—why”—Oliver could not finish the question.

“Don’t try to ask too many questions at once, and perhaps I’ll answer some of them,” laughed the stout boy. “In the first place, I left Rockvale yesterday morning about eleven o’clock. I came at once to New York, and after getting a good bath, so as not to look quite like a tramp, I bought a ticket for this steamer, and here I am.”

“Yes, but do your folks know of all this?”

“Well, I guess not! I wouldn’t be here but for the awful time I had with pop.”

And Gus Gregory shook his head over the remembrance of the occurrence.

“Then you ran away?”

“I suppose you would call it that. But I didn’t run; I couldn’t. I walked, and mighty slow at that!”

“But what made you come away at all?”

“It was all on account of that scrape we got into over at Dr. Tangus’s. On Monday night pop called me into the library, and said he had got a bill of damages from the old man. What do you suppose it was? Forty-five dollars!”

“Forty-five dollars! Phew!” ejaculated Oliver. “That was the whole damage done, I suppose.”

“No; that was only my share. I can tell you father was mad, and he sailed right into me. He had been suffering from a toothache all day, and his temper was none of the best. I can tell you I caught it!”

Gus Gregory drew a deep breath and shifted his shoulders uneasily.

“First it was words and then it came to blows,” he resumed. “At last I said I wished I was a thousand miles from home, and my father took me up and said I could go and never come back; and here I am.”

“But he didn’t mean that, Gus.”

“Never mind, he said it, and I took him up. So that night I packed my grip,—had quite a job, I was in such a tremendous hurry,—and found out all about the steamer and so forth. I left home right after breakfast.

“Just as I passed out of the garden, father saw me, and called out to know where I was going. I told him a thousand miles away, as he had wished. He said I was a fool, and ordered me back. When I didn’t mind, he came running after me. I started up the road, with my eye on him over my shoulder. I didn’t notice a puddle in the way, and the first thing went a-sousing into it. Maybe I wasn’t a sight to behold! I had on my best clothes too!”

Oliver laughed heartily. He could well imagine the scene.

“But you got away?” he asked with deep interest.

“Of course; if I hadn’t I wouldn’t be here. When I reached the station the train had just come in. I jumped aboard, and in a moment we were off. But what a mess I was in! I was mud from head to foot, and my face resembled that of the worst tramp you ever saw! I tried to clean myself as best I could, but nevertheless every one stared at me, and I had the whole seat to myself the entire way.”

“I can see the mud yet,” said Oliver.

“Humph! that isn’t a hundredth part of it. As soon as I reached the city I hunted up a bath, and told the proprietor I had met with an accident, and he fixed me up. But I can tell you, Olly, I don’t want any more such tumbles!”

“And where did you get your money to pay for the trip?” asked Oliver.

“Didn’t I have a hundred dollars that Uncle Dick left me before he started for Australia? I had that and twenty-five dollars besides. I thought you would take this steamer, and as soon as I saw your name on the register, I engaged a berth too.”

“And what do you intend to do when you reach San Francisco?”

“I don’t know yet. But see here, Olly, you don’t act a bit as if you cared to have me with you,” added Gus in injured tones.

“I do care a good deal. But I’m sorry you ran away. What will your father and mother think of it?”

“I sent them a long letter just before we sailed, so they won’t worry.”

“But they will worry, Gus.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I am sorry on mother’s account. To be real candid, if I had stopped to think perhaps I wouldn’t have come at all. But now I am here, and that is all there is to it.”

Oliver shook his head. He knew well enough that once Gus had made up his mind there was no use to argue with him.

“Let us go below,” continued the stout boy; “I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“Never mind; come along.”

So Oliver followed him down the broad steps and along the passageway, and Gus entered a stateroom.

“My stateroom!” cried Oliver. “How did you know it?”

“By the register. It is mine also. We are to be room-mates. Aren’t you glad?”

Glad? Indeed Oliver was. The feeling of loneliness, so acute but a quarter of an hour before, was all gone now.

While they were below, Gus told much of what had passed in Rockvale after Oliver’s departure. To be sure the boy had been gone but two days, yet that was long enough for all the other boys to wonder what had become of him.

Gus’s haste in leaving was amply proven by the contents of his valise, all tumbled in one mess. There were two extra shoes, but they were not mates, and most of the clothing he had brought was just such as he did not desire.

“Humph! the next time I run away I’d better take a week to do it in!” he grumbled. “Did you ever see such a collection? Looks as if I came out of a junk-shop.”

“Never mind; I’ll lend you what I have,” said Oliver. “But my advice is to return home the first landing we make.”

“Not much! I’m bound West ho!”

In a little while the two boys went on deck again. They were now drawing towards Sandy Hook, and the heavy swells made Gus turn a sickly green.

“I suppose it’s about dinner time,” said Oliver; “I feel mighty hungry.”

“I don’t want anything to eat,” replied the stout boy, drawing his mouth tightly together.

“You don’t!”

“No; not a mouthful.”

“Why?”

“Never mind; I don’t, that’s all.”

Oliver gave him a searching glance.

“Gus Gregory, you’re seasick!” he cried.

“Not a bit of it; I’m only a bit dizzy,” was the hopeful reply.

But he had hardly spoken the words before Gus swallowed a lump in his throat and then rushed for the side. Oliver, who felt perfectly well, could not help but laugh.

He went to dinner alone. The table was more than three-quarters deserted—nearly every one was under the weather. When he came from the dining-saloon he found his chum in the stateroom flat on the floor.

“What! as bad as this?” he asked kindly.

“Don’t say a word!” moaned Gus. “I’ll never travel on the water again, never! I wish the steamer was at the bottom of the sea, and myself with it.”

He continued to roll and moan for the rest of the day. Oliver tried to help him in various ways, but it was of no avail. There is nothing to do but to let seasickness run its course.

The boys never forgot that first night on shipboard. Several times Oliver’s head began to swim from the motion, which towards morning grew worse. He slept but little, and was one of the first on deck.

“We are getting into the neighborhood of Cape Hatteras,” said a gentleman standing near. “It is always rough here, but more than usually so now.”

“Why?” asked Oliver.

“Because there is a storm coming up.”

“A storm?”

“Yes; and a heavy one. Look over there at that black mass of clouds. There will be lively times on board to-day.”

The gentleman spoke the truth. In less than a quarter of an hour the sky was heavily overcast, and a heavy rainstorm burst over their heads. Somewhat fearful, Oliver hurried below.

He had often heard of the fearful storms experienced off Cape Hatteras, and wondered if that which was approaching would do the steamship any serious damage.

CHAPTER XI.
MR. WHYLAND.

“My stars! what’s the matter with the ship?” asked Gus, as Oliver entered the stateroom.

“We are going to have a storm,” was the reply; “it’s raining already.”

“Then maybe we will go to the bottom,” groaned Gus. “Or else we’ll turn clear over, see if we don’t.”

He had been feeling just a trifle better, but now he was worse. From looking green he was deadly white, and he shook from head to foot.

“I wish I could do something for you,” said Oliver kindly, for at least the fiftieth time. “But I don’t know of a thing that will help you.”

“It’s a punishment for running away, I suppose. I’ll never be well until we reach land again.”

“Oh, nonsense! You’ll feel all right as soon as this storm clears off.”

Gus made no reply. Oliver remained in the stateroom for a while, and then ventured above to take another observation.

As he stepped on deck a violent gust of wind blew a man’s hat directly toward him. He made a dive for the tile and captured it.

“Hello, there! got it?” sang out a voice, and an instant later the gentleman who had told Oliver that a storm was coming rushed up.

“Yes, sir; here you are.”

“Thanks. My, but this is rough, and no mistake!” The gentleman jammed the hat tightly over his head. “Just look at those waves over there!” And he pointed over to the starboard where the water appeared to be mountainous in its height.

“I trust we will get through in safety,” said Oliver with a shudder. “I have no desire to go to the bottom of the sea.”

“Nor I,” laughed the gentleman. “Traveling alone?” he went on curiously.

“I have a schoolmate with me—that is, we met on board.”

“That very stout young man?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, yes, I see. Rather young to be traveling alone. I am glad to meet you. My name is Thomas Whyland. I suppose we shall be thrown together quite some during the voyage.”

“Are you going to San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m glad to have met you,” said Oliver with a smile. “I do not know a soul but my chum. My name is Oliver Bright.”

The two shook hands. Mr. Whyland appeared to be a pleasant gentleman, and Oliver thought they would be friends. He did not dream how well acquainted they were destined to become.

“Where is your chum now?” asked Mr. Whyland.

“In the stateroom, sick.”

As Oliver spoke a tremendous wave broke over the deck, wetting both him and Mr. Whyland. A moment later one of the deck-hands came forward with word that all the passengers had been ordered below.

“That means us too,” said Mr. Whyland. “Come, let us adjourn to the cabin.”

It was with difficulty that they descended the companionway. When half-way down Oliver slipped, and had it not been for his friend would have rolled to the bottom.

In the cabin they found a motley crowd assembled—mostly passengers who were too frightened to retire to their staterooms. Amongst them was the head steward and two other officers, trying all they could to quiet the fears that were expressed.

“Nothing unusual, sir,” said the steward to Oliver; “I’ve passed through a dozen of ’em.”

“Excuse me; one is enough,” laughed the boy; “and you may depend upon it I will never forget the experience.”

He and Mr. Whyland took a seat well forward, and began to talk over the prospects. Presently Oliver felt a hand on his arm, and turning, saw Gus standing beside him.

“Hello! what brought you out?” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t want to drown alone,” replied the stout boy. “We’re all going to the bottom, do you know it?”

“The officers of the boat say not,” returned Oliver. “They say it is quite an ordinary storm.”

“I call it a most extraordinary, howling, rambunctious cyclone,” said Gus. “I’m expecting the ship to turn clear over any moment.”

Oliver introduced his companion to Mr. Whyland, and their mutual sympathy soon placed them on the plane of friendship. But Gus was too sick to remain long, and before a great while retired again to the stateroom, whither he was presently followed by Oliver.

“What do you think of Mr. Whyland?” asked the latter.

“Very nice man,” returned Gus. “I’d like him still better if he would only order this storm to stop. Creation! it seems to me I’d give all I’m worth to be on land once more!”

“Then you don’t think you would care to be a sailor, to sail the briny deep?” asked Oliver with a smile.

“Sailor!” Gus uttered the word in deep disgust.

“Yes. It’s a splendid life—at least so the novelists say.”

“Humph! I guess those novelists never saw the blue and black water, or they wouldn’t put down any such nonsense! No, sir! this is my first and last trip on the flowing sea. As Paddy said, ‘The next time I ship I’ll travel be land!’”

“Which means that when you return home you’ll do so overland.”

“If I’m ever allowed to return home, which I very much doubt, if this confounded storm keeps up.”

“Oh, it isn’t so bad, Gus.” Oliver mused for a moment, while Gus turned on the berth with a groan. “I wonder if Mr. Whyland is acquainted in San Francisco.”

“Why?”

“If he is, he may be able to give me considerable information about the place.”

“It isn’t likely that he ever heard of this Colonel Mendix.”

“Oh, I suppose not; but he will know about the mining exchange and all that, and that is what I must learn about. They must know something of Mendix. He couldn’t keep that mine a secret so long out there.”

“Suppose you can’t find out a single thing in San Francisco, what then?”

“It will be a disappointment, but I shall not give up. I will make a hunt up the river upon which it is said to be situated. Sooner or later I am bound to stumble upon a clew.”

“I admire your grit, Olly. You deserve success.”

“And I’ll obtain it, mark my word, Gus.”

During the afternoon, instead of abating, the storm grew wilder. The sky became even blacker than before, and all the lanterns were lit. The wind shrieked through the rigging and across the deck, and everything that was loose and light was carried over the rail.

Seated on the edge of the lower berth the two boys talked in a low tone. Sleep was out of the question, and, as Gus expressed it, somehow speech made them more courageous.

“We must be near Cape Hatteras,” said Oliver. “If we—”

He did not finish the sentence, for at that instant a terrible shock was felt that sent both boys sprawling to the other side of the stateroom. There was a crashing and a tearing, and they heard piercing cries of alarm. What did it mean?

CHAPTER XII.
ARRIVAL AT ASPINWALL.

Both boys were frightened at the terrific shock they experienced while in the stateroom. Gus had the wind completely knocked out of him, and Oliver was little better off.

“What can it mean?” cried Oliver as he scrambled to his feet.

“Guess we’ve smashed on the rocks!” groaned the stout youth. “Told you we’d go to the bottom.”

“If we have, I’m not going to stay below any longer. Come, let us go on deck.”

Oliver helped Gus to regain his feet, and trembling with excitement as well as fear, they made their way to the cabin. Here nearly all the passengers were assembled, most of them in a high state of excitement.

Among the crowd was Mr. Whyland, who quickly joined the boys.

“What is it? What have we struck?” asked Oliver anxiously.

“I do not know. It was a fearful blow.”

“Are we going to the bottom?”

“Hardly. These steamers are very strongly built. I’ll go on deck and find out.”

But at the companionway he was stopped.

“No one allowed on deck,” said the man in charge of the stairs. “There is no danger, sir.”

“What did we strike?”

“Struck a small freight schooner, and carried away her bow.”

“Did she sink?”

“Oh, no. But we are steaming near her so as to be on the safe side.”

This news was heard by every one who stood around, and its effect was to quiet the fearful ones. Many wondered if the schooner was seriously damaged, and if she would be able to continue her voyage.

It is safe to say that there was little or no sleep that night for those on board the steamer. Towards morning the storm cleared off, and the sun rose bright as ever.

“Well, I never!” declared Gus. “The scene has changed as quickly as it does in a panorama!”

Now that the dreadful rolling had ceased, he felt better, and Oliver was glad to see him indulge in a fair-sized breakfast.

The meal finished, they went on deck. The freight schooner that had been struck was nowhere to be seen. Inquiries brought the information that she had not been seriously damaged and had gone on her way.

The two boys found the day rather monotonous. Look where they might, nothing could be seen but sky and water, the one nearly as blue as the other.

“Blue all around makes one feel blue,” remarked Gus. “But I’m thankful I’m over that awful seasickness. If it had kept up much longer I believe I would have died.”

“No one ever dies of seasickness,” said Mr. Whyland, who had come up. “Your health will be better after this dose.”

“Well, it ought to be,” laughed Gus. “I’ve suffered enough. I ought to have some reward.”

“But we do not always get what we deserve in this world,” responded the gentleman, and for a moment a light shadow swept across his brow. “Sometimes both evil and good pass us by.”

At dinner Oliver did full justice to what was passed to him. Gus felt decidedly strange, and it was some time before he could get into the peculiar way of eating that was prevalent. Everything that he had, seemed to be inclined to slide into his lap.

“We can’t stand on much ceremony,” he said. “I think this chicken leg is better in my stomach than on the floor, so here goes.” And he took the extremity of the fowl between his fingers and ate it that way.

That day and the next passed slowly. Gus was of the opinion they would stop at some place before reaching Aspinwall, but in this he was mistaken. They passed close to the coast of Florida, so close in fact that the sandy shore with the tall and waving trees and bushes could be distinctly seen. On the following day they took the course between Cuba and Yucatan, passing not far from the latter on account of the tide. They were now in the Caribbean Sea, with the Bay of Honduras behind them.

“Looks very much like any other bay or gulf, I suppose,” observed Gus, as he and Oliver stood by the rail watching some sea-gulls as they winged their way around the ship.

“I guess water looks very much the same in all parts of the earth,” was Oliver’s reply.

“Mostly,” put in Mr. Whyland, who had overheard the last words; “although there are some places where it is quite different. Lake Como in Switzerland is as blue as indigo; the waters of some South American rivers are intensely green; and then there are the Red and Black Seas—so called from their general appearance.”

“I should like to see them all,” returned Oliver. “Some day, if I am able, I intend to become a great traveler.”

“It is very pleasant,” said the gentleman. “But it takes a lot of money, I can assure you.”

Early on the day following, land somewhere on the isthmus was seen; and late in the afternoon they steamed into the harbor at Aspinwall, and dropped anchor. The boys were eager to go ashore, but were told that no passengers would be allowed to land until the following morning.

“Well, so much of the journey is done,” said Oliver. “How I wish this was San Francisco Bay!”

“I don’t know as I do,” returned Gus. “Now that I’ve got over that nasty seasickness, I rather enjoy the trip.”

“I would too, if I didn’t have anything on my mind.”

“Well, you ought not to let that interfere. Worry won’t do any good.”

In the fast approaching darkness but little could be seen. The boys were sure Aspinwall was a poorly illuminated town, so few lights could be distinguished. They went below and made all necessary preparations for leaving the steamer.

The evening passed quickly. At ten o’clock the boys turned in so as to be on hand bright and early.

And on hand they were. At ten o’clock both stepped out on the dock and walked slowly up the narrow and dirty street.

“Humph! not much of a city,” said Gus. “See the funny houses all on stilts!”

“I suppose they build them that way to keep from getting flooded out when it rains,” laughed Oliver; “or else the sea may occasionally drive in too far.”

“I would not care to see myself living here. My, how muddy it is! I guess they haven’t much of a street-cleaning department.”

From one of the officers of the ship the boys learned that, in order to make connections with the steamer at Panama, they would have to take the train for that port on the following morning.

“That will give us a whole day in this place,” said Oliver. “Come, let us start out on a voyage of discovery.”

Gus was nothing loath, and they set out. They passed down the main street, where they discovered several fine-looking hotels,—quite in contrast with their shabby surroundings,—and then turned down another road close beside the water.

Most all of the people they met were either Spaniards, Frenchmen, or natives. But few Americans were to be seen, and this made both boys feel more strange than did all the other surroundings.

“We are in a different country, and no mistake,” said Oliver. “See what queer ways the folks have! It makes me feel like a cat in a strange garret!”

Presently they drifted into quite a crowd that lined a wharf where a large boat was discharging fruit. Anxious to see what was going on, they pressed their way to the front until a tall Spaniard with a long whip rushed out, and jabbering at all the strangers, drove them off.

“Not a very sociable fellow,” grunted Gus. “By crickety! I thought he was going to fetch me one across the legs!”

It was now getting toward noon, and both boys were hungry. Oliver was for going back to the steamer for dinner, but Gus persuaded him to enter one of the strange eating-houses kept by a native.

“I want to see what kind of stuff they furnish,” he explained.

“All right. Only you must order,” replied Oliver.

So Gus ordered dinner as best he could. While they were waiting for it to be brought both boys felt in their pockets for money to pay for it. Neither had so much as a cent!

CHAPTER XIII.
MR. WHYLAND’S STORY.

“Have you any money?” gasped Gus.

“No,” returned Oliver; and he added, “I have been robbed! I had nearly two dollars in change when I left the steamer.”

“Then I am luckier than you, for I remember now that I left my purse in my valise. What are we to do?”

“I don’t know,” returned Oliver blankly. “I’ll bet I was robbed down in that crowd at the wharf.”

“Most likely.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t have more with me. I suppose I’ll never see that money again.”

“You’re right. To get it back would probably be more bother than it is worth. Still, I would tell the captain when we get back.”

“I certainly shall. In the meanwhile how are we to pay for our meal here?”

“I suppose we had better not eat it. Let us tell the waiter what has happened.”

In a moment more the Frenchman who had taken their order appeared, his tray piled high with dishes. Gus told their story, and motioned as if to go away. Evidently the man did not understand the stout youth, for his face grew dark.

“You have ordered the meal; you must pay for it,” he said in French.

Of course Gus did not understand him, and only shook his head. This made the man angry, and he called the proprietor, and the two talked to both boys in a high pitch of voice. Oliver turned his pockets inside out and Gus did the same, but even this had no effect save to make the proprietor of the place grow pale with passion.

“It’s no use,” cried Oliver. “They think we are only trying to fool them, that we never intended to take dinner here. What in the world shall we do?”

“I don’t know.” Gus gave a gasp. “I wonder if they will dare to have us arrested?”

“Arrested? Oh, I trust not!” Oliver looked about him in deep perplexity; “but I cannot imagine what is best to do.”

At that instant the boy’s gaze was turned towards the door, and he was overjoyed to see Mr. Whyland enter. Breaking from the group, he ran up to him.

“Oh, Mr. Whyland, how glad I am that you came in!” he exclaimed. “My friend and I have got into an awful muss.”

“Is that so? What is the trouble?”

As briefly as he could Oliver related the misfortune that had overtaken himself and Gus. Mr. Whyland listened attentively.

“It is too bad you have had your money stolen,” he said. “There is no use in trying to recover it. It would certainly take more time and trouble than it is worth. You must be more careful in the future.”

“I intend to be. But what shall I do here? The proprietor insists that I want to cheat him or else am fooling him.”

“I will pay the bill. I suppose travelers often impose upon him and he has grown suspicious. I will speak to him in French.”

Mr. Whyland was as good as his word. The restaurant keeper listened closely, and then began to bow and smile, and sent the waiter off for more stuff.

“I have told him that I will settle the bill and that I will have dinner with you,” explained Mr. Whyland. “He says only last week a party of three Americans came in and fooled him, and he thought you belonged to the same crowd.”

“They ought to have been ashamed of themselves,” sniffed Gus. “Might have got us into a terrible mess.”

“Yes; Americans away from home ought to be more circumspect in their actions. A few of them can give the entire nation a bad name.”

The things that Mr. Whyland had ordered were not long in coming, and then the three sat down. It was a somewhat different meal from what they had been accustomed to at home, yet not enough so to make it noticeable.

“These people are very quick to remember how Americans like things served,” said Mr. Whyland. “That is why you do not notice any great difference from a Broadway restaurant.”

The meal finished, their friend settled the bill as he had agreed. Oliver and Gus thanked him, and the former promised to pay back their share as soon as the steamer was reached.

“There is no need to trouble yourself. It was but fifty cents—twenty-five apiece,” said Mr. Whyland. “What were you young men doing? taking a look around?”

“Yes,” replied Oliver; “but there doesn’t seem to be much to see.”

“You are right; Aspinwall is not a very attractive city—that is, by comparison with what we have left. It is almost too unhealthy to thrive.”

On the way back to the steamer the three became even better acquainted than before. The gentleman asked where the two boys were bound, and stepped back in astonishment when Oliver, in a burst of confidence, told him that, while Gus was off merely for a trip, he himself was in quest of a hidden mine in California.

“Surely, surely you are joking!” gasped Mr. Whyland.

“No, sir; I am telling the truth,” affirmed Oliver. “I would not tell you at all, but you have been so kind to me.”

“And may I ask where this mine is situated—in what direction?”

“It is somewhere on the Mokelumne River.”

“And is it called the Aurora Mine?” continued Mr. Whyland with intense interest.

“It is!” cried Oliver. “But how did you know the name?”

“I am looking for the same mine myself.”

“You!”

“Exactly. Do you know the owner of the claim?”

“My father owns the claim,” replied Oliver decidedly.

“But Colonel Mendix”—

“Do you know that man?” asked Oliver quickly.

“Quite well, although I have not seen him for two years. He sold me a quarter interest in the mine for ten thousand dollars, and then he disappeared.”

“My father gave him a quarter interest to open up the mine for him. That must be the interest he sold you. You say you have not seen Colonel Mendix for two years; I saw him in New York the day before we sailed.”

“Is it possible?”

“I tried to meet him to have a talk with him; but before I could do so he took the train for the West.”

Mr. Whyland was astonished over what Oliver had to say. He asked the boy to tell his story, and as Oliver could see no harm in so doing, he complied.

“From what you say we are undoubtedly on the same errand,” remarked Mr. Whyland when he had finished. “You are searching for your father’s share, and I am searching for the share given to Colonel Mendix, which that individual transferred to me. It is most fortunate that we met. If you have no objection we will work together.”

“I shall be happy to do so, Mr. Whyland. You are a man, and a man can, as a rule, do more than a boy.”

“But I take you to be a remarkably bright boy,” laughed the gentleman. “I am sure we will get along famously together. I have not much to tell, excepting that I met Colonel Mendix in Boston, where he was introduced to me by James Barr, the surveyor you have mentioned. By Mr. Barr’s advice I invested in the mine. I waited for a long time to hear from the two, but never did. Other business claimed my attention. But now I am free to hunt the matter up, and I intend to do so. The amount at stake is not a large one to me; but still I wish to learn positively whether I have been swindled or not.”

“The amount is a good deal to my father,” said Oliver. “He has lost all of his other property, and this is his last hope.”

“Then I trust that for his sake as well as for my own the mine proves of value.”

“You’ve got to find it first,” put in Gus. “Remember the old saying about counting chickens before they are hatched.”

“I would say, don’t count the eggs before they are found,” laughed Mr. Whyland. “But we will trust for the best.”

The three talked over the situation for a long time. Oliver was glad that he had run across Mr. Whyland. It would undoubtedly lighten his task to a great degree. The gentleman was experienced and rich, and that would count for a good deal in what was to come.

The remainder of the day passed quickly. In the evening they went aboard of the steamer for the last time. All slept soundly, and were up at a seasonable hour.

“What an odd little railroad!” remarked Gus, as they boarded the train in the morning. “Only a single track.”

“It is only about forty-eight miles long,” said Mr. Whyland, “but it cost an enormous sum of money to build.”

Soon there was a tremendous jerk, and they were off on the trip across the isthmus. Oliver looked out of the window at the marshy ground, and the rank pools of stagnant water.

Suddenly they came to a sharp stop. What was up now?

CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE WILDS OF THE ISTHMUS.

Oliver calculated that they had been traveling not more than an hour when the sudden stoppage occurred. The shock was so great it threw him up against the seat in front of him, and awoke Gus from a comfortable nap.

“What’s the matter?” exclaimed the stout youth in alarm.

“I don’t know,” was Oliver’s reply. “Something wrong ahead, I suppose.”

“Perhaps part of the roadbed has sunk,” suggested Mr. Whyland, who sat on the other side of the aisle. “I understand such a thing frequently occurs here.”

They all sat quiet for ten minutes. By this time one and another of the passengers began to get out, and finally the three joined them, and walked up to where the engine stood, blowing off steam.

Mr. Whyland’s surmise proved correct. Not fifty feet distant the rails of the road were submerged in a murky pool of foul-smelling water. The length of the depression was about one hundred feet, and its greatest depth a foot and a half.

Already a gang of native laborers were at work repairing the damage. There were a dozen or more of them, but they worked so slowly that hardly any progress was made.

“Seems to me if I was overseer here I would hurry those men up,” remarked Gus, after they had watched the proceedings for some time.

“They cannot hurry much,” said Mr. Whyland. “The climate is against them. I doubt if you could stand the work more than an hour. Come, let us get away from that pool. It is a regular hotbed of fever.”

“I wonder how long this will delay us?” said Oliver, as they walked back to the car.

“Suppose we ask the conductor?” said Gus.

After some little trouble they found the man, who was surrounded by a crowd of passengers, all eager to know what would be the result of the delay.

“We will go through as soon as possible,” he replied. “The men will work hard, and I think in two hours, or three at the most, we will be able to move.”

“Three hours!” exclaimed Oliver. “That is quite a time.”

“Let us spend it in exploring the vicinity,” suggested Gus.

Oliver was agreeable. Mr. Whyland did not care to go, but sat down to read a magazine, and the two boys started off alone.

“We won’t go far,” said Oliver. “I suppose they will blow the whistle before they start, so that we can get back.”

In five minutes the boys were in a veritable forest. On every side could be seen tall palms, interspersed with cocoa, sycamore, and other tropical trees. Beneath their feet grew a rank vegetation, and wherever there was a bit of water, gorgeous lilies sprang up, the like of which they had never before beheld.

And the birds and monkeys overhead! Never had they seen such a sight, and it seemed they would never get done wondering over it. Every tree was full, and the air resounded with sweet song and senseless chatter.

“Those monkeys beat any menagerie show I ever saw!” declared Gus, as they stood watching two old fellows, who had evidently got into a dispute over the ownership of a particular cocoanut.

“My, just hear them call each other names! See, now the black has got it! But the red won’t let him keep it. See, he has it now, and is going to break it open. There! the black has it again, and he—well, by crickety!”

As Gus uttered the last word he dodged, and just in time. The monkey who held the nut had discovered that he was being watched, and without ceremony had hurled the nut at the stout youth’s head.

“Thank you for the nut,” said Gus, picking it up and bowing in mock politeness, “but next time please don’t present it so forcibly.”

Going to a tree, he endeavored to break the shell of the cocoanut by hammering the article against the trunk. As he did so, two more nuts landed beside him.

“Hello! what does this mean?” he exclaimed. “Did I knock those down?”

“No, you didn’t; they threw them,” replied Oliver. “We had better get out of here before we have our heads cracked open. Look out!” and he dodged just as a perfect volley came raining down.

One of the nuts just grazed Gus’s ear, causing him to cry out with pain. He dropped the nut he held and ran across the clearing, followed by Oliver.

“By crickety! but that was a narrow escape!” he cried when they were once more safe. “If one of those nuts had hit us, it would have ended our existence right then and there.”

“It will teach us a lesson to mind our own business,” returned Oliver. “I suppose that monkey thought we had no right to spy into his affairs.”

“I would like to own a monkey,” observed Gus; “that is, one that is peaceful. I always thought them so cute.”

“They are cute, but not always in the way you imagine. Come, I suppose we ought to be getting back.”

“Oh, there is lots of time! Why, we haven’t been gone half an hour yet. Just wait; I want to pick some of those splendid flowers growing near that pond.”

“I wouldn’t, Gus; for all you know they may be poisonous.”

“Do you think they are? They are awfully pretty.”

“I don’t know; but they might be, and you had better be on the safe side.”

“I’ll get just one of each. Here, let me have your knife.” Gus took Oliver’s knife and cut off the flowers he wished. “Phew, what a nasty smell!” he cried in disgust. “That’s the worst of it, with so many pretty flowers. The smell—oh, my! how they burn! My hand is on fire!”

He threw the flowers away from him and danced around in pain, shaking his hands in the air.

“Oh, I hope you have not been poisoned!” cried Oliver. “Go wash your hands in the pool.”

“You won’t catch me fooling around any flowers again; that is, strange ones,” said Gus, as he did as directed. “My, what a nasty place this is! No wonder the railroads have to offer a man a small fortune to work for them. I wouldn’t—Oh, Oliver, look! what is that?” And straightening up, the stout youth pointed to the opposite side of the bit of water. “It looked like the head of a turtle or something,” he went on. “I wonder if there are any turtles here?”

“I don’t see why there shouldn’t be. Still it might have been something else. Let us go.”

“Wait till I have a shy at it with this gourd.” Gus poised the gourd in his hand and let drive. “There! I reckon I hit him. Oh, my stars!”

Gus tumbled back in great haste, and Oliver did the same. The supposed turtle’s head had suddenly lifted, and there was revealed a hissing snake, fully eight feet long.

“A snake!” cried both.

For an instant the reptile seemed to stand nearly upright, its eyes glittering, and its slimy body quivering with anger. Then with a final hiss it darted headfirst into the pool and disappeared.

“Huh! that gives me a chill!” cried Gus. “I wonder where he has gone?”

“Perhaps he is coming after us,” replied Oliver. “Let us get out of here as fast as we can.”

“I don’t think he will make his appearance again, but still we had better go. There may be more.”

“There are!” cried Oliver. “See there!” He pointed almost under their feet and pulled Gus away. “That is the same or his mate. Let us run for it.”

There was no necessity for the last words, for both were running as fast as the nature of the ground would permit. The snake followed for a short distance, and then was lost to view.

But the boys kept right on, and it was not until both found themselves in a perfect labyrinth of undergrowth that they slackened their pace and finally came to a stop.

“Thank Heaven we have got away from him,” exclaimed Gus, puffing to catch his breath. “Huh! I can almost feel him coiling around my body!”

“So can I,” returned Oliver. “Of all things to meet I think a snake is the worst. I would just as lief encounter a tiger or a lion.”

“Let us get back at once,” said Gus; “I won’t feel safe until I am in the car, and when I am you won’t catch me leaving the train again until we arrive at Panama.”

“Just my sentiments,” rejoined Oliver. “Let us—”

He stopped short. “Where are we?”

Both suddenly gazed around them in alarm. Which way should they turn? Neither knew. They were lost in the forest!

CHAPTER XV.
AN ADVENTURE ON THE ISTHMUS.

Lost in the forest! Oliver and Gus looked at each other with blanched faces. Here indeed was a sorry situation. What was to be done?

On every side could be seen nothing but the dense undergrowth and tall trees. They might be only a hundred feet from the railroad, or they might be a mile away.

“We were very foolish not to note the path,” said Oliver. “Have you any idea which way we ought to turn?”

“I have not, excepting that we might trace the way back to that pool,” answered Gus. “And I don’t want to do that if I can help it,” he added with a shudder. “I’d rather tramp five miles than face those snakes again.”

“So would I. But we must try some way. Here, let us see if we cannot get our bearings by the sun. Now, I think this is the right direction,” went on Oliver, after a careful survey of the light overhead.

“And I think it is this way,” affirmed Gus, pointing out a course directly at right angles with the other. “Come, let us try that opening beyond.”

Gus insisted that he was right, and somewhat against his will, Oliver followed his chum. They crossed the clearing, and then plunged into another mass of bushes and vines, the stout lad leading.

“Hold up!” he shouted suddenly. “Don’t come any farther, or you’ll get into a regular bog-hole!” And he turned and hastily scrambled back to where Oliver stood.

“It’s lucky I stopped where I did,” he went on; “if we hadn’t we would have got into a pool worse than the other one was. My! what a beastly place this is!”

More dismayed than ever, they made their way back to the clearing. Something must be done, but what?

“If we don’t get back soon, the train will leave without us,” said Oliver. “Come, let us try the direction I thought was right.” And off they started as fast as they could.

It was miserable walking, and before they had proceeded a hundred steps both had their feet wet, and unfortunate Gus had his coat torn in a dozen places.

“It’s positively the worst place I ever got into!” he groaned. “If we don’t get out soon I won’t have a patch of clothing left.”

On and on they went, until Oliver called a halt.

“No use to go farther. If this was the right road we would have crossed the track long ago. We are going wrong, and that is all there is to it.”

“But what shall we do?” demanded Gus, more dismayed than ever. “We can’t stand still here.”

Oliver leaned against a tree. Truly their position was far from enviable. Suppose they should be left, what would they do when night came on?

“I don’t know,” he replied in a low voice. “If we could only—hark! what is that?”

Both listened intently. From a distance came the unmistakable sound of a steam-whistle.

“It’s the locomotive!” cried Gus. “They are getting ready to start!”

“Hurry up,” cried Oliver. “Come, this way.”

And he sprang off through the bushes at the top of his speed. It was a rough journey, but what was that compared to the agonizing thought that they might be left behind?

Fortunately the steam-whistle continued sounding, and it proved a good guide; for in ten minutes more they reached the railroad track, and just beyond stood the train, all ready to start.

“Thank fortune!” cried Oliver, and he waved his hand to the conductor to wait for them.

In another moment they were safe on board and in their seats, and then the train with a final warning moved off.

“Where have you two been?” asked Mr. Whyland, gazing in astonishment at their torn clothing and wet feet; “I was very much afraid you might miss the train.”

“You weren’t half as much scared about it as we were,” responded Gus ruefully.

Oliver told their story. Mr. Whyland smiled, but shook his head.

“Both of you want to be more careful,” he said. “Those flowers may have been poisonous, and also the snakes. It is well enough to go out on a tour of inspection, but one must be mighty cautious.”

“I’ll not leave the car until we reach Panama,” affirmed Gus, and he was as good as his word.

The train moved along slowly, as if feeling its way. Gus said he could very well walk about as fast; but when Oliver suggested that he get out and try it, the stout youth begged to be excused.

On the way they passed a number of villages, none of them very large, and many of them merely a collection of bamboo huts, with a big pole in the center, and covered over for the most part with palm leaves. The natives appeared to be quite respectable, but not over fond of work. Here and there a group could be seen moving slowly about, and singing to themselves; or they were to be found in a corner dozing, or contentedly smoking their tobacco.

“It’s a lazy life,” said Oliver, “but I suppose the climate has something to do with it.”

“It has everything to do with it,” replied Mr. Whyland. “Still, the people here are more industrious than they used to be before the railroad was built.”

Once the train came to a standstill. It was a sort of a station, and on the platform stood a number of the natives of the place—tall, and not bad-looking fellows.

One of them held an immense quantity of small wares by a string over his shoulder, and was trying to dispose of them. He approached the window at which Oliver and Gus were sitting, and could hardly be made to take “no” for an answer.

“I don’t want any,” said Gus, for at least the tenth time.

“Si caballeros,” the native insisted. “Yes, gentlemen, only feety centa.”

To get rid of the fellow they at last closed the window, and then the man went off in apparent anger.

“They have an idea down here that all Americans are rich, and free to spend their money,” said Mr. Whyland. “The same idea prevails in Europe, and American tourists are generally made to pay a little more for what they purchase than other folks.”

“I wouldn’t mind having some of the things he had to sell, but I have no money to spare,” remarked Oliver.

“Just my case,” put in Gus. “And it makes me mad enough to have to say no, without having some one insist the other way.”

The remainder of the journey took but a short while. Soon the train rolled past a number of ancient and squalid-looking houses, and Mr. Whyland announced that they had reached the outskirts of Panama.

But around the odd-looking station things were not so bad. To be sure all was new and strange to the boys, and they kept their eyes wide open for all such sights.

“They often have most outrageous bull-fights here,” said Mr. Whyland as they alighted.

“I should like to see one,” rejoined Gus. “Not that I would enjoy the sport, but it would be so strange.”

“I would not care to go,” put in Oliver. “I think it is too cruel!”

“It is the height of cruelty,” responded Mr. Whyland. “I went once. It was held on a Sunday, and a friend insisted that I should accompany him. When the poor beasts were brought out, and a number of things done to enrage them, I was disgusted; and when the fight began I grew sick, not only at heart, but physically as well. What sport there is in the thing I cannot see.”