your life is to be forfeited,
it is not too late to save the soul, for Jesus is able and willing to
save to the uttermost. But I want to comfort you with the assurance
that I will spare no effort to save you. Many of the diggers are not
very anxious that you should bear the extreme punishment of the law, and
I think Gashford may be bought over. If so, I need not tell you that my
little private store hidden away under the pine-tree--"

"There is no such store, Fred," interrupted Tom, with a haggard look of
shame.

"What do you mean, Tom?"

"I mean that I gambled it all away unknown to you. Oh! Fred, you do
not--you cannot know what a fearful temptation gambling is when given
way to, especially when backed by drink. No, it's of no use your trying
to comfort me. I do believe, now, that I deserve to die."

"Whatever you deserve, Tom, it is my business to save you, if I can--
both body and soul; and what you now tell me does not alter my
intentions or my hopes. By the way, does Gashford know about this?"

"Yes, he knows that I have taken your money."

"And that's the reason," said Gashford himself, coming up at the moment,
"that I advised you not to be too soft on your chum, for he's a bad lot
altogether."

"Is the man who knows of a crime, and connives at it, and does not
reveal it, a much better `lot'?" demanded Fred, with some indignation.

"Perhaps not," replied Gashford, with a short laugh; "but as I never set
up for a good lot, you see, there's no need to discuss the subject.
Now, fall to the rear, my young blade. Remember that I'm in command of
this party, and you know, or ought to know, that I suffer no insolence
in those under me."

Poor Fred fell back at once, bitterly regretting that he had spoken out,
and thus injured to some extent his influence with the only man who had
the power to aid his condemned friend.

It was near sunset when they reached Pine Tree Diggings. Tom Brixton
was thrust into a strong blockhouse, used chiefly as a powder magazine,
but sometimes as a prison, the key of which was kept on that occasion in
Gashford's pocket, while a trusty sentinel paced before the door.

That night Fred Westly sat in his tent, the personification of despair.
True, he had not failed all along to lay his friend's case before God,
and, up to this point, strong hope had sustained him; but now, the only
means by which he had trusted to accomplish his end were gone. The
hidden hoard, on which he