so, at any rate, he believed. He had
found it in the morning in the exact spot where he had placed it
overnight, and yet--

Bill Crane took another look at the contents of the bag, hoping that he
had been deceived by some ocular delusion, but the second examination
brought him no comfort. He sank back, feeling in a state of mental and
bodily collapse.

Never was poor thief so utterly bewildered as Bill Crane. He could
almost believe that some magical transformation had been practiced at
his expense. Was it possible, he thought, that John Miles, discovering
his loss, had visited him, and played this trick upon him? He could not
believe this. It was not in accordance with John's direct,
straightforward nature. Instead of acting in this secret manner, he
would have sternly charged Crane with the robbery, and punished him on
the spot. Leaving him out of the account, then, the mystery deepened. It
never occurred to Crane to suspect the Chinamen who had so hospitably
furnished him with a cup of tea. Even if they had come into his mind, he
would have been puzzled to account for their knowledge of his having the
bag in his possession.

Bill Crane was decidedly unhappy. His glowing anticipations of
prosperity, based upon the capital contained in the bag, were rudely
broken in upon, and the airy fabric of his hopes dashed to the ground.
He felt that fortune had been unkind--that he was a deeply injured man.
Had his claim to the stolen property been the best possible, he could
not have felt the injustice of fate more keenly.

"It's always the way!" he exclaimed in deep dejection. "I always was
unlucky. Just as I thought I was on my feet again, this cursed gold-dust
turns to sand. Here am I out in the wilderness without an ounce to my
name. I don't know what to do. I'd give a good deal, if I had it, to
find out what became of the gold-dust."

As he spoke, Crane, in a fit of ill-temper, kicked the unlucky bag to a
distance, and slowly and disconsolately mounting his horse, plodded on
his way. All his cheerfulness was gone. It was some comfort, but still
scant, to think that John Miles was as unlucky as himself. Both had
become penniless tramps, and were alike the sport of Fortune. There was
a difference in respect to their desert, however. John Miles may
rightly claim the reader's sympathy, while Bill Crane must be considered
to have met with a disaster which he richly deserved.

CHAPTER IX.

CLEANED OUT.

John Mi