r there without
fear of being challenged as an intruder; for among the men inside are
many in coarse garb, some of them not so respectably apparelled as
himself. But what would be the use of his going into a restaurant
without even a penny in his pockets? He could only gaze at dishes he
may not eat, and dare not call for. He remembers his late discomfiture
too keenly to risk having it repeated.

Thus reflecting, he turns his back upon the tables so temptingly spread,
and keeps on along the street.

Again the double question recurs: Where is he to get supper, and where
sleep?

And again he regrets not having given his confidence to the young
gentlemen, and told them of the "fix" he was in. Either would have
relieved him on the instant, without a word. But it is too late now to
think of it, or hope seeing them in the streets. By this time, in all
likelihood, they have started back to their ship.

How he wishes himself aboard the _Crusader_! How happy he would feel in
her forecastle, among his old shipmates! It cannot be; and therefore it
is idle to ponder upon it.

What on earth is he to do?

A thought strikes him.

It is of the ship-agent whose card Crozier left with him, and which he
has thrust into his coat-pocket. He draws the bit of pasteboard out,
and holds it up to a street-lamp, to make himself acquainted with the
ship-agent's address. The name he remembers, and needs not that.

Though but a common sailor, Harry is not altogether illiterate. The
seaport town where he first saw the light had a public school for the
poorer people, in which he was taught to read and write. By the former
of these elementary branches--supplemented by a smattering of Spanish,
picked up in South American ports--he is enabled to decipher the writing
upon the card--for it is in writing--and so gets the correct address,
both the street and number.

Having returned it to his pocket, he buttons up his dreadnought; and,
taking a fresh hitch at his duck trousers, starts off again--this time
with fixed intent: to find Don Tomas Silvestre.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE "HELL" EL DORADO.

A Monte Bank in the city of San Francisco, in the establishment y-cleped
"El Dorado"--partly drinking-house, for the rest devoted to gambling on
the grandest scale. The two are carried on simultaneously, and in a
large oblong saloon. The portion of it devoted to Bacchus is at the end
farthest from the entrance-door; where the shrin