"Aren't you tired, after your long tramp?"

"No. Besides, I am so anxious that I can't rest."

"Very well. I'll write the letter at once."

After dinner Fred started out, this time on a shorter journey, bearing a
letter to Mr. Baxter, explaining matters.

Fred found the old gold hunter in his garden, pulling weeds from an
onion patch.

"Well?" he asked, as Fred came up the walk.

"Here is a letter for you, Mr. Baxter."

The old miner read it through slowly. Then he started on it a second
time. Finally, when he had again gotten to the end, he asked:

"Are you Fred Stanley?"

"I am, sir."

"And you want me to leave my quiet life here, let my garden all grow up
to weeds, and go chasing off to Alaska after a lot of gold that we'll
probably never find."

"We might find it; and, as for the garden, isn't there some one you can
leave in charge?"

"Nobody knows how to take care of my garden but myself," said the man.
"Especially my onion bed. I'm very fond of onions. Are you?"

"No, sir, I don't like them."

"Great mistake! Great mistake! Everyone ought to eat onions. They're the
healthiest vegetable that grows. Guess I'll have one now," and he pulled
a green one from the ground, wiped the earth from it, and chewed it with
every indication of satisfaction.

"But--about the gold expedition," said Fred, thinking the old man had
forgotten all about it.

"The gold? Oh, yes. I was thinking whether I hadn't better plant more
onions. It hardly seems enough to tide me over the winter, but I'll have
to make 'em do. The gold, hum--let me see."

He got up from his knees, read Mr. Stanley's letter over again, folded
it carefully, placed it in the envelope, placed the envelope in his
pocket, and then said:

"Come into the house, young man."

CHAPTER VII

OFF FOR ALASKA

Striding on ahead, Mr. Baxter led the way to the porch of a fine country
house. Fred followed, hardly knowing what to think. Certainly the man's
manner was not very encouraging, but the boy had not yet lost hope.

"Sit down," said the old gold hunter, indicating a big chair on the
porch. Fred took it, and Mr. Baxter seated himself near the boy. Then he
read the letter over again.

"How's your father?" he asked suddenly, as though that was the chief
matter in his mind.

"Not very well."

"I'm sorry to hear that. He's a fine man."

Then Mr. Baxter seemed lost in thought.

"How much gold did Stults bury?" he asked at length.

"I don