, not to be
obliged to sleep in a tent--and San Francisco nights are cold. Five
dollars each, please."

"Certainly," said Mr. Adams; and he and Mr. Grigsby settled for the
party.

"Well," remarked Mr. Grigsby, when the hotel man alertly left, "I've
been in worse quarters."

"Don't bump your head," warned Mr. Adams.

It was a dormer room. The ceiling, of bare rafters, sloped sharply.
The walls also were bare, made of unsurfaced boards, warped and
cracked. There were two "beds": one a low bunk, home-made and solid
but not pretty, the other a wobbly canvas cot. Each had a pair of gray
blankets as bedclothes. There were a couple of rickety chairs, a
home-made table bearing a wash pitcher and a tin basin, with a towel
hanging from a nail over it, beside a cracked looking-glass, and in the
end of the room a small window dulled by dust. Charley tried to look
out through the window, but could dimly see only the tops of the roofs,
across. From below, and from the city around, floated in through the
thin floors and walls a medley of voices and bustle.

"Guess we'd better unpack some of our stuff, and sort what washing we
want done," quoth his father, cheerily. "When we take it out we can
look about and get what other supplies we need; eh, Grigsby? What are
your plans?"

"Same as yours, if you say so," answered the Fremonter.

"You mean to say you'll go along with Charley and me?"

"Why, yes. This town's too crowded for me, already. Doesn't strike me
as a very healthy place to loaf in. Money, money; that's all I've
heard. So I'm off for the diggin's, like the rest."

"Good. Shake," approved Mr. Adams, and Charley felt delighted. The
Fremonter was such a fine man; a loyal friend in need. "We'll stick
together as long as you can stand our company."

"Agreed," quoth Mr. Grigsby, shaking. "There'll be room enough in the
hills for us to spread out, if we want to."

They overhauled their baggage and wrapped their wash in some old
newspapers that had been stuffed into the trunk. Then they sallied
forth.

"Pshaw! There's no lock on the door," exclaimed Charley's father. "I
hate to leave all our stuff scattered around, in that fashion."

"It'll be all right, I reckon," said Mr. Grigsby. "Ask the clerk about
it."

"The door to our room has no lock," spoke Mr. Adams, to the hotel man,
when they had tramped below. "We've got quite a bunch of goods lying
open."

"That's all right, sir," answered the c