"I've got a sack, too," said Charley, exhibiting it.

"You've been out there?"

"No, sir. I got this in St. Louis."

"Let's see." And the man fingered it. "It's old-timer--been used
plenty. Some dust sticking to it, too. Huh."

"Is there lots of gold out there?" asked Charley.

"Gold?" repeated the man; and laughed. "I found fifteen hundred
dollars in two days, first thing; then I didn't find any for a month.
But I cleaned up $10,000, and I'm going back after more. It's all
luck, now; but after the surface has been scraped off, then it will be
skill. Does your father know anything about mining?"

"No, sir. He's a soldier. He was with General Scott."

"That won't cut much figure," said the man, quickly. "Soldiers and
sailors and lawyers and doctors and farmers and trappers and even
Indians are all grubbing together--and none of us knows a blamed thing
except that gold is soft and yellow and will pass for currency--sixteen
dollars an ounce. But good luck to you. Going across the Isthmus, I
reckon?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's the easier way. Well, if I see you out there and can help you
along any way, you can count on me. But it's a country where every tub
stands on its own bottom, and no man's any better than any other man."

So saying, he threw his rifle into the hollow of his arm and paced
away, into the cabin. Charley gazed after him, and reflected that
although they might have an enemy with them, they also had made a
friend.

"If he was with Carson and Fremont, he's all right," declared Mr.
Adams, when Charley related the conversation. "But we'll be beholden
to nobody, as long as we can help ourselves. We two bunkies can paddle
our own canoe, can't we?"

The _Robert Burns_ continued on, down to New Orleans. The long-nosed
man kept to the cabin, mainly, where a number of rough passengers spent
their time drinking and gambling. The Fremont man was about the
quietest of all the passengers, mingling little, talking little. He
exchanged a few civil words with Mr. Adams, and kindly greeted Charley,
when they were near one another. That was all.

Charley thought rather the more of him, that he was not the blustering,
boasting kind, even though he had blazed the long trail across to
California, with Fremont and Carson. He evidently was a man of deeds,
not words.

New Orleans was reached in the afternoon--and a fine big city it looked
to be, as the _Robert Burns_ whistled hoarsely and swu