“I beg pardon,” said Ned, pausing, “did you—”
“Oh, it was nothing!” said Lizette; “I was only going to remark that—that if you set up in the washing line, I shall be happy to give you all the work I can.”
“Ahem!” coughed Ned gravely, “and if we should set up in the other line, will you kindly come and board with us?”
“Hallo, Ned, what’s keeping you?” roared the captain.
“Coming,” shouted Ned, as he ran after him. “Where has Larry O’Neil gone?”
“He’s away down before us to have a look at the town. We shall find him, I doubt not, cruising about the quay.”
In a few minutes the three friends were wending their way through the crowded streets back to the shore.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
The Fate of the Roving Bess—Gambling Scenes—Mr Sinton makes a New Friend—Larry O’Neil makes Money in Strange Ways—A Murder, and a Beggar’s Death—Ned becomes a Poor Man’s Heir.
The remnant of the cargo of the Roving Bess proved to be worth comparatively little—less even than had been anticipated. After a careful inspection, Mr Thompson offered to purchase it “in the slump” for 1000 dollars—about 200 pounds sterling. This was a heavy blow to poor Captain Bunting, who had invested his all—the savings of many years—in the present unfortunate venture. However, his was not a nature to brood over misfortunes that could not be avoided, so he accepted the sum with the best grace he might, and busied himself during the next few days in assisting the merchant to remove the bales.
During this period he did not converse much with any one, but meditated seriously on the steps he ought to take. From all that he heard, it seemed impossible to procure hands to man the ship at that time, so he began to entertain serious thoughts of “taking his chance” at the diggings after all. He was by nature averse to this, however; and had nearly made up his mind to try to beat up recruits for the ship, when an event occurred that settled the matter for him rather unexpectedly. This event was the bursting out of a hurricane, or brief but violent squall, which, before assistance could be procured, dragged the Roving Bess from her moorings, and stranded her upon the beach, just below the town. Here was an end to sea-faring prospects. The whole of his limited capital would not have paid for a tenth part of the labour necessary to refloat the ship, so he resolved to leave her on the beach, and go to the diggings.
Mr Thompson advised him to sell the hull, as it would fetch a good price for the sake of the timber, which at that time was much wanted in the town, but the captain had still a lurking hope that he might get his old ship afloat at some future period, and would not hear of it.
“What,” said he, “sell the Roving Bess, which stands A1 at Lloyd’s, to be broken up to build gold-diggers houses? I trow not. No, no; let her lie where she is in peace.”
On the day after the squall, as Ned and the captain were standing on the shore regarding their late floating, and now grounded, home in sad silence, a long-legged, lantern-jawed man, in dirty canvas trousers, long boots, a rough coat, and broad straw hat, with an enormous cigar in his mouth, and both hands in his trousers-pockets, walked up and accosted them. It did not require a second glance to know that he was a Yankee.
“Guess that ’ere’s pretty wall fixed up, stranger,” he said, addressing the captain, and pointing with his nose to the stranded vessel.
“It is,” answered the captain, shortly.
“Fit for nothin’ but firewood, I calculate.”
To this the captain made no reply.
“I say, stranger,” continued the Yankee, “I wouldn’t mind to give ’e 1000 dollars for her slick off.”
“I don’t wish to sell her,” replied the captain.
“Say 1500,” replied the man.
“I tell you, I won’t sell her.”
“No! Now that is kurous. Will ’e loan her, then!”
Here Ned whispered a few words to the captain, who nodded his head, and, turning to the Yankee, said—
“How much will you give?”
“Wall, I reckon, she’s too far out to drive a screamin’ trade, but I don’t mind sayin’ 100 dollars a month.”
After some consultation with Ned, and a little more talk with the Yankee, Captain Bunting agreed to this proposal, only stipulating that the bargain should hold good for a year, that the hull should not be cut or damaged in any way, and that the rent should be paid in advance into the hands of Mr Thompson, as he himself was about to proceed to the gold-fields. Having sealed and settled this piece of business at a neighbouring tavern, where the Yankee—Major Whitlaw—ordered a “brandy-smash” for himself and two “gin-slings” for his companions, (which they civilly declined, to his intense amazement,) the contracting parties separated.
“That’s rather a sudden transfer of our good ship,” said Ned, laughing, as they walked towards the Plaza, or principal square of the town, where some of the chief hotels and gambling-houses were situated.
“I feel half sorry for havin’ done it,” replied the captain; “however, it can’t be helped now, so I’ll away to our friend Thompson’s office, and tell him about it.”
“Then I shall wander about here until you return. It will be dinner time at the hotels two hours hence. Suppose we meet at the Parker House, and talk over our future plans while we discuss a chop?”
To this the captain agreed, and then hurried off to his friend’s office, while Ned entered the hotel. A large portion of this building was rented by gamblers, who paid the enormous sum of 60,000 dollars a year for it, and carried on their villainous and degrading occupation in it night and day. The chief games played were monte and faro, but no interest attached to the games as such, the winning or losing of money was that which lent fascination to the play.
Ned had intended to stroll through the hotel and observe the various visitors who thronged the bar, but the crash of a brass band in the gambling-saloons awakened his curiosity, and induced him to enter. The scene that met his eyes was, perhaps, the strangest and the saddest he had ever looked upon. The large saloon was crowded with representatives of almost every civilised nation under the sun. English, Scotch, Irish, Yankees, French, Russians, Turks, Chinese, Mexicans, Indians, Malays, Jews, and negroes—all were there in their national costumes, and all were, more or less, under the fascinating influence of the reigning vice of California, and especially of San Francisco. The jargon of excited voices can neither be conceived nor described. Crowds surrounded the monte tables, on which glittering piles of gold and silver coin were passing from hand to hand according to varying fortune. The characteristics—and we may add the worst passions—of the various nations were ever and anon brought strongly out. The German and Spaniard laid down their money, and lost or won without a symptom of emotion; the Turk stroked his beard as if with the view of keeping himself cool; the Russian looked stolid and indifferent; the Frenchman started, frowned, swore, and occasionally clutched his concealed pistol or bowie-knife; while the Yankee stamped and swore. But, indeed, the men of all nations cursed and swore in that terrible place.
Those who dwelt in the city staked gold and silver coin, while the men just returned from the mines staked gold-dust and nuggets. These last were conspicuous from their rough clothing, rugged, bronzed, and weather-worn countenances. Many of them played most recklessly. Several successful diggers staked immense sums, and either doubled or lost, in two or three throws, the hard earnings of many months of toil, and left the rooms penniless.
At one end of the saloon there was a counter, with a