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know you are a farm boy.”

      “I was, but am so no longer.”

      “What do you mean? Has grandfather discharged you?”

      “No, I have discharged myself. I don’t expect to work for your grandfather any longer.”

      “What are you going to do? Do you expect to live without work?”

      “No; I expect to work harder next year than ever before.”

      “I don’t understand you,” said Rodney, puzzled. “Are you trying to fool me?”

      “No.”

      “Then what do you mean?”

      “I start next Thursday for California.”

      Rodney was surprised.

      “You – don’t – mean – it!” he ejaculated.

      “It’s true.”

      “Who are you going with?”

      “With Jerry Cooper’s family.”

      “But you can’t go without money.”

      “That’s true.”

      “And you haven’t got any.”

      “That’s a mistake. I have all I need.”

      “Where did you get it?”

      “That’s my business.”

      “Who put you up to going?”

      “I had a talk with John Heywood. He told me he thought I would succeed in making money.”

      “Oh, I see. I suppose he was fool enough to lend you the money.”

      Grant smiled, but did not answer. This confirmed Rodney in his belief. He looked at Grant with envy and dislike. With the amiable desire to depress him, he said, “I predict that you’ll come back poorer than you went away.”

      “It may be so, but I don’t believe it.”

      When he parted with Grant, Rodney went around to John Heywood’s house, with the view of ascertaining whether he had supplied Grant with the funds necessary for his journey.

      “I think you are foolish, Mr. Heywood,” Rodney began, “to lend Grant Colburn money to go to California.”

      John Heywood looked up from his work.

      “Who told you I had supplied him with money?” he asked.

      “Well, no one.”

      “Then why do you say I did?”

      “He must have got the money somewhere, so I concluded you had let him have it.”

      “Then you concluded wrong. He never asked me to lend him money. If he had – ”

      “Well, if he had?” repeated Rodney eagerly.

      “If he had, I should probably have done it. Grant Colburn’s a hardworking boy and a good fellow, and I think he’ll be happier out in California than on your grandfather’s farm.”

      “It’ll be a relief to grandfather to have him go. He’s been supporting him for the last two years.”

      “Grant has earned his living twice over. He’ll have to work hard in California, but he’ll be paid for it. I shouldn’t be surprised to see him a rich man some time.”

      Rodney scowled and walked away. He thought the prediction ridiculous, and hoped it would not come true.

      CHAPTER IX

      THE LONG JOURNEY BEGINS

      The day before they were to start Grant came over and spent the night with Mr. Cooper and his family. The blacksmith had been guided by John Heywood in making his preparations. Independence, Mo., was at that time the usual starting-point for overland emigrants, and it was to this point that the little party directed their course. Mr. Cooper started with two horses, but at Independence he exchanged one of them for a yoke of oxen, being advised that oxen were upon the whole more reliable, and less likely to be stolen by the Indians. Here, too, he laid in a supply of flour, bacon, coffee, and sugar, with a quantity of rice, crackers, and smaller articles, for they were going through a land where there were no hotels, and must carry their own provender.

      When they had completed their outfit they set out. A long journey lay before them. From Independence to the gold region was rather more than two thousand miles, and such were the difficulties of the way that they only averaged about fifteen miles a day. A detailed account of the trip would only be wearisome, and I shall confine myself to some of the salient incidents.

      The custom was to make an early start and stop at intervals, partly for the preparation of meals and partly to give the patient animals a chance to rest.

      One evening – it was about ten weeks after the start – they had encamped for the night, and Mrs. Cooper, assisted by Grant, was preparing supper, a fire having been kindled about fifty feet from the wagon, when steps were heard, and a singular looking figure emerged from the underbush. It was a man, with a long, grizzled beard, clad in a tattered garb, with an old slouch hat on his head, and a long, melancholy visage.

      “I trust you are well, my friends,” he said. “Do not be alarmed. I mean you no harm.”

      Tom Cooper laughed.

      “We are not alarmed,” he said. “That is, not much. Who are you?”

      “An unhappy wayfarer, who has been wandering for days, almost famished, through this wilderness.”

      “Do you live about here?”

      “No; I am on my way to California.”

      “Not alone, surely?”

      “I started with a party, but we were surprised a week since by a party of Cheyenne Indians, and I alone escaped destruction.”

      Mrs. Cooper turned pale.

      “Are the Indians so bloodthirsty, then?”

      “Some of them, my dear lady, some of them. They took all our supplies, and I have been living on what I could pick up. Pardon my saying so, but I am almost famished.”

      “Our supper is nearly ready,” said Mrs. Cooper hospitably. “You are welcome to a portion.”

      “Ah, how kind you are!” ejaculated the stranger, clasping his hands. “I shall, indeed, be glad to join you.”

      “What is your name, sir?” asked the blacksmith cautiously.

      “Dionysius Silverthorn.”

      “That’s a strange name.”

      “Yes, but I am not responsible for it. We do not choose our own names.”

      “And where are you from?”

      “I came from Illinois.”

      “Were you in business there?”

      “Yes. Ahem! I was a teacher, but my health gave way, and when I heard of the rich discoveries of gold in California, I gathered up, with difficulty, money enough for the journey and started; but, alas! I did not anticipate the sad disaster that has befallen me.”

      Mr. Silverthorn was thin and meager, but when supper was ready he ate nearly twice as much as any of the little party.

      “Who is this young man?” he asked, with a glance at Grant.

      “My name is Grant Colburn.”

      “You are the image of a boy I lost,” sighed Dionysius. “He was strong and manly, like you – a very engaging youth.”

      “Then he couldn’t have looked like you,” was Tom Cooper’s inward comment.

      “Did he die of disease?” asked Mrs. Cooper.

      “Yes; he had the typhoid fever – my poor, poor Otto,” and Mr. Silverthorn wiped his eyes with a dirty red silk handkerchief. “Have you a father living, my young friend?”

      “No,

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