"What's your name?" asked the enthusiast.
"Smith," replied Smith.
The enthusiast gave a start, and uttered an exclamation.
"What's the matter?" asked Smith.
"Nothing," said the enthusiast; "only I was thinking that I should like you to come."
"But how is it to be managed?" inquired Smith, glancing at the name of the vessel, with his mouth watering. It was a nine-hundred-ton ship, called the Gold Packet. "But how is it to be managed? A man that I know emigrated a year ago, and he had to buy bedding, and tin cups, and soap and towels, and I don't know what else; those things ain't got by whistling for them."
"I'll manage it for you," said the enthusiast. "You go home and say good-bye to your mother. Be back here at one o'clock. By that time I'll have your passage-ticket, and your berth, and bedding, and tin cups, and soap and towels, and everything else ready for you. What do you say?"
"What do I say? There's my hand upon it, and thank you. I'll do it."
And with quickened pulses he hastened home, kissed the amazed old woman--who was so dumbfoundered that she could do nothing but look at her son, and cry--promised to send her plenty of money from Australia and to make a lady of her in five years, and was back to the Gold Packet at one o'clock.
"You're a man of mettle," said the enthusiast; "you're just the sort for the gold-diggings; it's such men as you they want. You'll make your fortune there as sure as eggs are eggs. Here's your ticket. Come down-stairs; I'll show you your berth and things."