An hour passed and they were just finishing their supper when the sailor boy reappeared. His face wore a sober look.
"I've had bad news," said he, dropping into a chair. "My aunt died nearly a year ago. They sent me a letter about it, but it never reached me."
"That's hard luck," said Mark, sympathetically.
"Did she leave any money?" questioned the matter-of-fact Dickson.
"Left about a hundred dollars, so they tell me, and that was used to pay her funeral expenses. They sold off her things, and a lawyer is keeping about another hundred in trust for me. But I'd rather Aunt Betsey was alive. Now I'm utterly alone in the world."
Bob Billings put up at the hotel, going into a room with Mark. Before retiring the two became quite confidential.
"So you're running away," said Bob, on hearing Mark's story. "Well, I don't blame you, if your step-father is that sort. I'd cut sticks myself. I hope you make your pile, if you ever reach California."
"Don't you want to go, now you are all alone?"
"Yes, I do, and there's my hand on it!"
The boys shook hands warmly—and from that moment they were chums. They talked over many things, and Mark confessed that he had but five dollars and a quarter left of the amount with which he had started.