“Yes; he will answer for our luggage.”
“And must we walk?” inquired Edwin in dismay.
“I do not see how it is to be prevented,” replied his brother, as cheerfully as he could speak.
“Why don’t you buy free hosses?” inquired Jim.
“For the reason that I have not the funds to do it with. I haven’t enough money left to buy the poorest animal, in the shape of a horse, that walks the streets of San Francisco.”
“If you hain’t, mebbe somebody else has.”
“What do you mean?” inquired Inwood, in perplexity.
Ah! wasn’t that a moment of triumph for Jim Tubbs? How cool and deliberate he tried to be, as he shoved his great hand away down in his pantaloons pocket, until it looked as if he were fumbling at his shoe string, and finally fished up a huge leathern purse, so corpulent that it had very much the appearance of that humble kitchen edible known as the dough-nut.
“Dar!” he said, as he flung it carelessly toward the amazed George Inwood, “mebbe dar ain’t nofin’ in dat! Mebbe dat’s all counterfeit; mebbe Mr. Tubbs hain’t been sabin’ up his money dese five years! ’Spose you look at dat—p’raps dar may be sumfin’ or other in dar.”
Jim leaned back against the column of the porch, cocked his old wool hat on one side of his head, shoved both hands down into his pockets, carelessly swung one foot around the ankle of the other, so that it was supported on the toe, and then, smoking his little black pipe, looked at Inwood, as he opened the purse and counted out the yellow gold pieces one after the other, until he had finished.