“I have heard you speak of another comrade—a four-footed one.”
“Ah, yes, our dog Towser, one of the most faithful and intelligent brutes that ever lived. He died long ago of old age and I have showed my gratitude and love for his memory by placing a monument over his remains. Micky—peace to the memory of the good fellow—has also rested in the tomb for years, and it was not long after that my good father followed him,—so of all my companions on my first coming to the Pacific coast, not one remains.”
“You could hardly have passed safely through the many dangers without the help of others,” suggested Mr. Starland.
“I admit that. No braver man than Micky McGuigan ever lived. He had the traditional Irishman’s love of a fight and he got plenty of it. But, Tom, our perils began, as you know, before we touched foot in California. Off the southern coast our steamer, the Western Star, was sunk in a collision. Teddy and I were left on the uninhabited coast (so far as white people are concerned), without so much as even a gun or pistol. Finding ourselves marooned, we struck into the interior, stole a couple of guns and some ammunition (what’s the use of denying it at this late day?) from some Indians, and then went it blindly.”
“I recall something of a partnership you made with an experienced miner.”
“Yes; good fortune brought us together, and it was a lucky thing indeed for us that we were picked up by Jo Harman, who piloted us through no end of dangers. We spent weeks in hunting for gold in what was then one of the wildest regions in the world.”
“How did you make out?”
“We picked up a few particles, just enough to keep hope alive, but, in the end, had to give it up and take our chances in the diggings like the rest of the fortune hunters.”
“Well, Teddy, we have proved that there are other ways of getting treasure than by digging in the earth for it.”
“Yes, though it takes digging in any circumstances, and we had as hard times, at the beginning, as any of those who now dwell on Nob Hill.”