“All right,” said Tom, gloomily. “But where am I now? How do I get out of here?”
“You’re about six miles from the Roswick camp. You made a pretty good shot at it, after all. Follow this river straight down to Roswick; then you have to take the stage out to the railway, and that’ll take you round to Waverley, and you come in to Oakley the same way as you did the first time. Got any money?”
“Not a cent.”
Dave plunged his hand into his pockets. “How much do you want? the railway fare’ll be about six dollars. Here’s fifteen. Will that do?”
“Plenty,” said Tom gratefully. “I sha’n’t forget this, Dave, and I’ll repay you when—”
“You’ll never need to. I’m going to be a rich man by fall. Now we really must rush on, or my partner’ll have a fit. Tell father and mother I’m all right. Sure you won’t come with us yet? You’d better.”
“No,” said Tom. “I’m going to see my own game played out.”
“Good luck with it, then. Good-by!”
Dave and his partner picked up their loads and vanished crashing through the underbrush. Tom turned back toward the river, rather despondently. Physically he felt better; the rest and the food and the talk with Dave had done him good, but he was deeply depressed by his cousin’s pessimistic outlook. Still, he was determined not to let go while there was the slightest chance left. Harrison had no more right to the raft than he himself, at any rate, it appeared. He would see that Harrison did not get it, then, until the real ownership of the walnut could be ascertained.
He made his way down the river shore, meeting three or four parties of prospectors, in bateaux and canoes, and one on foot. It took him a good three hours to reach the mining-camp, where he found merely a collection of sheds and shanties, a store and a towering derrick or two. The place was almost depopulated, for all its inhabitants were on the gold-rush.