“Yes; it puzzles me,” he said. “We got from coolish weather into hotter; then into hot, and then it grew cooler again, and now it’s cold; and that Mr Gunson says as soon as we’re round the Horn we shall get into wet weather, and then it will be warmer every day once more.”
And so it of course proved, for as we rounded the Cape, and got into the Pacific, we gradually left behind mountains with snow in the hollows and dark-looking pine trees, to go sailing on slowly day after day through dreary, foggy wet days. Then once more into sunshine, with distant peaks of mountain points on our right, as we sailed on within sight of the Andes; and then on for weeks till we entered the Golden Gates, and were soon after at anchor off San Francisco.
Seventeen weeks after we had come out of the West India Docks, and every one said we had had a capital passage, and I suppose it was; but we passed through a very dreary time, and it is impossible to describe the feeling of delight that took possession of us as we looked from the deck at the bright, busy-looking city, with its forest of masts, tall houses, and dry, bare country round.
Esau and I were leaning against the bulwarks, gazing at the shore, upon which we were longing to set foot, when Gunson, who had all through the voyage been distant and rather surly, came up behind us.
“Well, youngsters,” he said, “going ashore?”
“Yes,” I said, “as soon as we can get our chests.”
“Well, good-bye, and good luck to you. Got any money?”
“A little,” I replied, rather distantly, for I did not like the man’s manner.
He saw it, and laughed.
“Oh, I’m not going to beg or borrow,” he said roughly. “I was only going to say put it away safe, and only keep a little out for use.”