XXXV.
CHARLIE TURNS UP UNEXPECTEDLY.
There was but little variety in the monotonous life of Peter Manson. His life was one struggle for gold, his thoughts were continually upon gold; gold seemed to be the end and aim of his existence. But what did he propose to do with it all? He was not an old man yet, but all the infirmities of age were upon him.
Peter had not forgotten nor ceased to lament the heavy draft which had been made upon him by Randall. The thousands which he had left could not compensate to him for the one he had lost. So, in the hope of making it up, he strove to live even more economically than before, if, indeed, that were possible. The additional privations to which he subjected himself began to tell upon the old man's constitution. He grew thinner and weaker and more shrivelled than before, and all this to save a penny or two additional each day.
As Peter was crawling feebly along towards his gloomy den one afternoon, clad in the invariable blue cloak, he was startled by hearing a hoarse voice behind him, calling out, "Peter Manson—Peter, I say!"
"Who calls?" asked Peter, in a quavering voice, slowly turning round.
"Don't you remember me?" asked Randall, for it was he.
Peter muttered something unintelligible as he cast a terrified glance at the mate, and quickened his pace.
"You're not very polite, Peter," said the other, quickly overtaking and joining the old man. "Is this the way to greet an old friend, whom you have not seen for nearly a year?"