“I wish I could send some to Tom,” said his mother. “Poor fellow, I don’t suppose he gets many of the comforts of home where he is.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t carry the beans very conveniently,” said Grant, with a laugh.
On his way back to the restaurant, to make some preparations for his coming departure, he was accosted by a tall, thin man, who looked like a lay preacher.
“My young friend,” he said, with an apologetic cough, “excuse me for addressing you, but I am in great need of assistance. I——Why, it’s Grant!” he exclaimed in amazement.
“Mr. Silverthorn!”
“Yes, my young friend, it is your old friend Silverthorn, who counts himself fortunate in meeting you once more,” and he grasped Grant’s reluctant hand and shook it vigorously.
“You may be my old friend, Mr. Silverthorn,” returned Grant, “but it strikes me you didn’t treat me as such when you took the money from my pocket.”
“I acknowledge it, Grant, I acknowledge it,” said Silverthorn, as he took the same old red silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes, “but I was driven to it by want and dire necessity.”
“Well, let it pass! When did you reach Sacramento?”
“Only yesterday. Ah, Grant, I have had sad vicissitudes! I wandered in the wilderness, nearly starving, till I came across a party of Pennsylvania Quakers, who aided me and brought me with them to this place.”