“Does a boy named Grant Colburn live here?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I have a letter for him from San Francisco.”
Grant was summoned, and in some surprise received the communication.
“It is from Mr. Crosmont,” he said joyfully, as he opened the letter and looked at the signature.
He read it aloud. It ran thus:
Dear Grant:
It seems a very long time since I have seen you, and I am in the dark as to your successes and prospects. As you know, my principal business is to look for my wayward son Gregory, who, I have reason to think, is in California. Now, all visitors to California come sooner or later to San Francisco, and it is for this reason that I have established myself here. Thus far I have not seen or heard of Gregory, but this is not at all surprising. He may be somewhere in the interior, and in that case there would be little chance of my hearing of him.
Meanwhile, I confess that I feel lonely. I am not a man to make many friends, and I have met no one in whom I feel an interest since I parted with you. I begin to think that I should like to have you with me, and I will promise that you will lose nothing by transferring yourself to San Francisco. Will you, on receipt of this letter, arrange to join me as soon as you can? I am the more anxious to have you do so, because I have not felt very well of late, and, if I should fall sick, I should like to have with me a tried and faithful friend whom I can thoroughly trust.
I don’t know how you are situated. You may be in need. I, therefore, think it best to send by the bearer fifty dollars, which will pay your expenses to this city. You will find me at the Alameda Hotel in Stockton Street.