“Tell me your story. Where were you living?” Charles Folsom listened attentively.
“Major Norton didn’t appear disposed to pamper you, or bring you up in luxury, that’s a fact. It would have been hard lines if, on account of losing your aunt’s legacy, you had been compelled to go back to Oakville.”
“I wouldn’t have gone,” said Joe resolutely.
“What would you have done?”
“Stayed in New York, and got a living somehow, even if I had to black boots in the street.”
“I guess you’ll do. You’ve got the right spirit. It takes boys and men like you for pioneers.”
Joe was gratified at his companion’s approval.
“Now,” said Folsom, “I may as well tell you my story. I am the son of a New York merchant who is moderately rich. I entered the counting-room at seventeen, and have remained there ever since, with the exception of four months spent in Europe.”
“If you are rich already, why do you go out to California?” asked Joe.
“I am not going to the mines; I am going to prospect a little for the firm. Some day San Francisco will be a large city. I am going to see how soon it will pay for our house to establish a branch there.”