“Well, Joe, perhaps you are right. At any rate, I admire your pluck and independent spirit.”
There was a motley crowd collected on the pier and on the beach when Joe and his friend landed. Rough, bearded men, in Mexican sombreros and coarse attire—many in shirt-sleeves and with their pantaloons tucked in their boots—watched the new arrivals with interest.
“You needn’t feel ashamed of your clothes, Joe,” said Folsom, with a smile. “You are better dressed than the majority of those we see.”
Joe looked puzzled.
“They don’t look as if they had made their fortunes,” he said.
“Don’t judge by appearances. In a new country people are careless of appearances. Some of these rough fellows, no doubt, have their pockets full of gold.”
At this moment a rough-looking fellow stepped forward and said heartily:
“Isn’t this Charles Folsom?”
“Yes,” answered Folsom, puzzled.
“You don’t remember me?” said the other, laughing.