Lyman resented it as a wrong done to himself that his uncle was not in a condition to help him.
If he were only living in the city now, he might quarter himself upon him. As matters stood, it was out of the question. It made him shudder to think of becoming a joint tenant of the lonely cabin, with nothing to look to but the homely fare, which no doubt contented his uncle.
"I shall have to shift for myself," he reflected with a sigh; "I always was unlucky. Other fellows are born with a silver spoon in their mouths, and have rich fathers or uncles to provide for them, while I may go to the poorhouse for all the help I am likely to get from Uncle Anthony."
Arrived in New York, however, his prospects rose a little. He met an old acquaintance on the Bowery, and turned into a billiard saloon, where he succeeded in a series of games in raising his small capital to ten dollars.
This gave him a hint of a new way to make a living—a way, as he considered, infinitely preferable to a life of toil. Henceforth he frequented billiard saloons, and occasionally varied his pleasant labors by a game of cards. In spite, however, of his praiseworthy efforts to make an honest livelihood, there came a time when he was reduced to his last quarter of a dollar.
He was sitting moodily in a cheap downtown hotel, when he was addressed by a bearded man dressed in rough miner's costume, a type of man more frequently met in California or Colorado, than in an Atlantic city.
"Have a cigar, stranger?" asked the bearded man socially.
"Thank you; I don't care if I do," said Lyman with alacrity.
"I'm a stranger in York," said the other, "only arrived yesterday. You've got a right smart city here; beats 'Frisco higher'n a kite!"
"Do you come from San Francisco?" asked Lyman with interest.