"I have not that high distinction, my friend. I am an unworthy member of the church of Scotland."
"I don't think your countrymen generally refuse whisky."
"So much the worse for them. They are only too fond of it. My own brother died a miserable death, brought on by his love of liquor."
"Then I won't press you; but I say, strangers, you won't find many of your way of thinking in the country you're going to."
"I don't doubt he's right, Tom," said Ferguson to Tom, as they entered the chamber assigned to them. "We may not be together always. I hope you won't be led away by them that offer you strong drink. It would be the ruin of you, boy."
"Don't fear for me, Mr. Ferguson. I have no taste for it."
"Sometimes it's hard to refuse."
"It won't be hard for me."
"I am glad to hear you say that, my lad. You are young, strong, and industrious. You'll succeed, I'll warrant, if you steer clear of that quicksand."
Later in the day the two friends began to make inquiries about overland travel. They had no wish to remain long at St. Joe. Both were impatient to reach the land of gold, and neither cared to incur the expense of living at the hotel any longer than was absolutely necessary. Luckily this probably would not be long, for nearly every day a caravan set out on the long journey, and doubtless they would be able to join on agreeing to pay their share of the expenses. It was a great undertaking, for the distance to be traversed was over two thousand miles, through an unsettled country, some of it a desert, with the chances of an attack by hostile Indians, and the certainty of weeks, and perhaps months, of privation and fatigue. Mr. Donald Ferguson looked forward to it with some apprehension; for, with characteristic Scotch caution, he counted the cost of whatever he undertook, and did not fail to set before his mind all the contingencies and dangers attending it.