"That's the way I felt when I was plodding along to-day through the mud," said Tom, laughing.
"It's because the soil is so rich," said the Scotchman. "It'll be a great farming country some day, I'm thinking."
"I suppose the soil isn't so rich in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?"
"No, my lad. It's rocky and barren, and covered with dry heather; but it produces rare men, for all that."
Mr. Ferguson was patriotic to the backbone. He would not claim for Scotland what she could not fairly claim; but he was all ready with some compensating claim.
"How do you stand the walking, Mr. Ferguson?"
"I'm getting used to it."
"Then it's more than I am. I think it's beastly."
These words were not uttered by Tom, but by rather a dandified-looking young man, who came up limping. He was from Boston, and gave his name as Lawrence Peabody. He had always lived in Boston, where he had been employed in various genteel avocations; but in an evil hour he had been lured from his comfortable home by the seductive cry of gold, and, laying down his yardstick, had set out for California across the plains. He was a slender young man, with limbs better fitted for dancing than for tramping across the prairie, and he felt bitterly the fatigue of the journey.
"Are you tired, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.