Tom had to shake Dick Russell energetically before that young man opened his eyes.
"What's the matter?" he ejaculated, drowsily.
"Don't you want some breakfast?" asked Tom.
"Oh, it's you, Tom! Yes, you have touched the right chord. I have a first-class appetite—and no money," he added, his face clouding.
"Mr. Ferguson is treasurer," said Tom, lightly, wishing to divert Russell from the thoughts of his heavy loss, and the folly to which he owed it; "but we know very little of the city. Can you guide us to a good restaurant?"
"To a good one, but not a cheap one. Everything is high here."
"Then it is fortunate we are going to leave so soon."
In a small restaurant, on Montgomery street, our three friends partook of a hearty breakfast. It might not have attracted an epicure, but neither of the three was fastidious; and, though the charge was five dollars, Ferguson, economical as he was, paid the bill cheerfully. It was the first "civilized" breakfast he had eaten for months, and it might be months before he would be able to partake of another as good.
"I wish we could breakfast like this at the mines," said Tom.
"So say I," chimed in Dick Russell; "but you know that the gold-hunter must sacrifice home comforts."