But I have said that Tom took account of stock—in other words, ascertained how much he was worth. First, then, of the money borrowed for his trip—the original two hundred dollars—he had twenty-five dollars left over. Besides this sum, after paying all expenses, he had accumulated, by hard work and strict economy, fifty dollars' worth of gold-dust.
"I wish father had this money," said Tom to his tent-mate, Ferguson. "I am afraid he stands in need of it."
"There may be a way to send it to him, Tom."
"I wish there were."
"There's one of our party going to San Francisco next week. He can buy a draft there, and send it to your father."
"Who is going?" asked Tom, eagerly.
"John Miles. You can trust him with the money, Tom."
"Of course I can. I'd trust John Miles with any sum."
"Who's that taking liberties with my name?" asked a manly voice, and John Miles himself stepped into the tent, bending his head as he entered.
"I hear you are going to San Francisco, John?"