CHAPTER XVIII.
DO THE DEAD LIVE?
“I WISH you were going with me, Mr. Darke,” said Tom, as he sat in that gentleman’s room at the Astor House, making his farewell call.
He had made all arrangements, seen his mother and sister installed in the comfortable farm-house of Hiram Bacon, had procured a modest outfit, and was ready to start for the Pacific coast. He felt that it was a great undertaking for a boy of fifteen, and he longed for the championship of some one whom he knew, even but slightly.
Darius Darke shook his head.
“I have had enough of California!” he answered. “There I met with sorrow and losses. It will be long before I care to see it again.”
“Shall you stay in New York, Mr. Darke?”
“In a week from to-day I start for Europe, to be absent for a year.”
Tom looked surprised.
“Are you going on business?” he asked.
“No. I am going on a tour of pleasure. It seems strange to me, who have been a penniless tramp for two years, that I can really afford this journey.”