For a few minutes neither spoke; then Ned heaved a sigh, and, looking in his companion’s face with a serio-comically-sad expression, said:
“It may not, perhaps, have occurred to you, Tom, but are you aware that we are a couple of beggars?”
“If you use the term in its slang sense, and mean to insinuate that we are a couple of unfortunate beggars, I agree with you.”
“Well, I’ve no objection,” rejoined Ned, “to your taking my words in that sense; but I mean to say that, over and above that, we are real, veritable, bona fide beggars, inasmuch as we have not a sixpence in the world.”
Tom Collins’s visage grew exceedingly long.
“Our united purse,” pursued Ned, “hung, as you are aware, at my saddle-bow, and yon unmitigated villain who appropriated my good steed, is now in possession of all our hard-earned gold!”
Tom’s countenance became preternaturally grave, but he did not venture to speak.
“Now,” continued Ned, forcing a smile, “there is nothing for it but to make for the nearest diggings, commence work again, and postpone our travels to a future and more convenient season. We may laugh at it as we please, my dear fellow, but there’s no denying that we are in what the Yankees would call an ‘oncommon fix.’”
Ned’s remark as to “laughing at it,” was altogether uncalled for and inappropriate, for his own smile might have been more correctly termed a grin, and nothing was further from Tom Collins’s thoughts at that moment than laughing.
“Are the victuals gone too?” inquired Ned, hastily.