But Bax and his friend worked thus hard, only because it was their nature so to work at whatever their hands found to do. They had not set their hearts upon the gold.
After dinner Harry went out to drive his pick and shovel. Bax remained in the tent to drive the quill.
That night the two friends lay chatting and smoking in their tent after supper, with a solitary candle between them, and the result of the day’s work—a small pile of shining dust—before them.
“We’ll not make our fortunes at this rate,” observed Harry, with a sigh.
“There’s no saying what good fortune may be in store for us,” observed Bax; “but put away the gold, it will do us no good to gaze at it.”
Harry rolled the little heap in a piece of paper, and tossed it into the leathern bag which contained their earnings.
“Come now,” said he, replenishing his pipe, “let’s hear the letter, Bax, who d’ye say’s the friend you’ve written to?”
“He’s a boy,” said Bax, “Tommy Bogey by name, of which name, by the way, he has no reason to be proud—but he’s a first-rate fellow, and I fear will have set me down as a faithless friend, for I left him without saying good-bye, and the letter I wrote to him on my arrival here went to the bottom with the unfortunate ship that carried it. However, here is the epistle. I’m open to correction, Harry, if you think any part of it not ship-shape.”
“All right,” said Harry, “go ahead.”
Bax read as follows:—