“Look here,” I interrupted. “I think I see a way out of this. If we should find a placer,—whatever that is,—the first five thousand dollars that come out of it, if so much ever does come out of it, shall go to Jack, or, rather, to Mr. Harding, and anything over shall be divided equally between the three of us. If our share shall be enough to pay our way home, so much the better.”
“That is a first-rate idea,” said Percy, emphatically; and in spite of Jack’s protests we stuck to our point until, at last, he gave in.
“Well, you fellows,” said he, “that is mighty good of you. Whether we find anything or not, I’m much obliged to you beforehand. But, come. We must be moving. It is past supper-time already, and we have nearly three miles to go yet.”
In course of time we came in sight of a ranch, and Jack, pointing to it, said: “There’s our destination. You see, as my father expected to be absent from Golconda for several months he has rented our house in the town, and in consequence I have taken up my abode with a friend, a ranchman named George Catlin.”
The jolly ranchman welcomed us to his house, and we felt ourselves at home directly. It is true he poked fun at us in a good-natured way on the subject of our late escapade, but it was little we cared for that when Jack handed over to us letters from our parents, and one, addressed to both, from Sir Anthony.
To think that we had ever run away from such friends! How kind the letters were! Not a word of blame in them; merely an intimation that we had acted too hastily and rather foolishly, and an assurance that had we been twice as hasty and twice as foolish it would have made no difference in the welcome that was always awaiting us at home.
CHAPTER VI
TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES
A HAPPY and well-satisfied pair were we when, next day, after writing voluminous letters home, we set about making preparations for our projected expedition into the mountains.
First of all there were the animals to be seen to. Jack already had a horse for himself,—Toby,—and he had besides a pair of stout little mules for packing purposes, one of which was named Calliope, because, under favourable atmospheric conditions, her voice might be heard at a distance of a thousand miles (at least, so Jack said), while the other, on account of his somnolent habits, and his proclivity for eating everything that came in his way, especially things not intended for him, had had bestowed upon him the name of Joe, in memory of the Fat Boy in Pickwick. Besides these, Jack procured for Percy’s use a smart little grey mare, and for me a big-boned, buckskin pony, which, though no beauty to look at, had a great reputation as a stayer.