Digging for Gold

“I think he is a humbug,” whispered Grant.

“I am sure he is.”

The little party stretched themselves on the ground, and Dionysius Silverthorn walked pensively into the woods.

When he returned, Mr. and Mrs. Cooper and Tom were asleep.

The pair of blankets assigned to the stranger lay ready for use. He did not immediately lie down, but thoughtfully surveyed the sleepers.

“They seem fast asleep, but perhaps it will be better to wait awhile,” he murmured thoughtfully to himself. “It will not do for me to get caught. That young man, Tom, is very muscular, and the old man is strong in spite of his years. I will lie down awhile.”

It was well for him that he decided thus, for Grant awoke – a thing unusual for him – and, looking around, saw their visitor.

“Haven’t you gone to bed yet, Mr. Silverthorn?” he asked.

“No, my young friend; I have been into the woods, engaged in meditation and thanksgiving, but now I feel weary and I think I shall soon be lulled to rest. Do you often wake during the night?”

“No; it is unusual for me to wake at all.”

“That is well. Boys like you should sleep soundly. I would I were a boy again! Good-night, my dear young friend.”

“Good-night!”

Grant was soon asleep. An hour later Mr. Silverthorn, who had been lying quietly, lifted his head gently, and throwing off his blanket, rose to his feet.

He walked up to where Grant lay asleep.

“I wonder whether the boy has any money in his pocket?” he thought.

He went up softly to where Grant lay, and, kneeling down, quietly detached the blanket, so that Grant would be uncovered. Then he inserted his hand into his pocket, and drew out some silver change, about two dollars in all.

He looked at it with disappointment.

“Is that all he has?” he muttered. “It won’t pay me for my trouble.”

He was about to search his other pocket, but Grant stirred in his sleep, and, fearing he would awake, Dionysius rose hastily.

“I would try the others,” he said, “but I don’t dare to. If they should wake, they might murder me, particularly the young man. Now I will lie down again, and get up about four o’clock. I must have a little rest.”

Dionysius Silverthorn was one of those men who can rouse themselves at any hour they fix upon. It didn’t vary much from four o’clock in the morning when he rose and rubbed his eyes. It was already growing light in the east, and there was promise of a fine day.

“I feel quite refreshed,” he said, stretching himself. “It is time I took my departure. Is there nothing else I can take?”

Some remains of the supper of the previous night had been left near the wagon, including a box of crackers.

“I will pocket a few crackers,” said Dionysius, “and keep them for lunch. I will take the liberty of breakfasting before I go. Shall I take the blankets?” he said thoughtfully. “No, they would be in my way. I wish I had a little more money – but it would be dangerous to seek for it. I will, however, take the liberty of borrowing the horse, as he will materially assist me in my journey.”

The horse had been tied to a tree. Mr. Silverthorn gently unfastened the rope and led him away. He was nervously anxious lest he should whinny or make some noise that would arouse the little party. But the horse seemed unusually docile, and, though he was probably sorry to be roused from sleep quite so early, allowed himself to be led away without any manifestation of discontent.

An hour later Tom Cooper stretched himself and opened his eyes.

“Another fine day!” he said to himself. “Well, we must make the most of it. It is high time we began to make preparations to start. Hello, Grant!” he said, shaking the boy till he murmured drowsily, “What is it, Tom?”

“Time to get up, Grant, my boy. We must be on our way by six.”

Grant jumped up, and, throwing off the blankets, began to fold them up.

“Where’s Mr. Silverthorn?” he asked, turning his eyes in the direction of the stranger’s bed.

“There’s his blankets!” said Tom. “Perhaps he has gone to the woods to meditate,” he added, with a laugh. “I shan’t be sorry, for one, if he doesn’t come back.”

“Nor I,” assented Grant.

“It’s my belief that he’s a rascal!”

“Whether he is or not, I don’t like him.”

“You forget, Grant, that you are the image of his lost boy,” said Tom, with a laugh.

“I hope not. I shouldn’t like to look like any one belonging to him. Do you believe his story about the Indians attacking his party?”

“It may be true, though I think the man is capable of lying. Well, I must wake up father.”

The blacksmith was soon roused.

“A fine day!” he said cheerily. “We are in luck. Where is the horse?” he asked abruptly, the next instant.

Startled by the question, Tom and Grant turned their eyes in the direction of the tree to which old Dobbin had been tethered.

“Sure enough, where is he?” ejaculated Tom.

“Wasn’t he securely tied?”

“Yes,” answered Grant. “I tied him myself. He couldn’t have got away without hands.”

“I tell you what, Grant,” said Tom Cooper suddenly, “that scoundrel’s stolen him!”

“What scoundrel? Whom do you mean?” demanded the father.

“That tramp – Silverthorn.”

“Why, he’s gone, too!”

“Yes, and has stolen Dobbin to help him on his way. I’d like to get hold of the rascal!” And stern resolution glittered in the eyes of the young man.

“But I don’t understand it.”

“It’s easy enough to understand. The man’s a humbug. All his story was made up to impose upon us.”