Ben's Nugget; Or, A Boy's Search For Fortune

"It's a man just come from the mines," said the driver—"a Mr. Dewey."

Florence had drawn near to the head of the stairs in her interest to hear who had called, and she caught the name of her lover. She came flying down stairs, and demanded breathlessly, "What about Richard Dewey? I am Miss Douglas, and your message is for me."

Jones, for it was he, touched his hat respectfully, and held out a note penned on rough paper and written in pencil.

"This will explain everything, miss," he said.

Florence took the paper, and with some difficulty read it. It ran thus:

"Dear Florence: I have struggled to reach you, but have been struck down by fever when I was nearly at the end of my journey. I have had bad luck at the mines, and was almost discouraged, when I learned that you were in San Francisco. Poor as I was, I determined to come to you, even at the risk of your misjudging me. I am not able to write much, and must defer particulars till I see you. I am staying at the house of a kind stranger a few miles from the city. The man whom I send with this note is trustworthy. If you will trust yourself to his guidance, he will bring you to me. I know that I am asking a great deal of you, but I think you will not fail me.

    "Yours, with love,
    "Richard Dewey."

The writing was hurried—indeed, it was hardly more than a scrawl.

"He must be very weak," thought Florence, her heart swelling with painful emotions.—"My good friend," she said to the landlady, "Richard is sick and poor. He asks me to come to him. I must go."

"But can you trust that man? Is the letter genuine?" asked Mrs. Armstrong, suspiciously.

"I am sure it is genuine. It is written as Richard would write."

"But don't be in haste, Miss Douglas—Florence. Make some inquiries, and find out whether this news can be depended upon."

"Would you have me hesitate when Richard needs me?" asked Florence, reproachfully. "No, Mrs. Armstrong, I must go, and at once. I have waited so long to see him!"

"He will be very glad to see you, miss," said Jones respectfully. "He has been talking about you constant."

"Were Ben and Mr. Bradley with him? Why didn't one of them come?"

"Because, miss," said Jones with ready invention, though he had never heard of either of the persons mentioned, "one went for the doctor, and the other stayed to take care of him."

This seemed very plausible. Without a particle of suspicion Florence Douglas hastily dressed herself and entered the carriage in waiting.

CHAPTER XXV.

WALKING INTO A TRAP

The thought that she was so soon to see Richard Dewey, and to minister to his comfort, was a source of pleasure to Florence. Her patient waiting was at length to be rewarded. What mattered it to her that he was poor and sick? He had all the more need of her.

"It's a long ride, miss," said Jones as he closed the carriage-door. "I hope you won't be tired before we get there."

"I shall not mind it," said Florence. "How far is it?"

"I don't rightly know. It's a matter of ten miles, I'm thinkin'."

"Very well."

Jones resumed his seat, and Florence gave herself up to pleasant thoughts. She felt thankful that she was blessed with abundant means, since it would enable her to spare no expense in providing for the sick man. Others might call him a fortune-hunter, but that produced no impression upon her, except to make her angry. She had given her whole love and confidence to the man whom her heart had chosen.

The carriage rolled onward rapidly: as from time to time she glanced out of the window, she saw that they had left behind the town and were in the open country. She gave herself no concern, however, and did not question Jones, taking it for granted that he was on the right road, and would carry her to the place where Richard Dewey had found a temporary refuge.

"It is some poor place, probably," she reflected, "but if he can be moved I will have him brought into town, where he can see a skilful doctor daily."

At the end of an hour and a half there was a sudden stop.

Florence looked out of the carriage-window, and observed that they were in front of a shabby-looking dwelling of two stories.

Jones leaped from his elevated perch and opened the door of the carriage. "This is the place, miss," he said. "Did you get tired?"

"No, but I am glad we have arrived."

"It's a poor place, miss, but Mr. Dewey was took sick sudden, so I was told, and it was the best they could do."

"It doesn't matter. Perhaps he can be moved."

"Perhaps so. Will you go in?"

"Yes."

The door was opened, and a slatternly-looking woman of sinister aspect appeared at the threshold. Florence took no particular notice of her appearance, but asked, hurriedly, "How is he?"

"Oh, he'll get along," answered the woman, carelessly. "Will you come in?"

"He is not dangerously sick, then?" said Florence, relieved.

"He's got a fever, but ain't goin' to die this time."

"This is Mrs. Bradshaw, Miss Douglas," said Jones, volunteering an introduction.

"I thank you, Mrs. Bradshaw, for your kindness to a sick man and a stranger," said Florence, earnestly. "Can I see him now?"

"Yes, miss, if you'll just walk up stairs. I hope you'll excuse the looks of things; I haven't had time to fix up."

"Oh, don't mention it."

In a tumult of emotion Florence followed her guide up a rough staircase.

On the landing Mrs. Bradshaw opened a door and, standing aside, invited Florence to enter.

On a sofa, with his back to her, lay the figure of a man covered with a shawl.

"Richard!" said the visitor, eagerly.

The recumbent figure slowly turned, and revealed to the dismayed Florence, not the face of the man she expected to see, but that of Orton Campbell.

"Mr. Campbell!" she ejaculated, in bewilderment.