Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute

“Yes. Have you any associations with that city?”

“It is my birthplace, sir.”

“Then you are not a stranger to California?”

“Yes, sir; I came away so early that I have no recollection of the place.”

“What is your name?” asked the clergyman.

“Hector Roscoe.”

“Roscoe? The name sounds familiar to me,” said the minister, thoughtfully.

“How long since you went to Sacramento, Mr. Richards?”

“I went there in 1855.”

“And I was born there in 1856. My father and mother lived there for some time afterwards.”

“It is probable that I met them, for Sacramento was a small place then. Shall you go there?”

“Yes, sir. I have a special reason for going—a reason most important to me.”

As Mr. Richards naturally looked inquisitive, Hector confided in him further.

“You see, sir,” he concluded, “that it is most important to me to ascertain whether I am really the son of the man whom I have always regarded as my father. If so, I am heir to a large fortune. If not, my uncle is the heir, and I certainly should not wish to disturb him in the enjoyment of what the law awards him.”

“That is quite proper,” said Mr. Richards. “In your investigation, it is quite possible that I may be able to help you materially, through my long residence and extensive acquaintance in Sacramento. When you come there, lose no time in calling upon me. Whatever help I can render you shall cheerfully be given.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Shall you be much disappointed if you find that you are only the adopted, instead of the real, son of Mr. Roscoe?”

“Yes, sir; but it won’t be chiefly on account of the property. I shall feel alone in the world, without relations or family connections, with no one to sympathize with me in my successes, or feel for me in my disappointments.”

“I understand you, and I can enter into your feelings.”

Arrived in San Francisco, Hector took lodgings at a comfortable hotel on Kearney Street. He didn’t go to the Palace Hotel, or Baldwin’s, though Mr. Newman had supplied him with ample funds, and instructed him to spend whatever he thought might be necessary.

“I mean to show myself worthy of his confidence,” said Hector to himself.

He arrived in the evening, and was glad to remain quietly at the hotel the first evening, and sleep off the effects of his voyage. After the contracted stateroom, in which he had passed over twenty days, he enjoyed the comfort and luxury of a bed on shore and a good-sized bedroom. But, in the morning, he took a long walk, which was full of interest. Less than five minutes’ walk from his hotel was the noted Chinese quarter. Curiously enough, it is located in the central part of the business portion of San Francisco. Set a stranger down in this portion of the city, and the traveler finds it easy to imagine himself in some Chinese city. All around him, thronging the sidewalks, he will see almond-eyed men, wearing long queues, and clad in the comfortable, but certainly not elegant, flowing garments which we meet only occasionally in our Eastern cities, on the person of some laundryman. Then the houses, too, with the curious names on the signs, speak of a far-off land. On every side, also, is heard the uncouth jargon of the Chinese tongue.

There is a part of San Francisco that is known as the Barbary Coast. It is that part which strangers will do well to avoid, for it is the haunt of the worst portion of the population. Here floats many a hopeless wreck, in the shape of a young man, who has yielded to the seductions of drink and the gaming table—who has lost all hope and ambition, and is fast nearing destruction.

If Hector allowed himself to explore this quarter, it was not because he found anything to attract him, for his tastes were healthy, but he thought, from the description of Gregory Newman, that he would stand a better chance of meeting him here than in a more respectable quarter.

Hector halted in front of a building, which he judged to be a gambling house. He did not care to enter, but he watched, with curiosity, those who entered and those who came out.

As he was standing there, a man of forty touched him on the shoulder.

Hector turned, and was by no means attracted by the man’s countenance. He was evidently a confirmed inebriate, though not at that time under the influence of liquor. There was an expression of cunning, which repelled Hector, and he drew back.

“I say, boy,” said the stranger, “do you want to go in?”

“No, sir.”

“If you do, I know the ropes, and I’ll introduce you and take care of you.”

“Thank you,” said Hector, “but I don’t care to go in.”

“Are you afraid?” asked the man, with a slight sneer.

“Yes. Haven’t I a reason?”

“Come, sonny, don’t be foolish. Have you any money?”

“A little.”

“Give it to me and I’ll play for you. I’ll double it in ten minutes, and I’ll only ask you five dollars for my services.”

“Suppose you lose?”

“I won’t lose,” said the man, confidently. “Come,” he said, in a wheedling tone, “let me make some money for you.”

“Thank you, but I would rather not. I don’t want to make money in any such way.”

“You’re a fool!” said the man, roughly, and with an air of disgust he left the spot, much to Hector’s relief.

Still Hector lingered, expecting he hardly knew what, but it chanced that fortune favored him. He was just about to turn away, when a youth, two or three years older than himself in appearance, came out of the gambling house. He was pale, and looked as if he had kept late hours. He had the appearance, also, of one who indulges in drink.

When Hector’s glance fell upon the face of the youth, he started in great excitement.

“Surely,” he thought, “that must be Gregory Newman!”

CHAPTER XXXV. THE PRODIGAL

As the best way of getting into communication with the youth whom he suspected to be the object of his search, Hector asked him the name of the street.

On receiving an answer, he said, in an explanatory way:

“I am a stranger here. I only arrived on the last steamer.”

The other looked interested.

“Where do you come from?”

“From New York.”