Joe's Luck

THE RETURNED CALIFORNIAN

The village store, in the evening, was a sort of village club-house, where not only the loungers, but a better class, who desired to pass the evening socially, were wont to congregate.  About the center of the open space was a large box-stove, which in winter was kept full of wood, ofttimes getting red-hot, and around this sat the villagers.  Some on wooden chairs, some on a wooden settee, with a broken back, which was ranged on one side.

Joe frequently came here in the evening to pass a social hour and kill time.  At the house of Major Norton he had no company.  Oscar felt above him, and did not deign to hold any intercourse with his father’s drudge, while the housekeeper—­Major Norton being a widower—­was busy about her own special work, and would have wondered at Joe if he had sought her company.  I make this explanation because I do not wish it to be understood that Joe was a common village lounger, or loafer.

When Joe entered the store he found the usual company present, but with one addition.

This was Seth Larkin, who had just returned from California, whither he had gone eighteen months before, and was, of course, an object of great attention, and plied with numerous questions by his old acquaintances in regard to the land of promise in the far West, of which all had heard so much.

It was in the fall of the year 1851, and so in the early days of California.

Seth was speaking as Joe entered.

“Is there gold in California?” repeated Seth, apparently in answer to a question.  “I should say there was.  Why, it’s chock full of it.  People haven’t begun to find out the richness of the country.  It’s the place for a poor man to go if he wants to become rich.  What’s the prospects here?  I ask any one of you.  A man may go working and plodding from one year’s end to another and not have ten dollars at the end of it.  There’s some here that know that I speak the truth.”

“How much better can a man do in California?” asked Daniel Tompkins.

“Well, Dan,” said Seth, “it depends on the kind of man he is.  If he’s a man like you, that spends his money for rum as fast as he gets it, I should say it’s just as well to stay here.  But if he’s willing to work hard, and to put by half he makes, he’s sure to do well, and he may get rich.  Why, I knew a man that landed in California the same day that I did, went up to the mines, struck a vein, and—­well, how much do you think that man is worth to-day?”

“A thousand dollars?” suggested Dan Tompkins.

“Why, I’m worth more than that myself, and I wasn’t lucky, and had the rheumatism for four months.  You’ll have to go higher.”

“Two thousand?” guessed Sam Stone.

“We don’t make much account of two thousand dollars in the mines, Sam,” said Seth.

“It’s of some account here,” said Sam.  “I’ve been workin’ ten years, and I ain’t saved up a third of it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Seth; “and it ain’t your fault, either.  Money’s scarce round here, and farmin’ don’t pay.  You know what I was workin’ at before I went out—­in a shoe shop.  I just about made a poor livin’, and that was all.  I didn’t have money enough to pay my passage out, but I managed to borrow it.  Well, it’s paid now, and I’ve got something left.”

“You haven’t told us yet how much the man made that you was talkin’ about,” said Tom Sutter.  “It couldn’t be five thousand dollars, now, could it?”

“I should say it could,” said Seth.

“Was it any more?” inquired Dan Tompkins.

“Well, boys, I s’pose I may as well tell you, and you may b’lieve it or not, just as you like.  That man is worth twenty thousand dollars to-day.”

There was a chorus of admiring ejaculations.

“Twenty thousand dollars!  Did you ever hear the like?”

“Mind, boys, I don’t say it’s common to make so much money in so short a time.  There isn’t one in ten does it, but some make even more.  What I do say is, that a feller that’s industrious, and willin’ to work, an’ rough it, and save what he makes, is sure to do well, if he keeps well.  That’s all a man has a right to expect, or to hope for.”

“To be sure it is.”

“What made you come home, Seth, if you were gettin’ on so well?” inquired one.

“That’s a fair question,” said Seth, “and I’m willin’ to answer it.  It was because of the rheumatics.  I had ’em powerful bad at the mines, and I’ve come home to kinder recuperate, if that’s the right word.  But I’m goin’ back ag’in, you may bet high on that.  No more work in the shoe shop for me at the old rates.  I don’t mean that I’d mind bein’ a manufacturer on a big scale.  That’s a little more stiddy and easy than bein’ at the mines, but that takes more capital than I’ve got.”

“How much does it cost to go out there?” asked Dan Tompkins.

“More money than you can scare together, Dan.  First-class, nigh on to three hundred dollars, I believe.”

This statement rather dampened the ardor of more than one of the listeners.  Three hundred dollars, or even two, were beyond the convenient reach of most of those present.  They would have to mortgage their places to get it.

“You can go second-class for a good deal less, and you can go round the Horn pretty cheap,” continued Seth.

“How far away is Californy?” inquired Sam Stone.

“By way of the isthmus, it must be as much as six thousand miles, and it’s twice as fur, I reckon, round the Horn.  I don’t exactly know the distance.”

“Then it’s farther away than Europe,” said Joe, who had been listening with eager interest.

“Of course it is,” said Seth.  “Why, that’s Joe Mason, isn’t it?  How you’ve grown since I saw you.”

“Do you think I have?” said Joe, pleased with the assurance.

“To be sure you have.  Why, you’re a big boy of your age.  How old are you?”

“Fifteen—–­nearly sixteen.”

“That’s about what I thought.  Where are you livin’ now, Joe?”

“I’m working for Major Norton.”

Seth burst into a laugh.

“I warrant you haven’t made your fortune yet, Joe,” he said.

“I haven’t made the first start yet toward it.”

“And you won’t while you work for the major.  How much does he pay you?”

“Board and clothes.”

“And them are the clothes?” said Seth, surveying Joe’s appearance critically.

“Yes.”

“I guess the major’s tailor’s bill won’t ruin him, then.  Are they the best you’ve got?”

“No; I’ve got a better suit for Sunday.”

“Well, that’s something.  You deserve to do better, Joe.”

“I wish I could,” said Joe wistfully.  “Is there any chance for a boy in California, Mr. Larkin?”

“Call me Seth.  It’s what I’m used to.  I don’t often use the handle to my name.  Well, there’s a chance for a boy, if he’s smart; but he’s got to work.”

“I should be willing to do that.”

“Then, if you ever get the chance, it won’t do you any harm to try your luck.”

“How much did you say it costs to get there?”

“Well, maybe you could get there for a hundred dollars, if you wasn’t particular how you went.”

A hundred dollars!  It might as well have been ten thousand, as far as Joe was concerned.  He received no money wages, nor was he likely to as long as he remained in the major’s employ.  There was a shoe shop in the village, where money wages were paid, but there was no vacancy; and, even if there were, Joe was quite unacquainted with the business, and it would be a good while before he could do any more than pay his expenses.

Joe sighed as he thought how far away was the prospect of his being able to go to California.  He could not help wishing that he were the possessor of the magic carpet mentioned in the Arabian tale, upon which the person seated had only to wish himself to be transported anywhere, and he was carried there in the twinkling of an eye.

Joe walked home slowly, dreaming of the gold-fields on the other side of the continent, and wishing he were there.