Philosopher Jack

It was not usual for the gentle Polly Samson to alarm the camp with a shriek that would have done credit to a mad cockatoo, nevertheless, she did commit this outrage on the feelings of her companions on the afternoon of the day on which Watty was run down and rescued.

Her father and all the others were seated around the camp fire among the bushes at the time. Polly had left them, intending to pay a visit to one of her beautiful water-gardens on the beach, and had just emerged from the bushes and cast her eyes upon the sea, when she beheld the sight that drew from her the shriek referred to. She gave it forth in an ascending scale.

“Oh! Oh!! Oh!!! father! come here! quick! quick! oh!”

Never since he was a boy had the captain jumped so sharply from a sitting posture to his legs. Every man followed suit like a Jack-in-the-box. There was a rush as if of a tempest through the bushes, and next moment the whole party burst upon the scene, to find Polly—not as they had feared in some deadly peril, but—with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks waving her arms like a windmill, and shrieking with joy at a ship which was making straight for the island under full sail.

The captain greeted the sight with a bass roar, Philosopher Jack with a stentorian shout. Ben Trench did his best to follow Jack’s example. Simon O’Rook uttered an Irish howl, threw his cap into the air, and forthwith began an impromptu hornpipe, in which he was joined by Bob Corkey. Baldwin Burr and his comrades vented their feelings in prolonged British cheers, and Mr Luke, uttering a squeak like a wounded rabbit, went about wanting to embrace everybody, but nobody would let him. In short every one went more or less mad with joy at this sudden realisation of “hope long deferred.” Only then did they become fully aware of the depth of anxiety which had oppressed them at the thought of being left, perhaps for years, it might be to the end of their days, on that unknown island.

As the vessel approached, it became apparent that there was some one on board whose temporary insanity was as demonstrative as their own, so wild were his gesticulations.

“It’s too fur off,” said Baldwin, “to make out the crittur’s phisog; but if it warn’t for his size, I’d say he was a monkey.”

“P’r’aps it’s an ourang-outang,” suggested Corkey.

“Or a gorilla,” said O’Rook.

“Oh!” exclaimed Polly, in a low, eager voice of surprise, “I do believe it is Watty Wilkins!”

“Polly is right,” said Philosopher Jack; “I’d know Watty’s action among a thousand.”

As he spoke, the vessel rounded-to outside the reef, backed her top-sails, and lowered a boat. At the same time the excited figure disappeared from her bow, and reappeared, wilder than ever, in the stern of the boat. As it crossed the lagoon, the voice of Watty became audible, and was responded to by a succession of hearty cheers, in the midst of which the boat was run ashore. The excited lad sprang on the beach, and was almost annihilated by the species of miscellaneous embracing that he immediately underwent.

Need we say that Captain Samson and his men were only too thankful to have such an opportunity of deliverance? They at once accepted the offer of the American captain, embarked in his ship the following morning, passed Cape Horn not long after, sailed up the coast of South America, and, in course of time, cast anchor in the renowned harbour of San Francisco.

At the time of which we write, the excitement about the gold-fields of California was at its highest pitch. Men were flocking to that region from all parts of the earth. Fortunes were being made by some in a few months, and lost by others, at the gaming-tables, in a few days, or even hours. While a few gained a competence, many gained only a bare subsistence; thousands lost their health, and not a few their lives. It was a strange play that men enacted there, embracing all the confusion, glitter, rapid change of scene, burlesque, and comedy of a pantomime, with many a dash of darkest tragedy intermingled. Tents were pitched in all directions, houses were hastily run up, restaurants of all kinds were opened, boats were turned keel up and converted into cottages, while ships were stranded or lying idle at their anchors for want of crews, who had made off to that mighty centre of attraction, the diggings.

Arrived at San Francisco, Captain Samson and his crew were landed one fine morning at an early hour, and went up to a modest-looking hotel, without any definite idea as to what was best to be done in their peculiar circumstances. Feeling a strange sensation of helplessness in the midst of so much turmoil and human energy, after their quiet sojourn on the Coral Island, they kept together like a flock of sheep, and wandered about the town. Then they returned to their hotel and had luncheon, for which so large a sum was demanded, that they resolved to return on board at once, and ask the American captain’s advice.

They found their deliverer pacing his quarterdeck, with his hands in his pockets, and a stern frown on his countenance. He was quite alone, and the vessel wore an unusually quiet air.

“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said Captain Samson, as he stepped over the gangway.

“Everything wrong,” replied the American; “crew skedaddled.”

“What! bolted?”

“Ay, every man, to the diggin’s.”

“What will you do?” asked Captain Samson, in a sympathetic tone.

“Sell off the ship and cargo for what they’ll fetch, and go to the diggin’s too,” replied the other. “Moreover, I’d strongly recommend you to do the same.”

“What say you to that advice, Philosopher Jack?” asked Captain Samson, turning to our hero, with a peculiar smile.

“I say,” answered the philosopher, returning the smile, “that the advice requires consideration.”

“Cautiously replied; and what says my Polly?” continued the captain.

“I say whatever you say, father.”

“Ah! Poll, Poll, that sort of answer don’t help one much. However, we’ll call a council of war, and discuss the matter seriously; but, first of all, let’s see how the wind blows. How do you feel inclined, Ben Trench? Bein’ the invalid of our party, so to speak, you’re entitled, I think, to speak first.”

“I say, Go,” replied Ben.

“And I say ditto,” burst from Watty Wilkins with powerful emphasis.

“You wasn’t axed yet,” observed Bob Corkey. “Besides, stowaways have no right to speak at all.”

“What says Mr Luke!” continued the captain.

“Don’t go,” answered Mr Luke feebly.

“Now, lads,” said the captain, after putting the question to the others, “we’ll go in for the pros and cons.”

They went in for the pros and cons accordingly, and after an animated debate, resolved that the path of duty, as well as that of interest and propriety, lay in the direction of the diggings.

Having settled the matter, and gathered together into a common fund the small amount of cash and property which each had saved from the wreck, they went ashore, purchased the articles necessary for their expedition, and followed the great stream of Californian gold-diggers.

We shall join them, but let not the reader suppose that we intend to bore him or her with the statistics and details of Californian gold-digging. It is our purpose only to touch lightly on those salient points in the adventures of our wanderers which had a more or less direct bearing on the great issues of their lives.

Chapter Seven

Failure

There are times, probably, in the life of all when everything seems to go against one,—when plans and efforts turn out ill, or go wrong, and prospects look utterly black and hopeless. Such a time fell upon Philosopher Jack and his friends some months after their arrival at the gold-diggings.

At first they were moderately successful, and at that time what amazingly golden visions they did indulge!

“A carriage and pair,” soliloquised Watty Wilkins, one evening at supper, while his eyes rested complacently on the proceeds of the day’s labour—a little heap of nuggets and gold-dust, which lay on a sheet of paper beside him; “a carriage and pair, a town house in London, a country house near Bath or Tunbridge Wells, and a shooting-box in the Scotch Highlands. Such is my reasonable ambition.”

“Not bad,” said Philosopher Jack, “if you throw in a salmon river near the shooting-box, and the right to wear the bonnet, plaid, and kilt at pleasure.”

“Not to mention bare legs an’ rheumatiz,” remarked Simon O’Rook, who was busy with the frying-pan. “Sure, if the good Queen herself was to order me to putt on such things, I’d take off me bonnet an’ plaid in excuse that I’d be kilt entirely if she held me to it. All the same I’d obey her, for I’m a loyal subject.”

“You’re a bad cook, anyhow,” said Baldwin Burr, “to burn the bacon like that.”

“Burn it!” retorted O’Rook with an air of annoyance, “man alive, how can I help it? It hasn’t fat enough to slide in, much less to swim. It’s my belief that the pig as owned it was fed on mahogany-sawdust and steel filin’s. There, ait it, an’ howld yer tongue. It’s good enough for a goold-digger, anyhow.”

“In regard to that little bit of ambition o’ your’n,” said Bob Corkey, as the party continued their meal, “seems to me, Watty, that you might go in for a carriage an’ four, or six, when you’re at it.”

“No, Corkey, no,” returned the other, “that would be imitating the foibles of the great, which I scorn. What is your particular ambition, now, Mr Luke? What will you buy when you’ve dug up your fortune?”

The cadaverous individual addressed, who had become thinner and more cadaverous than ever, looked up from his pewter plate, and, with a sickly smile, replied that he would give all the gold in the mines to purchase peace of mind.

This was received with a look of surprise, which was followed by a burst of laughter.

“Why, you ain’t an escaped convict, are you?” exclaimed Baldwin Burr.

“No, I’m only an escaped man of business, escaped from the toils, and worries, and confinements of city life,” returned Mr Luke, with another sickly smile, as he returned to his tough bacon.

“Well, Mr Luke, if contrast brings any blessing with it,” said Edwin Jack, “you ought to revive here, for you have splendid fresh country air—by night as well as by day—a fine laborious occupation with pick and shovel, a healthy appetite, wet feet continually, mud up to the eyes, and gold to your heart’s content. What more can you desire?”

“Nothing,” replied the cadaverous man with a sigh.

The state of prosperity to which Jack referred did not last. Their first “claim,” though rich, was soon worked out, and they were obliged to seek another. This turned out to be a poor one, yielding barely enough of the precious metal to enable them to pay their way, every article of clothing, tools, and food being excessively dear at the mines. Nevertheless, they worked on in hope, but what was termed their “luck” became worse and worse every day, so that at last they were obliged to run into debt.

This was not difficult to do, for the principal store-keeper, Higgins by name, saw that they were respectable, trustworthy men, and felt pretty safe in giving them supplies on credit. One bad result of the debt thus incurred was that the whole tone and spirit of the party was lowered.

“It’s too bad,” growled Philosopher Jack one evening, as he strode into the tent and flung down his tools; “got barely enough to keep the pot boiling.”

“Better that than nothing,” remarked Watty Wilkins, who was in the act of taking off his wet boots. “I haven’t got as much dust as would gild the end of a bumbee’s nose. Hope some of the others have been more successful. None of them have come in yet except O’Rook, who is as unlucky as myself. He’s off to the store for something for supper.”

Watty sat down before the fire which burned in front of the tent, and sadly toasted his toes.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Jack, sitting down beside him, “I fear we were fools to come here.”

“Not so sure of that” returned Wilkins, with a dubious shake of the head. “Every one, you know, cannot be lucky. Some succeed and some don’t. We are down just now, that’s all. The wheel of fortune is going round, and something will be sure to turn up soon.”

“Nothing will turn up unless we turn it up for ourselves, you may depend upon that” said Philosopher Jack.

“The captain seemed to preach a different doctrine from that last Sunday, didn’t he, when he remarked that God sometimes sends prosperity and riches to those who neither ask, work for, nor deserve them?”

“True, Watty, but these, he told us, were exceptional cases; the rule being, that those who labour with body or mind acquire possessions, while those who don’t labour fall into poverty. The simple truth of that rule is partially veiled by the fact that thousands of laborious men labour unwisely, on the one hand, while, on the other hand, thousands of idle men live on the product of their forefathers’ labours. Besides, didn’t the captain also impress upon us that success is not success when it leads to evil, and failure is not failure when it results in good?”

“From all which,” retorted Watty, “you bring forward strong proof that your present growling at bad luck is most unphilosophic, you cross-grained philosopher.”

“Not at all,” returned Jack. “The captain’s principles may, or may not be correct. The mere statement of them does not prove that my ill luck just now is going to result in good. But the worst of it is, that during the time of our good fortune, I had been hoarding up in order to be able to send money to my poor father, and now it has all melted away.”

“I’m sorry for you, Jack,” said Watty, “but that is not the worst of it to my mind, bad though it be. What grieves me most is, that my dear friend and chum, Ben Trench, is surely losing his health under the strain of anxiety and hard work. You see, he is not gifted with the gutta-percha feelings and cast-iron frame of Philosopher Jack, neither has he the happy-go-lucky spirit and tough little corpus of Watty Wilkins, so that it tells on him heavily—very heavily.”

Poor Watty said this half jestingly, yet with such a look of genuine feeling that Jack forgot his own troubles for the moment.

“Something must be done,” he said, gazing with a concerned look at the fire. “Did you observe that man Conway last night up at the store?”

“Yes; what of him?”

“He staked largely at the gaming-table last night—and won.”

Little Wilkins glanced quickly in his friend’s face. “Jack,” he said, with a look and tone of earnestness quite unusual to him, “we must not think of that. Whatever straits we are reduced to, we must not gamble—I repeat, we must not!”

“Why not, little man?” asked Jack, with an amused smile at what he considered an uncalled-for burst of seriousness.

“Because it is dishonourable,” said Wilkins, promptly.

“I don’t see it to be so,” returned Jack. “If I am willing to stake my money on a chance of black or red turning up, and the banker is willing to take his chance, why should we not do it? the chances are equal; both willing to win or to lose, nothing dishonourable in that! Or, if I bet with you and you bet with me, we both agree to accept the consequences, having a right, of course, to do what we please with our own.”

“Now, Jack,” said Wilkins, “I’m not going to set up for a little preacher, or attempt to argue with a big philosopher, but I’ll tell you what my father has impressed on me about this matter. One day, when we were passing some ragged boys playing pitch-and-toss on the street, he said to me, ‘Watty, my boy, no man should gamble, because it is dishonourable. To want money that does not belong to you is greedy. To try to get it from your neighbour without working for it is mean. To risk your money in the hope of increasing it by trade, or other fair means, and so benefit yourself and others, is right; but to risk it for nothing, with the certainty of impoverishing some one else if you win, or injuring yourself if you lose, is foolish and unfeeling. The fact that some one else is willing to bet with you, only proves that you have met with one as foolish and unfeeling as yourself, and the agreement of two unfeeling fools does not result in wisdom. You will hear it said, my boy, that a man has a right to do what he will with his own. That is not true. As far as the world at large is concerned, it is, indeed, partially true, but a man may only do what God allows with what He has lent him. He is strictly accountable to God for the spending of every penny. He is accountable, also, to his wife and his children, in a certain degree, ay, and to his tradesmen, if he owes them anything. Yes, Watty, gambling for money is dishonourable, believe me!’ Now, Jack, I did, and I do believe him, from the bottom of my heart.”

What Jack would have replied we cannot tell, for the conversation was interrupted at that moment by the abrupt appearance of Captain Samson. He led Polly by the hand. The child had an unwonted expression of sadness on her face.

“Come into the tent. Now then, darling,” said the captain; “sit on my knee, and tell me all about it. Polly has seen something in her rambles that has made her cry,” he explained to Jack, Wilkins, and the rest of the party who chanced to come in while he was speaking. “Let us hear about it.”

“Oh! it is so sad,” said Polly, whimpering. “You know that good kind man Jacob Buckley, who lives up in Redman’s Gap with his sick brother Daniel, who is so fond of me; well, I went up to the Gap this afternoon, when I had done cleaning up, to sit with the sick brother for a little. I found him in great anxiety and very ill. He told me that Jacob, who had always been such a good nurse to him, is much cast down by his bad luck, and has taken to drink, and that he has lost or spent all his money, and can’t get credit at the store. He went out quite drunk last night, and has not returned since. Of course poor Daniel has had nothing to eat, for he can’t leave his bed without help, and even if he could, there isn’t a morsel of food in the house.”

This story created much sympathy in the hearts of Polly’s hearers.

“Well now, messmates, what’s to be done in this case?” asked Captain Samson, looking round.

“Make a c’lection,” said O’Rook.

“Here you are,” said Watty, taking up his cap and dropping several small nuggets into it as he handed it to Jack.

The philosopher contributed a pretty large nugget, which, in his heart, he had intended to stake at the gaming-table. “Well,” said he, “we are reduced to low enough circumstances just now, but we are rich compared with poor Buckley.”

The entire party at that time numbered only nine, including Polly, Bounce, and Badger, the other members of the crew of the Lively Poll having separated soon after leaving San Francisco. But as all of them were men of generous spirit, Watty’s cap soon contained a very creditable “c’lection,” which was made up forthwith into a bag, and carried with some cooked provisions by Polly to Redman’s Gap, under the safe escort of her father and Baldwin Burr.

The following evening, after supper, Philosopher Jack quietly put his last bag of gold into his pocket and went off with it to Higgins’ store. On the way up he entered into a debate with himself as to the rectitude of gambling. He seemed to himself to be composed of two persons, one of whom condemned, while the other defended gambling. But Jack had a strong will of his own. He was not to be lightly turned from a purpose, either by the disputants within him or by the arguments of his friend Wilkins. Being a good reasoner, our philosopher found that the condemner of gambling within him was rapidly getting the best of the argument; he therefore brought the matter to a point by suddenly exclaiming aloud, “Now, the question is, shall I do it?”

“Don’t?” said his old, brusque, but faithful friend Conscience, with a promptitude that made him quite uncomfortable.

“Or,” continued Jack slowly, “shall I go back and wait to see whether things will turn and mend?”

“Do!” answered his friend at once.

If Jack had put more questions, he would have received clear and emphatic replies, but he merely said, “Pooh!” and when a man says “pooh!” to conscience, he is in a very bad way indeed.

At Higgins’ store gold-miners assembled to buy and sell, to talk and drink and gamble. As the necessaries of life were procured there, miners of all sorts, from the steady to the disreputable, were to be found assembled at times, but it was chiefly the latter who “hung about” the place. No notice was taken of Jack as he mingled with the crowd, except by one or two acquaintances, who gave him a passing nod of recognition.

At the bar there was assembled a boisterous group, who were laughing heartily at something. Jack joined it, and found a tall, half-tipsy man offering to bet with another. When men are smitten with the gambling spirit anything that affords a “chance” will serve their turn.

“See here, now,” said the tall man, looking round, “I repeat, that I’ll bet any man ten dollars—all I have in the world—that there’s not any four of the men in this store can prevent my lifting this tumbler of water to my lips.”

He held out a tumbler in his right hand as he spoke, and straightened his long sinewy arm.

Some of those present laughed, but one, a short, thick-set, powerful fellow, said “Done!” at once, and stepped forward.

“Well, stranger,” said the tall man, with a smile, “lay hold. You ought to be strong enough to prevent me by yourself, but come on some more of you.”

Three strong fellows rose and laughingly grasped the man’s arm, while several of the lookers-on began to bet on the event.

“Now, hold fast,” said the tall man, giving his arm a slight but vigorous shake, which had the effect of causing those who held it to tighten their grip powerfully.

“Oh! you’re not strong enough,” he added; “come, another of you!” Hereupon a fifth man rose, and laid hold of the arm amid much laughter.

At that moment a big, rough miner pushed his way through the crowd and demanded to know “what was up.” On being told, he drew a bag from his pocket and exclaimed, “I’ll bet you this bag of dust if you can match it, that these five men will prevent you easily. They are strong enough to hold Goliath himself, if he were here.”

“Sorry that I can’t match your bag, stranger,” replied the tall man; “I’m only game for ten dollars, and that’s already staked.”

“But I can match it,” exclaimed Philosopher Jack, suddenly producing his bag, which was much the same size as that of the big miner.

“Now, then, hold fast, but don’t break the bone if you can help it,” said the tall man, giving his arm another shake.

The laugh with which this was received was changed into a roar of delight, when the tall man passed his left arm over the heads of those who held him, and with his left hand conveyed the tumbler to his lips.

There was a good deal of disputation immediately, as to the justice of paying up bets on what was obviously a “sell,” but it was ruled that in this case they had been fairly lost and won, so that the big miner turned his back on his bag of gold, and, with a deep curse, left the store.

Never before had Edwin Jack felt so thoroughly ashamed of himself as when he went forward and took up the two bags of gold. He did it, how ever, and, hurriedly quitting the store, returned to his tent.

There was a small portion of the tent curtained off at the farther extremity, as a chamber for Polly Samson. Jack was relieved, on arriving, to find that she had retired to it for the night. He was also glad to observe that all his tired companions were asleep, with the exception of O’Rook. That worthy was busy clearing up his pots and pans for the night.

“It’s late you are to-night,” remarked O’Rook with a yawn.

“Yes, I’ve been to the store,” said Jack; “hand me that candle; thanks.”

Turning his back on his comrade, he opened the bag which he had won, and looked in. The first thing that met his astonished gaze was the identical nugget which he had contributed the evening before to the sick miner at Redman’s Gap. There was a name inside the bag. Holding it near the candle, he read— “Buckley!”

“They must have been robbed!” he muttered to himself; then, rising, said to O’Rook, “I’ve taken a fancy to go up to the Gap to see the Buckleys. Don’t mistake me for a thief when I return.”

“No mistake at all if I did,” returned O’Rook, “for you’re stealin’ a march on us all just now, an’ isn’t it robbin’ yourself of your night’s rest you are? ah! then, a wilful man must have his way; good luck go with ye.”