The Golden Dream | Page 7

explained that he had had some difficulty in
finding the house.
"Umph! Your uncle tells me that you're a sharp fellow, and write a
good hand. Have you ever been in an office before?"
"No, sir. Up till now I have been at college. My uncle is rather partial, I
fear, and may have spoken too highly of me. I think, however, that my
hand is not a bad one. At least it is legible."
"At least!" said Mr. Moxton, with a sarcastic expression that was meant
for smile, perhaps for a grin. "Why, that's the most you could say of it.
No hand is good, sir, if it is not legible, and no hand can possibly be
bad that is legible. Have you studied law?"
"No, sir, I have not."
"Umph! you're too old to begin. Have you been used to sit at the desk?"
"Yes; I have been accustomed to study the greater part of the day."
"Well, you may come here on Monday, and I'll speak to you again, and
see what you can do. I'm too busy just now. Good-morning."
Ned turned to go, but paused on the threshold, and stood holding the
door-handle.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, hesitatingly, "may I ask what room I shall
occupy, if--if--I come to work here?"
Mr. Moxton looked a little surprised at the question, but pointed to the
outer office where the dishevelled clerk sat, and said, "There." Ned fell
to twenty below the freezing-point.
"And pray, sir," he continued, "may I ask what are office-hours?"
"From nine AM till nine PM, with an interval for meals," said Mr.

Moxton, sharply; "but we usually continue at work till eleven at night,
sometimes later. Good-morning."
Ned fell to zero, and found himself in the street, with an indistinct
impression of having heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling
vociferously as he passed through the office.
It was a hard struggle, a very hard struggle, but he recalled to mind all
that his uncle had ever done for him, and the love he bore him, and
manfully resolved to cast California behind his back for ever, and
become a lawyer.
Meanwhile Mr. Shirley received a visit from a very peculiar personage.
He was still seated in his arm-chair pondering his nephew's prospects
when this personage entered the room, hat in hand--the hat was a round
straw one--and cried heartily, "Good day, kinsman."
"Ha! Captain Bunting, how are ye? Glad to see you, old fellow,"
exclaimed Mr. Shirley, rising and seizing the sailor by the hand. "Sit
down, sit down, and let's hear your news. Why, I believe it's six months
since I saw you."
"Longer, Shirley, longer than that," replied the captain, seating himself
in the chair which Ned Sinton had vacated a short time before. "I hope
your memory is not giving way. I have been half round the world, and
it's a year and six months to-day since I sat here last."
"Is it?" cried Mr. Shirley, in surprise. "Now, that is very remarkable.
But do you know, captain, I have often thought upon that subject, and
wondered why it is that, as we get older, time seems to fly faster, and
events which happened a month ago seem as if they only occurred
yesterday. But let me hear all about it. Where have you been, and
where are you going next?"
"I've been," replied the captain, who was a big, broad man with a rough
over-all coat, rough pilot-cloth trousers, rough red whiskers, a shaggy
head of hair, and a rough-skinned face; the only part of him, in fact,
which wasn't rough was his heart; that was soft and warm--

"I've been, as I remarked before, half round the world, and I'm goin'
next to America. That's a short but comprehensive answer to your
question. If you have time and patience, kinsman, I'll open the log-book
of my memory and give you some details of my doings since we last
met. But first tell me, how is my young friend, Ned?"
"Oh, he's well--excellently well--besides being tall and strong. You
would hardly know him, captain. He's full six feet high, I believe, and
the scamp has something like a white wreath of smoke over his upper
lip already! I wish him to become an engineer or a lawyer, but the boy
is in love with California just now, and dreams about nothing but wild
adventures and gold-dust."
The captain gave a grunt, and a peculiar smile crossed his rugged
visage as he gazed earnestly and contemplatively into the fire.
Captain Bunting was a philosopher, and was deeply impressed with the
belief that the smallest possible hint upon any subject whatever was
sufficient to enable him to dive into the marrow of it, and prognosticate
the probable issue of it, with much