The treasure of Mushroom Rock

AT one of the little stations at which we stopped, a man boarded the train, and taking a seat opposite at once fell into conversation with us. He appeared to be familiar with the country round about, and, on our mentioning our intention of walking to Golconda, where Percy’s uncle and cousin lived, he told us all about the place and how to get to it; informing us that by continuing our journey as far as Ogden we should only be going out of our way, for if we should alight instead at the next station we might save some fifteen miles of unnecessary walking. As Percy and I had no object in visiting Ogden but to leave it again as soon as possible, we decided to follow our adviser’s counsel, and stepping from the train accordingly, we set off on foot along a waggon-trail which led away in the direction of the hills.

Our waggon-trail led us presently into a well-defined road, and along this we pursued our way for many miles, most of the distance being up-hill; and hard work we found it to walk quickly and steadily at that unfamiliar altitude. At length, having ascended a long and very steep hill, we sat down upon some stones by the wayside to rest. As we sat there we observed, coming up the road at an easy canter, two horsemen, one of whom, as soon as he arrived at the bottom of the hill, alighted from his horse and proceeded to walk up on foot; the other continuing to ride.

“That is a considerate fellow,” said Percy. “It isn’t everybody who would walk up this hill just to please his horse.”

“No,” I responded, “and the horse seems to know it; see how closely he walks behind; the man is not holding the bridle either.”

As the travellers came up the hill we observed that the one on foot was a tall young fellow of about twenty, brown-faced and grey-eyed, with a firmness about the mouth and a thoughtfulness of expression not usual in one of his age. But the other! To my great astonishment the other was the small, sharp-faced man of whom I have made mention on two or three previous occasions. How came he here? Had his presence anything to do with us? Before I could come to any conclusion or say anything to Percy on the subject the pair came opposite to where we sat, and stopped.

“Good-morning,” exclaimed the young fellow, mopping his face with his handkerchief. “Pretty hot, isn’t it? Which way are you going; up or down?”

“Up,” replied Percy. “We are on our way to Golconda. Do you happen to know the place?”

“Oh, yes. Very well. I live there.”

“Do you? Then do you know a gentleman there named Harding, or his son, Jack Harding?”

“Yes,” replied the stranger.

“They are living there still, I suppose?” said Percy, with some anxiety; for, though he had said nothing to me on the subject, he had been worrying himself a good deal over the idea that his uncle might have left the place—and what would become of us then?

Instead of replying the stranger looked hard at Percy for a moment, and then, breaking into a smile which displayed a row of strong, white teeth, he stretched out his hand and said:

“How are you, Percy?”

For an instant we stared at him in astonishment, when, all at once, it flashed upon us who it was.

“Why, it’s Jack!” cried Percy. “It is you, isn’t it, Jack?”

“Yes; it’s me, all right,” replied Jack, forgetting his grammar for the moment. “And this is your English friend, Tom Swayne, of course.”

“Yes,” said I, shaking hands with him with great satisfaction; “and uncommonly glad I am to see you.”

“But, Jack,” Percy exclaimed, as the thought suddenly came into his head, “how did you know I had an English friend named Tom Swayne?”

At this question Jack, by way of reply, burst into a merry laugh, in which, to our surprise, the small man on the horse joined.

“Well, Mr. Harding,” said the latter, “I may as well turn round now and go back to Ogden. My part of the business is completed with the delivery of the goods. You might just give me a receipt for them, if you will.”

“All right, Jenkins,” replied Jack. And taking a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket he wrote rapidly, and then went on: “Will this do? ‘Received of Hiram Jenkins one Percy Goodall and one Tom Swayne, in good condition. John Harding.’”

“That will do, sir, thank you,” the small man answered, laughing and pocketing the paper. “Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, young gentlemen. I’m glad you’ve got here at last. You’ve been a longish time about it, though, haven’t you? Good-bye.”

With that he turned his horse and rode off down the hill, while Percy and I, in a state of the blankest bewilderment, looked alternately at each other and at Jack, who, standing with his arm across his horse’s neck, was regarding us with a broad and cheerful grin.

“Jack!” exclaimed Percy, at last. “What’s the meaning of all this? What has that man to do with us? How—why—what—what is the meaning of it?”

At this Jack once more broke into a laugh, and stepping forward, clapped one hand upon Percy’s shoulder and the other on mine, and said:

“Percy, old fellow, and you, Tom,—I suppose I may call you ‘Tom’?—forgive me for laughing; but there is such a joke against you two. I’ve been expecting you any day for the past month. That man has been attending upon your footsteps ever since the morning you landed in New Orleans. I have letters from home for both of you up at the house where I am staying. I know all about your poaching scrape, and your trip across the ocean and up the Mississippi, and your walk across Nebraska, and the train-wreckers’ episode, and how the station-agents along the line used to joke you as you went by, and——”

“But how, Jack? How?” we both cried, rendered desperate by this enumeration, which only increased the bewilderment of our already sufficiently puzzled brains.

“Come over here by the stream,” replied Jack. “There is a nice bunch of trees. We can sit down in the shade, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

But to make matters intelligible I must deprive Jack of the honor of telling the story himself, and must add to it a few details with which he was unacquainted. To do so I must go back to the night when Percy and I escaped—as we thought—the terrors of the law by running away from Moseley’s.

It was not until the morning following our “escape” that our absence was discovered,—Percy’s sheet waving in the wind was the first intimation that something was amiss,—but as soon as the discovery was made there ensued some pretty lively bustle in the little community.

Bates and the keepers were rescued from the “den,” Mr. Goodall was notified, and as soon as he arrived and my parents returned home a meeting of the elders was held at the vicarage; Sir Anthony being of the number. The old Baronet was half amused and half indignant that we should have supposed him to be so harsh and undiscriminating as to prosecute two thoughtless boys for an offence which they did not know was an offence. But, “It is just like boys, though,” said he. “They never do stop to think.”

The witnesses were examined, and with the help of Percy’s and my letters a pretty true understanding of the incident was arrived at.

To dispose of one part of my story at a time, I may say that Bates’s share in the transaction showed up so unpleasantly that, as a consequence, he drove away late that evening to the railway-station. His school-days were over.

Going up to London, he there had an interview with the old lawyer, his guardian, to whom he expressed his determination to return to school no more. He had had schooling enough; he was nineteen years old; he would like to see something of the world.

Very well. What part of the world would he like to visit? France? Italy? Germany?

No. What was the use of going to countries where he could not speak the language? He would like to visit the United States.

To this desire his unsympathetic old guardian, glad to be rid of him, gave his consent; and so it came about that, while Percy and I were working our passage to New Orleans, Bates was suffering all the miseries of sea-sickness somewhere between Liverpool and New York, we being, of course, as ignorant of his movements as he was of ours. Little could Bates have imagined, when he laid his plot to oust us from Moseley’s, that the result of its success would be to lead us, all three, such a wild dance as it did.

But to return to the conclave assembled in the vicarage parlour: my father and mother, Mr. Goodall, the Head-master, and Sir Anthony.

A liberal use of the telegraph soon settled the question as to what had become of us. In reply to a message to the Chief-Constable of Southampton, information was received that a policeman had that morning noticed two boys, calling each other Tom and Percy, looking very tired, dusty, and unwashed, go on board the Louisiana, Captain Murchison, bound for New Orleans, and that they had not come ashore again. Further inquiry having made it quite certain that we were the unwashed boys referred to, our seniors fell to discussing the course of action that should be adopted. Sir Anthony and my mother represented the two extremes of opinion. The former advised that as we had brought ourselves into this scrape we might very well be allowed to get ourselves out again, we having—he was kind enough to say—plenty of sense and plenty of courage. My mother, on the other hand, was for telegraphing the passage-money to New Orleans to bring us back instantly.

But as Mr. Goodall, being an American, was much more likely than anyone else to be able to suggest a feasible course of action, the others turned to him for his opinion.

“I think,” said Mr. Goodall, “that we can make a compromise between Mrs. Swayne’s idea and Sir Anthony’s. It would be interesting to see how the boys would get out of their scrape by themselves, and this, I believe, may be done without running any risk of permitting them to get into trouble. I will tell you my idea, and if you agree I will see that it is carried out.

“The boys, presumably, have not much money. It is possible that they may, on landing, telegraph home for funds. If they do not, there is no doubt, I think, but that they will try to make their way to Philadelphia—my home, you know—by some means or other. Now, this is what I propose to do: There is in Philadelphia a man, by name Hiram Jenkins, whom I have frequently employed on private and particular business, a thoroughly trustworthy and most astute fellow. I will send full instructions to Jenkins to go at once to New Orleans, and there to await the arrival of the Louisiana. He shall keep a close watch upon the boys, follow their footsteps wherever they go, and, should the occasion arise, shall make himself known to them. Otherwise—if no such occasion should arise, I mean—he shall not interfere with them, but shall allow them to get out of their difficulties by their own wit. He shall communicate with us at frequent intervals, so that we may know all the time what the boys are doing and where they are. Thus, Mrs. Swayne, your mind will be relieved, and the boys will have an opportunity to show how much of resourcefulness there is in them. Now, what do you think of that?”

The three gentlemen at once declared their approval of the plan, and after a thorough discussion my mother, too, albeit with some reluctance, gave in to their opinion. Mr. Goodall immediately set about making the necessary arrangements, with the result that when we arrived in New Orleans, there, all unsuspected by us, was Hiram Jenkins, waiting to act the part of watch-dog to us in our course across the continent.

While we, in the unenviable position of roustabouts, worked our toilsome way up the Mississippi, Jenkins, on the same boat, was travelling comfortably among the passengers. When we, at St. Louis, unexpectedly turned westward, Jenkins rode on the same train with us. When we set out to walk across the plains, Jenkins, procuring a horse and light cart, trotted along the country roads which followed the railroad track, stopping at the different stations until we made our appearance, and then driving on to the next one.

It seemed to him such an exquisite joke that two boys should thus painfully tramp across the country,—perseveringly running away from nothing,—that, feeling sure the station-agents would appreciate the joke too well to spoil it, he would let them into the secret; and while the agent, standing on the platform, would jocularly cheer us on our way, Jenkins would be sitting in the waiting-room, taking his ease, until such time as it should become necessary for him to drive on again.

After the episode of the train-wreckers Jenkins might perhaps have lost us for a time had it not been for the fact that he was staying for the night at the station to which the conductor had gone for assistance, and walking back with him to the train had heard our request to be carried on. Promptly abandoning his horse and cart, he once more rode on the train with us, occupying a different car. By our action in getting off short of Ogden he did lose us for the moment, but having found out from our talkative acquaintance that we were going to walk to Golconda, he went on to Ogden, where he met Jack, who had ridden down to meet us, Jenkins having kept him, as well as the folks at home, informed of our whereabouts.

Setting out at once on horseback, the pair overtook us when we were yet two or three miles from our destination, and there Jenkins, his mission accomplished, turned back to town, whence he sent to Percy’s father the prearranged telegraphic message, “Goods delivered.”

When Jack had reached this point in his story he stopped. He was too kind-hearted to laugh at us again, knowing pretty well what was passing in our minds, and for a time all three sat silent, Percy and I furtively eying each other meanwhile.

How exceedingly small we did feel! To think that we had taken all this trouble, suffered all these discomforts, travelled all this distance,—for nothing!

As I watched Percy, however, I presently saw a change come over his face. He raised his head and sat up straight; then, to the great astonishment of Toby, Jack’s horse, he suddenly sprang to his feet, dashed his hat upon the ground, and, snapping his fingers and thumbs, shouted “Hurrah!” at the very top of his voice; at the same time waving his arms above his head, and spinning round first on one foot and then on the other.

I knew what he was thinking about, because I was thinking the very same thing myself. I jumped up, too, kicked Percy’s hat far away into the bushes, hurled my own after it, and joined him in his shouting and capering and generally absurd behaviour; while Jack leaned back against a tree and laughed until the tears ran out of his eyes.

“Hold up, hold up, you two lunatics!” he cried, at last. “Don’t you think you’ve made yourselves ridiculous enough already without winding up in this way?”

At this we rushed upon Jack, each seized one of his hands and shook it as though he were a long-lost friend whom we had expected never to see again, and at last, entirely out of breath, we flopped down on either side of him and sat there panting.

“May I inquire,” said Jack, with extreme politeness, “whether this is your usual style of behaviour, or whether the altitude has affected your brains? Or were you, perhaps, merely born foolish?”

It was our turn to laugh. In fact, we felt so light-hearted we were ready to laugh at anything—ourselves included. What did we care about having made ourselves ridiculous! When we thought of how our parents had never been worried about us all this time; how they had kept watch over us without our knowing it; how, too, Sir Anthony had never thought of putting us into jail at all,—the relief to our minds was such that it was no wonder we “carried on” in this flighty manner. For the first time in six or seven weeks we felt free from anxiety. All the policemen in England and America could not make us tremble. We were fugitives no longer!

“But, Jack,” said Percy, after we had sat for some time asking innumerable questions of our new friend, “what is going to become of us now?”

“That is for you to say,” replied Jack. “I have a letter of instructions up at the house. You are to have your choice: you may go straight home again if you like, or—” Jack paused, and sat eying us in a critical manner, as if he were taking our measure; “sizing us up,” as he would have expressed it.

“Or what?” exclaimed Percy and I, together.

“Or this. What do you say to cutting loose from civilization altogether; riding away into the mountains; camping out all summer; living on what we can shoot; and prospecting for gold as we go?”

So magnificent an idea fairly took away our breath for a moment, but then, with one voice, we cried enthusiastically: “I say ‘Yes.’”

“All right,” said Jack. “Then that is what we will do; and uncommonly glad I shall be of your company. You can be of great help to me; for, as soon as you have learned to shoot straight, I shall leave to you the task of providing the camp with game, and that will set me free to go prospecting. You see,” he went on, “I am very anxious to find gold, if possible; for this reason: My father owns a silver mine here in Golconda. He has done an immense amount of work upon it, and has spent a great deal of money in developing it, but just as we were going to begin stoping,—that is, taking out the ore,—a blast in the bottom of the shaft broke into an underground reservoir, apparently. At any rate, the water rushed in and drove out the miners; we rigged a bucket and tried what that would do, but it was quite useless; nothing short of a good pumping-engine will keep the water down.

“Unfortunately my father cannot afford to buy one, for he had just expended the last of his available money in building a comfortable house for my mother and sister, who were coming out to live with us—and now they can’t come! My father has gone East to try to borrow the necessary money, but if he should fail,—why, then I don’t know what we shall do. So you see why it is that I am so particularly anxious to find a gold-placer—though, of course, it is most unlikely that I shall be able to do so; especially as I don’t know anything of gold-washing.”

“I see,” said Percy. “How much money will it require to buy a pumping-engine, and to start up the mine again?”

“Five thousand dollars, perhaps,” replied Jack. “Besides the cost of the pump, there is likely to be a great deal of work to be done in the mine after the water is taken out,—replacing timbers, and cleaning out the drifts, which are very apt to cave in after a prolonged soaking.”

“Well,” continued Percy, “if we should find a placer, is it likely to be worth that much?”

“There’s no telling,” replied Jack. “But if we find one at all, we want to find one worth more than that, because, you see, there’s your share to come out.”

“Our share!” exclaimed Percy. “Oh, we don’t want a share.”

“No,” I chimed in. “Ours is a pleasure-trip. We don’t want a share.”

“That wouldn’t be fair,” said Jack. “If you do part of the work you must have part of the pay—if there is any.”

“Well, I don’t see that,” Percy objected. “We neither of us know anything about prospecting. As for myself, I couldn’t tell the difference between native gold and native brass—if there is such a thing.”

“Which there isn’t,” said Jack, laughing.

“Look here,” I interrupted. “I think I see a way out of this. If we should find a placer,—whatever that is,—the first five thousand dollars that come out of it, if so much ever does come out of it, shall go to Jack, or, rather, to Mr. Harding, and anything over shall be divided equally between the three of us. If our share shall be enough to pay our way home, so much the better.”

“That is a first-rate idea,” said Percy, emphatically; and in spite of Jack’s protests we stuck to our point until, at last, he gave in.

“Well, you fellows,” said he, “that is mighty good of you. Whether we find anything or not, I’m much obliged to you beforehand. But, come. We must be moving. It is past supper-time already, and we have nearly three miles to go yet.”

In course of time we came in sight of a ranch, and Jack, pointing to it, said: “There’s our destination. You see, as my father expected to be absent from Golconda for several months he has rented our house in the town, and in consequence I have taken up my abode with a friend, a ranchman named George Catlin.”

The jolly ranchman welcomed us to his house, and we felt ourselves at home directly. It is true he poked fun at us in a good-natured way on the subject of our late escapade, but it was little we cared for that when Jack handed over to us letters from our parents, and one, addressed to both, from Sir Anthony.

To think that we had ever run away from such friends! How kind the letters were! Not a word of blame in them; merely an intimation that we had acted too hastily and rather foolishly, and an assurance that had we been twice as hasty and twice as foolish it would have made no difference in the welcome that was always awaiting us at home.