OUR YOUTHS' DEPARTMENT

Evening Star, Issue 8118, 18 January 1890, Page 4 (Supplement)

OUR YOUTHS' DEPARTMENT

[Copyrighted. ] A WAIF OF THE PLAINS. By Bret Harte, Author of 'The Argonauts,' 'The Luck of Roaring Camp,' ' Creasy,' etc. CHAPTER V. With this incident of the hunt closed to Clarence the last remembered episode of his journey. But he did not know until long after that it had also closed to him what might have been the opening of a new career. For it had been Judge Peyton's intention in adopting Susy to include a certain guardianship and protection of the boy, provided he could get the consent of that vague relation to whom he was consigned. But it had been pointed out by Mrs Peyton and her brother that Clarence's association with Jim Hooker had made him a doubtful companion for Susy, and even the judge himself was forced to admit that the boy's apparent taste for evil company was inconsistent with his alleged birth and breeding. Unfortunately Clarence in the conviction of being hopelessly misunderstood, and that dogged acquiescence to fate, which was one his characteristics, was too proud to correct the impression by any of the hypocrisies of childhood. He hod also a cloudy instinct of loyalty to Jim in his disgrace, without, however, experiencing either the sympathy of an equal or the zeal of a partisan, but rather—if it could be said of a boy of his years—with the patronage and protection of a superior. So he accepted, without demur, the intimation that when the train reached California he would be forwarded from Stockton with au outfit and a letter of explanation to Sacramento—it being understood that in the event of not finding his relative he would return to the Peytons in one the southern valleys, where they elected to purchase a tract of land.

With this outlook and the prospect of change, independence, and all the rich possibilitiea that to the imagination of youth are included in them, Clarence had found the days dragging. The halt at Salt Lake, the transit of the dreary alkali desert, even the wild passage of the Sierras were but a blurred picture in his memory. The sight of eternal snows, and the rolling of endfess ranks of pines; the first glimpse of a hillside of wild oats ; the spectacle of a rushing yellow river that to his fancy seemed tinged with gold, were momentary excitements, quickly forgotten. But wheu one morning, halting at the outskirts of a struggling settlement, he found the entire party eagerly gathered around a passing stranger, who had taken from his saddle-bags a small buckskin pouch to show them a double-handful of ahining scales of metal, Clarence felt the first feverish and overmastering thrill of the gold-seek6rs. Breathlessly he followed the breathless questions and careless replies. The gold had been dug out of a placer only thirty miles away—it might be worth, say, laOdol—it was only his share of a week's work with two partners. It was not much —" the country was getting played out with fresh arrivals and greenhorns," All this falling carelessly from the unshaven Hp 3 of a dusty, roughly-dressed man, with a Jong-handled shovel and pickaxe strapped on his back and a frying pan depending from his saddle. But no panoplied or armed knight over seemed so heroic or independent a figure to Clarence. What could be finer than the noble ccorn conveyed in his critical survey of the tra'n, with its comfortable covered waggons and appliances of civilisation? " Ye'll hev to get rid of them ther fixin's if yer goin' in for placer diggin'!" What a corroboration of Clarence's real .thoughts ! What a picture of independence v/w thi3 ! The picturesque Ecout, the allpowerful Jadge Peyton, the daring young officer —all crumbled on their clayey pedestals before this hero in a red flannel ahirt and high-topped boots! To stroll around in the «pen air all day, and pick up those shining bits of metal, without study, without method or routine—this was really life. To some day come upon that large nugget " you couldn't lift"—that was worth .as much as the train and horses. Such a one as the stranger said was found the other •day at Sawyer's Bar—thi3 was worth giving up everything for. That rough man, with his BKiile of careless superiority, was the living link between Clarence and the Thousand-and-one nights; in him were Aladdin and Sinbad incarnate.

Two days later they reached Stockton. Here Clarence, whose single suit of clothes had been reinforced by patching, odds and ends from Peyton's stores, and an extraordinary costume of army cloth, got up by the regimental tailor of Fort Ridge, was taken to be refitted at a general furnishing "' emporium/" But, alas ! in the selection of clothing for that adult locality scant provision seemed to haye been made for a boy jof Clarence's years, and he was with difficulty fitted from an old condemned Government store with " a boy's seamaii suit and a brass-buttoned pea-jacket." To this outfit Mr Peytoa added a small sum of money for his expenses, and a letter of explanation to liia cousin. The stage coach was to start at noon. It only remained for Clarence to take leave of the party. The final parting with Susy had been .discounted on the two previous days with some tears, small frights and clingings, and the expressed determination on the child's part " to go with him " .{ but in the excitement of the arrival at Stockton it was still farther mitigated, and tinder the influence of a little present from Clarence—his first disbursement of his email capital—had at last taken the form and promise of merely temporary separation. Nevertheless, when the boy's scanty pack was deposited under the atage coach seat, and he had been left alone, he ran rapidly back to the train for one moment mora with Susy. PantiDg, and a little frigtened, he reached Mrs Peyton's ear. "Goodness! You're not gotie yet," said Mrs Peyton, sharply; "do you want to Eose the stage ?" An instant before, in his loneliness, he might farive answered "Yes"; but under the cruel sting of Mrs Peyton's evident annoyance at his reappearance he felt his leg 3 suddenly tremble, and his voice left him. He did not dare to look at Susy. But her voice rose comfortably from the ■depth* of the waggon where she was sitting; " The stage will begoned away, Kla'utia." She too ! Shame at his foolish weakness sent the yearning blood that had settled round his heart flying back into his face.

1 1 was looking for—for—for Jim, ma'am," he said at last, boldly. He saw the look of disgust pass over Mrs Peyton's face, and felt a malicious satisfaction as he turned and ran back to the stage. But here, to his surprise, he actually found Jim, whom he really hadn't thought of, darkly watching the last strapping of lug, gage. With a manner calculated to convey the impression to the other passengers that he was parting from a brother criminal probably on his way to a State prison, Jim taunok hands gloomily with Clarence and *ye<jL the other passengers furtively between his matted locks.

"Ef y* hear o' anythin' happeniu'ye'll know what's &p," he said, in a low, hoarse, :but perfectly audible whisper. "Me and them's bound -to part kompany afore long. Tell the fellowß at ©eadman's Gulch to look <out .for me at any time." Although Clarence wag not going to Deadenan's <Sulch, knew nothing of it, said had a faint suspicion that Jim was equally 3 ignorant, yet as one or two of the passengers glanced anxiously at the demure, grey-eyed boy who seemed booked for such a baleful -destination, he really felt the half-delighted, Gialf-frightened consciousness that he was •■starting in life .under iascinating, immoral pretence?. But the forward spring of the tSue-spiri'.cd korses, the quickened motion, t&e glittering suslight, and the thought that (he waa really leaving behind him all the shackles of dependence tpd custom, and jplnnging into a life of ireedo.ni, drove all -else from his mind. He turned at Lpst from itbis hopeful, blissful future, and beg£,u to examine his fellottvpassengers with Tboyisji curiosity. Wedged in between two silent men on the front .seat, .one ,of whom seemed a fanner, and the .other, by hjs black attire, a professional man, ;Clarence yas fSoally attracted by a black-mantled, dark' thaired, bonnetless woman oa the -back .seat, iwboae attention seemed to be monopolized *y the jocular gallantries of her companions and the two men before her in the middj,?

seat. From her position he could see little more than her dark eyes, which occasionally seemed to meet his frank curiosity in an amused sort of way, but he was chiefly struck by the pretty foreign sound of her musical voice, which was unlike anything he had ever heard before, and—alas ! for the inconstancy of youth—much finer than Mrs Peyton's. Presently his former companion, casting a patronising glance on Clarence's pea jacket and brass buttons, said cheerily: " Jest off a voyage, sonny ? " " No, sir," stammered Clarence, " I came across the plains." "Then I reckon that's the rig-out for the crew of a prairie schooner, eh?" There was a laugh at this which perplexed Clarence. Observing it, the humorist kindly condescended to explain that "prairie schooner" was the current slang for an emigrant waggon. " I couldn't," explained Clarence, naively, looking at the dark eyes on the back seat, " get any clothes at Stockton but these ; I suppose the folks didn't think there'd ever be boys in California."

The simplicity of this speech evidently impressed the others, for the two men in the middle seats turned at a whisner from the lady and regarded him curiously. Clarence blushed slightly, and became silent. Presently the vehicle began to slacken its speed. They were ascending a hill; on either bank grew huge cotton woods, from which occasionally depended a beautiful scarlet vine.

"Ah ! eet ees prretty," said the lady, nodding her black veiled head towards it. " Eet is good in ze hair." One of the men made an awkward attempt to clutch a spray from the window. A brilliant inspiration flashed upon Clarence. When the stage began the ascent of the next hill, following the example of an outside passenger, he jumped down to walk. At the top of the hill he rejoined the stage, flushed and panting, but carrying a small branch of the vine in his scratched hands. Handing it to the man on the middle seat, he said, with grave, boyish politeness: " Please—for the lady." A slight smile passed over the face of Clarence's neighbors. The bonnetless woman nodded a pleasant acknowledgment, and coqnettishly Mound the vine in her glossy hair. The dark man at his side, who hadn't spoken yet, turned to Clarence drily:

"If you're goin' to keep up this gait, sonny, I reckon ye won't find much trouble gettin' a man's suit to fit you by the time you reach Sacramento."

Clarence didn't quite understand him, but noticed that a singular gravity seemed to overtake the two jocular men on the middle seat, and the lady looked out of the window. He came to the conclusion that he had made a mistake about alluding to hia clothes and his size. He must try and behave more manly. That opportunity seemed to be offered two hours later, when the stage stopped at a wayside hotel or restaurant. Two or three passengers had got down to refresh themselves at the bar. His right and left-hand neighbors were, however, engaged in a diawling conversation on the comparative merits of San Francisco sand, hill, and water lots ; the jocular occupants of the middle seats were still eDgiossed with the lady. Clarence slipped out of the stage and entered the bar room with Borne ostentation. The complete ignoring of hia person by the barkeeper and his customers, however, somewhat disconcerted him. He hesitated a moment, and then returned gravely to the stage door and opened it. "Would you mind taking a drink with me, sir ? " said Clarence, politely, addressing the farmer-looking passenger who had been most civil to him. A dead silence followed. The two men on the middle seat faced entirely around to gaze at him. " The Commodore asks if you'll take a drink with him," explained one of the men to Clarence's friend with the greatest seriousness.

"Eh ? O, yes, certainly," returned that gentleman, changing hia astonished expression to one of the deepest gravity, " seeing it's the Commodore." " And perhaps you and your friend will join, too," said Clarence timidly to the paSr senger who had explained, "and you too, sir," he added to the dark man. " Really, gentlemen, I don't see how we can refuse," said the latter, rising with the greatest formality, and appealing to the others. "A compliment of this kind from our distinguished friend is not to be taken lightly." " I have observed, sir, that the Commodore's head is level," returned the other man with equal gravity. Clarence could have wished they had not treated his first hospitable effort quite so formally, but as they stepped from the coach with unbending faces he led them, a lictle frightened, into the bar room. Here, unfortunately, as he was barely able to reach over the counter, the barkeeper would have again overlooked him but for a quick glance from the dark man, which seemed to change eventhe bar-keeper's perfunctory smiling face into supernatural gravity. "The Commodore is standing treat," said thedark man, with unbroken seriousness, indicating Clarence, and leaning back with an air of respectful formality. "/ will take straight whisky. The Commodore, on account of just changing climate, will, I believe, for the present content himself with lemon soda." Clarence had previously resolved to take whisky like the other.*, but, a little doubtful of the politeness of countermanding his guest's order, and perhaps slightly embarrassed by the fact that all the other customers seemed to have gathered round him and his party with equally immovable laces, he said hurriedly : "Lemon soda for ,me, please." "The Commodore," said the barkeeper, with impressive features, as he bent forward and wiped the counter with professional deliberation, "is right. No matter how much a man may be accustomed all hia life to liquor, when he is changing climate, gentlemen, he says ' lemon soda for me ' all the time." '•'Perhaps," said Clarence, brightening, '■' ypu will ioin too ?'■' " I shall be proud on this occasion, sir." "I think," said the tall man, still as ceremoniously unbending as before, " that there can be but one toast here, gentlemen. I giveyou the health of the Comipodore. May his shadow never be less,"

The health was drunk solemnly. Clarence felt his cheeks tingle, and in his exci'temcufc drank his own health with the others. Yet ho was disappointed that there wa3 not more joviality ; he wondered if men always drank together so stisy. And it occurred to him that it would bo expensive. IS'evertheleas he had his purse already ostentatiously in his hand ; in fact, the paying fop it .out nl his own money was not the least manly and independent pleasure he had promised himself. '.' Ecw much ?" he asked, with an affectation of carejejsness. The barkeeper cast his eye profeasjorjaL'y over the bar room, " J think you said treats 'for the crowd { call it twenty dollars ,to make even chango."

Clarence's heart Bank. He had heard already of the exaggeration of California prices. Twenty dollars! It waa half bis fortune. Nevertheless, with a heroic effort, he controlled himself, and with slightly nervous fingers counted out the money. It struck him, however, as curious, not to say ungentlemanly, that the bystanders eraned their necks over his shoulder to look at the contents of his purse, although some slight explanation was offered by the tall man. " The Commodore's purse, gentlemea, fs really a singular one. Permit me," he said, taking it from Clarence's hand with great politeness. "It is one of the new pattern, you observe, q»ii;e ,worfchy of inspection." He handed it to a man behind him, who in turn handed it to another, whjie a, chorus of " suthin' quite new," "the latest siyle,'' followed it in its passage round the room, and indicated to Clarence its whereabouts. It was presently handed back to the barkeeper, who had begged also to inspect it, and who, with an air of scrupulous ceremony, insisted upon placing it himself in Clarence's eide-pocket, as if it were an important part of his function. The driver hurriedly reseated themselves, and the episode abruptly eaded. For to Clarence's surprise these attentivefriands of a moment ago at once became interested in the views of anew passenger concerning tnV locai politics of San Francisco, and he found himself .utterly forgotten. The bonhetless womajD. had her position, and her

head was no longer visible. The disillusion and depression that overcame him suddenly was as complete as his previous expectations and hopefulness had been extravagant. For the first time his utter unimportance in the world and his inadequacy to this new life around him came upon him crushingly. The heat and jolting of the ttage caused him to fall into a slight Blumber, and when he awoke he found his two neighbors had just got out at a wayside station. They had evidently not cared to waken him to say " Good-bye." From the conversation of the other passengers he learned that the tall man was a well-known gambler, and the one who looked like a farmer was a ship captain who had become a wealthy merchant. Clarence thought he understood now why the latter had asked him if he came off a voyage, and that the nickname of " Commodore " given to him, Clarence, was some joke intended for the captain's understanding. He missed them, for he wanted to talk to them about his relative at Sacramento, whom he now was soon to see. At last, between sleeping and waking, the end of his journey was unexpectedly reached. It was dark, but being " steamer night," the shops and business places were still open, and Mr Peyton had arranged that the stage driver should deliver Clarence at the address of his relative in "J. street,"an address which Clarence had luckily remembered. But the boy was somewhat discomfited to find that it was a large office or banking-house. He, however, descended from the stage, and with his small pack in his hand, entered the building as the stage drove off, and addressing one of the busy clerks, asked for Mr Jackson Brant, There was no such person in the office. There never had been any such person. The bank had always occupied that building Was there not some mistake in the number ?

No! the name, number, and street had been deeply engrafted in the boy's recollection. Stop! it might be the name of a customer who had given his address at the bank. The clerk who made this suggestion disappeared promptly to make inquiries in the counting room. Clarence with a rapidly beating heart awaited him. The clerk returned. There was no such name on the books. Jackson Brant was utterly unknown to everyone in the establishment. For an instant the counter against which the boy was leaning seemed to yitld with his weight; he was obliged to Bteady himself with both hands to keep from falling. It was not his disappointment—which was terrible ; it was not a thought of his future —which seemed hopeless ; it was not his injured pride a.l appearing to have wilfully deceived Mr Peyton which was more dreadful than all these—but it was the sudden, sickening sense that he himself had been deceived, tricked and fooled ! For it flashed upon him for the first time that the vague sense of wrong that had always haunted him was this : that this was the vile culmination of a plan to eet rid of him, and that he had been deliberately lost, and led astray by his relatives as helplessly and completely as a useless cat or dog ! Perhaps there was something of this in his face, for the clerk staring at him bade him sit down for a moment, and again vanished into the mysterious interior. Clarence had no conception how long he was absent, or indeed of anything but his own breathless thoughts, for he was conscious ct wondering afterwards why the clerk was leading him through a door in the counter into an inner room of many desks, and again through a glass door into a smaller office, where a preternaturally busy-looking man sat writing at a desk. Without looking up, but pausing only to apply a blotting pad to the paper before him, the man Eaid crisply—"So you've been consigned to someone who don't seem to turn up, and can't be found, eh ? Never mind that," as Clarence laid Peyton's letter before him. " Can't read it now. Well, I suppose you want to be shipped back to Stockton ?"

" No !" said the boy, recovering his voice with an effort.

" Eh, that's business though. Know anybody here?" " Not a living soul; that's why they sent me," said the boy in sudden reckless desperation. He was the more furious that he knew the tears were standing in his eyes. The idea seemed to strike the man amusingly. "Looks a little like it, don't it," he said, smiling grimly at the paper before him. " Got any money ?" " A little." " How much ?" "About twenty dollars," said Clarence hesitatingly. The man opened a small drawer at his side, mechanically, for he did not raise his eyes, and took out two ten-dollar gold pieces. " I'll go twenty better," he said, laying them clown on the desk. " That'll give you a chance to 1 jok around. Come baok here, if you don't see your way clear." He dipped his pen into the ink with a significant gesture, as if closing the interview.

Clarence pushed back the coin : " I'm not a beggar," he said, doggedly. The man this time raised his head and surveyed the boy with two keen eyes. "You're not, hey? Well, do I look like one ?" " No," stammered Clarence, as he glanced into the man's haughty eyes. " Yet if I were in your fix I'd take that money and be glad to get it." "If you'll let me pay you back again," said Clarence, a little ashamed and considerably frightened at his implied accusation of the man before him. "Yoq can," said the man, bending over his desk again. Clarence took up the money and awkwardly drew out his purse. But it was the first time he had touched it since it was returned to him in the bar room, and it struck him that it was heavy and fullindeed so full that on opening it a few coins rolled out on to the floor. The man looked up abruptly. " 1 thought you said you had only twenty dollars?" he remarked grimly. "Mr Peyton gave me forty," returned Clarence, stupefied and blushing. " I spent twenty dollars for drinks at the bar—and," he stammered, "I— I—l don't know how the rest came here." "You spent twenty dollars for drinks ?" said the man, laying down his pen and leaning back in his chair to gaze at the boy. " Yes—that is—l treated some gentlemen of the stage, sir, at Davidson's crossing." '.' Did you treat the whole stage company ?." ' "JjTo, sir; only about four or five—and the barkeeper. But everything's so' dear in California, /know that." " Evidently. But it don't seem to make much difference with you," said the man glancing at the purse.

" They wanted my purse to look at," said Clarence hurriedly, "and that's how the thing happened. Somebody put hia own money back into my purse by accident." " Of course," said the maa grimly. _ "Yes, that's the reason," said Clarence, a little relieved, but somewhat embarrassed by ths man's persistent eyes. " Then of course," said the other quietly, " yo,u don't require my twenty dollars now."

'.'But," returned Clarence, hesitatingly, " this isn't 'ffly money. I must find out who it belongs to, and give it back again. Perhaps," he added timidly, ■" I might Ipaye it here with you, and call for it when I find tlje man, and send him here."

With the greatest gravity he here sepa. rated the surplus from what was left of Peyton's gift, and the twenty dollars he had just received. The balance unaccounted for was forty dollars. He laid it on the desk beforo the man, who, still looking at him, rose and opened the door. "Mr Reed." The clerk who had shown Clarence in appeared. " Open an account with ." He stopped and turned interrogatively to Clarence.

"Clarence Brant," said Clarence, coloring with excitement.

"With Clarence Brant { take that deposit," pointing to the money, "and give him a receipt." He paused as the clerk re. tired with a wondering gaze at the money, looked again at Clarence, said "I think you'll do," and re-entered the private office, closing the private door behind him, I hope it will not be deemed inconceivable that Clarence, only a few minutes before crushed with bitter disappointment, the hopeless revelations of his abandonment by bis relatives, now felt himself lifted up 'suddenly 'into an imaginary height of independence and manhood! He was lep.v-

ing the bank in which he stood a minute before a friendless boy—not as a successful beggar, for this important man had disclaimed the idea, but absolutely as a customer! a depositor! a business man like the grown-tip clients who were thronging the outer office, and before the eyes of the clerk who had pitied him. And he (Clarence) had been spoken to by this man, whose name he now recognised as the one that was on the door of the building—a man of whom his fellow passengers had spoken of with admiring envy—a banker famous in all California! Will it be deemed incredible that this imaginative and hopeful boy, forgetting all else, the object of his visit, and even the fact that he considered this money was not his own, actually put his hut a little on one side as he strolled out on his way to the streets and perspective fortune. Two hours later the banker had another visitor. It chanced to be the farmerlooking man who had been Clarence's fellow passenger. Evidently a privileged person, he was at once ushered as " Captain Stevens " into the presence of the banker. At the end of a familiar business interview the captain asked carelessly: " Any letters for me *" The busy banker pointed with his pen to the letter "S" in a row of alphabeticallylabelled pigeon-holes against the wall. The captain having selected his correspondence, paused with a letter in his hand. "Look here, Carden, there are letters here for some chap called 'John Silsbee.' They were here when I called—ten weeks ago." "Well?"

' That's, the name of that Pike County man who was killed by Injins in the plains. The 'Frisco papers had all the particulars last night; maybe it's for that fellow. It hasn't got a post mark. Who left it here ?" Mr Carden summoned a clerk. It appeared that the letter had been left by a certain Brant Fanquier to De called for. Captain Steven3*smiled. " Brant's been too busy dealin' faro to think of 'em agin, and since that shootin' affair at Angels 1 hear he's skipped to the southern coast somewhere. Cal Johnson, his old chum, was in the up stage from Stockton this afternoon." "Did you come by the up stage from Stockton this afternoon?" said Carden looking up. ' " Yes, as far as Ten-mile Station-rode the rest of the way here." "Did you notice a queer little, oldfashioned kid—about so high—like a runaway school boy ?" " Did I ? By G-d, sir, he treated me to drinks." Carden jumped from his chair. "Then he wasn't lying !" "No ! We let him do it—but we made it good for the little chap afterwards Hello ! What's up ?" But Mr Carden was already in the outer office beside the clerk, who had admitted Clarence. " You remember that boy Brant who was here ?" "Yes, sir." " Where did he go ?" " Don't know, sir." "Go and find him somewhere and somehow. _ Go to all the hotels, restaurants, and gin mills near here and hunt him up. Take someone with you—if you can't do it alone. Bring him back here, quick." It was nearly midnight when the clerk, fruitlessly returned. It was the fierce high noon of "Steamer Night"; light flashed brilliantly from Bhops, counting houses, drinking saloons, and gambling hells. The streets were yet full of eager, hurrying feetswift to fortune, ambition, pleasure, or crime. But from among these deeper, harsher footfalls the echo of the homeless boy's light, innocent tread seemed to have died out for ever.

(To he continued.)