CHAPTER I. AN OLD LETTER.

“IS SUPPER ready, mother? I’m as hungry as a bear!”

The speaker was a sturdy boy of sixteen, with bright eyes, and a smiling sun-browned face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up displaying a pair of muscular arms. His hands were brown and soiled with labor. It was clear that he was no white-handed young aristocrat. His clothes alone would have shown that. They were of coarse cloth, made without any special regard to the prevailing fashion.

Tom Thatcher, for this was his name, had just come home from the shoe manufactory, where he was employed ten hours a day in pegging shoes, for the lucrative sum of fifty cents per day. I may as well state here that he is the hero of my story, and I hope none of my readers will think any the worse of him for working in a shop. I am aware that it is considered more “genteel” to stand behind a counter, and display goods to customers, even if the wages are smaller. But Tom, having a mother and little sister to help support, could not choose his employment. He lived in a large shoe6 town, and was glad to find employment in the large manufactory of John Simpson, who, by virtue of his large capital, and as the employer of a hundred hands, was a man of mark in the town of Wilton.

“Supper will be ready in five minutes, Tom,” said his mother, rather a delicate-looking woman, of refined appearance, notwithstanding she was dressed in a cheap calico.

“Are you tired, Tom?” asked his little sister Tillie, whose full name, never used at home, was Matilda.

“Not much, Tillie, but I’ve got a famous appetite.”

“I am sorry I haven’t got something better for you, Tom,” said his mother. “I have only a hot potato, besides tea, and bread and butter.”

“Why, that is good enough, mother,” said Tom, cheerfully.

“You ought to have meat after working hard all day in the shop, my boy; but meat comes so high that I don’t dare to have it on the table every day.”

“Too much meat might make me savage, mother,” said Tom laughing. “I wish we could have it oftener, for your sake. Anything will do for me. When I get older I shall earn higher wages, and then we’ll live better.”

“It’s very uncomfortable to be poor,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sighing. “Poor children, if your father were only living you would fare better. I little dreamed when he went to California, eight years ago, that he would never come back.”

“Mr. Simpson and father went to California together, didn’t they, mother?”

7 “Yes. They were both poor men at the time. Mr. Simpson was no better off than your father, but now—your poor father is in his grave, and John Simpson is one of the richest men in Wilton.”

“Mr. Simpson came home rich, didn’t he?”

“Yes. How rich I don’t know, but from being a journeyman he was able to build a manufactory of his own, and has been getting richer ever since.”

“Were he and father together in California?”

“Yes, Tom.”

“And didn’t father find any gold? How could one be prosperous, and the other unlucky?”

“I never could understand it. The very last letter I received from your father mentioned that he was prosperous, and had accumulated a large amount of gold dust, he and John Simpson also. Three months afterward John Simpson came home, but nothing was ever heard of your poor father or his money again.”

“What did Mr. Simpson say? Didn’t he know anything about him?”

“He called on me, and told me that your father and he had separated a little while before leaving California. He made his way to San Francisco while your father remained at the mines. He felt quite sure that your father had been robbed and murdered by some desperate person who had heard of his good fortune.”

“Was that all he could tell you?”

“That was all.”

“Couldn’t he tell how much gold father had at the time?”

8 “He said it amounted to some thousands of dollars, but how much he could not tell exactly. I cared little for that. If your poor father had only come back alive I would have been happy, even if he had come back in rags, and without a penny.”

“Were he and Mr. Simpson good friends?” asked Tom, thoughtfully.

“They were very intimate before they went to California.”

“And were you and Mrs. Simpson intimate, too, mother?”

“Yes; we lived in the same house. It was a double house, and each family occupied a part. You and Rupert Simpson were born the same day, and played together like brothers when you were both young boys.”

“It isn’t much like that now, mother. Rupert puts on all sorts of airs because his father is rich. He wouldn’t think of associating with me on equal terms. He thinks himself altogether superior to a poor boy who works in a shoe shop.”

“He has no right to look down upon you, Tom,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with natural motherly indignation. “You are superior to him in every way.”

Tom laughed.

“He don’t think so, mother,” he answered, “and I am afraid it would be hard to convince him. But it seems strange to me to think that our families were once so intimate. Mrs. Simpson rides in her carriage, and always wears silks or satins to church, while you are compelled to wear a cheap gingham for best. She never comes to call on you.”

9 “I don’t wish her to,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with honorable pride. “It would only be an act of condescension on her part, and Sarah Simpson isn’t the woman to condescend to me, who was born and brought up her equal.”

“You’re right there, mother. You are just as much a lady as she is, even if you are poor.”

“I hope I am, Tom.”

“You spoke of father’s last letter to you, mother. I haven’t looked at it for a long time. Will you let me see it?”

“Certainly, my son.”

Mrs. Thatcher went to the bureau, and from the top drawer took out an old letter, grown yellow with age, and unfolding it handed it to Tom. It was quite long, but a large part of it would be of no interest to my readers. I only transcribe the parts which are material to my story.

    “I am glad to say, my dear Mary, that I have been very fortunate. John Simpson and I, some three months ago, chanced upon some very rich diggings, which, lying out of the ordinary course of travel and exploration, had thus far failed to attract attention. For a month or more we worked alone, managing in that time to ‘feather our nests’ pretty well. Then we sold out a portion of our claims to a third party for a large sum, and worked the balance ourselves. I don’t dare to tell you how much we are worth, but enough to make us very comfortable. I can say as much as that. It won’t be long before I come home. I could come now, but I think it a shame to leave so much treasure in the ground, when it can be had for the digging. A little patience, dear wife, and I shall come home, and10 place you and our darling children in a position where you will never again know the limitations of poverty.

    “Simpson’s plans are the same as mine. We shall probably go home together, and build two nice houses near each other. It will be pleasant in years to come to refer to our days of struggle when we worked together at the shoe bench for a dollar and a half a day, and had to support our families on that paltry sum. Those days, thank God! are over, and I am still a young man with half my life before me, as I hope.”

“Poor father!” said Tom. “How little he thought that his good luck was to prove the cause of his death, and that the money he had secured would never find its way to his family.”

“It always makes me sad to read that letter,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “It is so bright and hopeful, and death was even then so near.”

As Tom gave back the letter to his mother, a knock was heard at the door.

Tom rose to open it, and admitted a boy of about his own age, Harry Julian, the minister’s son, one of his most intimate friends.