“I trust you are well, my friends,” he said. “Do not be alarmed. I mean you no harm.”
“We are not alarmed,” he said. “That is, not much. Who are you?”
“An unhappy wayfarer, who has been wandering for days, almost famished, through this wilderness.”
“I started with a party, but we were surprised a week since by a party of Cheyenne Indians, and I alone escaped destruction.”
“Some of them, my dear lady, some of them. They took all our supplies, and I have been living on what I could pick up. Pardon my saying so, but I am almost famished.”
“Our supper is nearly ready,” said Mrs. Cooper hospitably. “You are welcome to a portion.”
“Ah, how kind you are!” ejaculated the stranger, clasping his hands. “I shall, indeed, be glad to join you.”
“What is your name, sir?” asked the blacksmith cautiously.
“Yes, but I am not responsible for it. We do not choose our own names.”
“Yes. Ahem! I was a teacher, but my health gave way, and when I heard of the rich discoveries of gold in California, I gathered up, with difficulty, money enough for the journey and started; but, alas! I did not anticipate the sad disaster that has befallen me.”
Mr. Silverthorn was thin and meager, but when supper was ready he ate nearly twice as much as any of the little party.
“Who is this young man?” he asked, with a glance at Grant.
“You are the image of a boy I lost,” sighed Dionysius. “He was strong and manly, like you—a very engaging youth.”
“Then he couldn’t have looked like you,” was Tom Cooper’s inward comment.
“Did he die of disease?” asked Mrs. Cooper.
“Yes; he had the typhoid fever—my poor, poor Otto,” and Mr. Silverthorn wiped his eyes with a dirty red silk handkerchief. “Have you a father living, my young friend?”
“Then it would be a gratification to me if you would look upon me as a parent.”
Grant was quite overwhelmed by this unexpected suggestion.
“Thank you, sir,” he said; “but you are a stranger, and I have a step-father living.”
He said this on the impulse of the moment, as a reason for not acceding to Mr. Silverthorn’s request, but it occurred to him that it would be about as difficult to regard Mr. Tarbox with filial feelings as the newcomer.
“Ah, he is indeed fortunate!” sighed Mr. Silverthorn. He had a habit of sighing. “My friend”—here he addressed himself to the blacksmith—“do you ever smoke?”