Soon after leaving St. Joe, the emigrant train which Tom had joined, entered the territory of Kansas. At that early day the settlement of this now prosperous State had scarcely begun. Its rich soil was as yet unvexed by the plow and the spade, and the tall prairie grass and virgin forest stretched for many and many a mile westward in undisturbed loneliness.

One afternoon, toward the setting of the sun, the caravan halted on the site of the present capital of the State, Topeka. The patient oxen, wearied with the twenty miles they had traveled, were permitted to graze. The ten baggage wagons or "ships of the plain," as they were sometimes called—came to anchor in a sea of verdure. They were ranged in a circle, the interior space being occupied as a camping-ground. Then began preparations for supper. Some of the party were sent for water. A fire was built, and the travelers, with a luxurious enjoyment of rest, sank upon the grass.

Donald Ferguson looked thoughtfully over the vast expanse of unsettled prairie, and said to Tom, "It's a great country, Tom. There seems no end to it."

"That's the way I felt when I was plodding along to-day through the mud," said Tom, laughing.

"It's because the soil is so rich," said the Scotchman. "It'll be a great farming country some day, I'm thinking."

"I suppose the soil isn't so rich in Scotland, Mr. Ferguson?"

"No, my lad. It's rocky and barren, and covered with dry heather; but it produces rare men, for all that."

Mr. Ferguson was patriotic to the backbone. He would not claim for Scotland what she could not fairly claim; but he was all ready with some compensating claim.

"How do you stand the walking, Mr. Ferguson?"

"I'm getting used to it."

"Then it's more than I am. I think it's beastly."

These words were not uttered by Tom, but by rather a dandified-looking young man, who came up limping. He was from Boston, and gave his name as Lawrence Peabody. He had always lived in Boston, where he had been employed in various genteel avocations; but in an evil hour he had been lured from his comfortable home by the seductive cry of gold, and, laying down his yardstick, had set out for California across the plains. He was a slender young man, with limbs better fitted for dancing than for tramping across the prairie, and he felt bitterly the fatigue of the journey.

"Are you tired, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.

"I am just about dead. I didn't bargain for walking all the way across the prairies. Why couldn't old Fletcher let me ride?"

"The oxen have had all they could do to-day to draw the wagons through the mud."

"Look at those boots," said the Bostonian ruefully, pointing to a pair of light calfskin boots, which were so overlaid with mud that it was hard to tell what was their original color. "I bought those boots in Boston only two weeks ago. Everybody called them stylish. Now they are absolutely disreputable."

"It seems to me, my friend," said the Scotchman, "that you did not show much sagacity in selecting such boots for your journey. My young friend, Tom, is much better provided."

"His boots are cowhide," said Mr. Lawrence Peabody disdainfully. "Do you think I would wear cowhide boots?"

"You would find them more serviceable, Mr. Peabody," said Tom. "Besides, I don't believe anybody could tell the difference now."

"How much did you pay for them?" asked the Bostonian.

"A dollar and a half."

"Humph! I thought so," returned Peabody contemptuously. "We don't wear cowhide boots in Boston."

"You are not in Boston now."

"I wish I was," said Peabody energetically. "I wouldn't have started if I had known what was before me. I expected to travel like a gentleman, instead of wading through this cursed mud till I'm ready to drop. Look at my pantaloons, all splashed with mire. What would my friends say if I should appear in this rig on Washington Street?"

"They might take you for a bog-trotter," said Tom, smiling.

"I have always been particular about my appearance," said Peabody plaintively. "'He looks just as if he'd come out of a bandbox,' some of my lady friends used to say. How do I look now?"

"Like a dirty-handed son of toil," said Tom humorously.

"So do you," retorted Peabody, who felt that this was uncomplimentary.

"I admit it," said Tom; "and that's just what I expect to be. You don't expect to dig gold with kid gloves on, do you, Mr. Peabody?"

"I wish I had brought some with me," said the Bostonian seriously. "It would have saved my hands looking so dingy."

"How came you to start for California, my friend?" inquired Ferguson.

"The fact is," said Peabody, "I am not rich. There are members of our family who are wealthy; but I am not one of the lucky number."

"You were making a living at home, were you not?"

"Yes; but my income was only enough for myself."

"I suppose you were in love, then," said Tom.

"I don't mind saying that I was; confidentially, of course," said Mr. Peabody complacently.

"Was your love returned?"

"I may say it was. The young lady was the daughter of a merchant prince. I saw that she loved me, but her father would not consent to our union, on account of my limited means. I read in the Transcript of the gold discoveries in California. I determined to go out there, and try my fortune. If I am successful I will go home, and, with a bag of gold in each hand, demand the hand of Matilda from her haughty sire. When he asks me for my credentials, I will point to the gold, and say, 'Behold them here!'"

"If both your hands are full I don't see how you can point to the bags of gold," said Tom, who liked to tease the young Bostonian.

"There are a great many things you don't understand," said Mr. Peabody, irritably.

"He is right, Tom," said Ferguson, with a quiet smile.

"If you are both against me, I will give it up," said Tom. "All I can say is, I hope you'll get the two bags of gold, Mr. Peabody, and that you'll get the young lady, too."

Here Fletcher came up, and called upon Tom to assist in preparations for supper. Our hero readily complied with the request. Indeed, he always showed himself so obliging that he won the favorable regards of all.

Mr. Peabody continued the conversation with Mr. Ferguson.

"Do you think there's as much gold in California as people say?" he asked.

"No," answered the Scotchman.

"You don't?" ejaculated the Bostonian, in dismay.

"No; people always magnify when they talk of a new country. Now, my friend, how much do you expect to get in the first year?"

"Well, about fifty thousand dollars," answered Peabody.

"And how much were you earning in Boston—a thousand dollars?"

"About that," answered Peabody vaguely. In fact, he had been working on a salary of twelve dollars a week, in a retail dry-goods store on Washington Street.

"Then you expect to make fifty times as much as at home?"

"Don't you think I will?"

"I have never had such large expectations. If I make three or four thousand dollars in twelve months it will satisfy me."

"But a man would never get rich, at that rate," said Lawrence Peabody uneasily.

"I don't know about that. It depends as much on what a man does with his money, as on the amount he makes," said the prudent Scot.

"I am afraid I did wrong in leaving Boston," said Peabody gloomily. "If I am to travel many weeks through the mud, and get no more than that, I shall feel that I am poorly paid."

"You don't feel like my young friend Tom. He is full of hope, and enjoys everything."

"He hasn't been brought up as I have," said Peabody. "A country boy in cowhide boots is tough, and don't mind roughing it."

Ferguson did not have a chance to answer, for there was a summons to supper—a welcome call, that made even Mr. Lawrence Peabody look cheerful for the time being.