TOM WAS very much shocked at the tragical fate of his companion. Though he had been an outlaw and a chief of a noted gang of robbers, it had been his purpose to break away from his evil life and his companions in crime, and to lead hence-forth a blameless life.

The chance had been taken from him. His presentiments of evil had been verified, and he had been summoned without other warning into the presence of his Maker.

As he sunk upon the deck, he was surrounded by a crowd of passengers.

“Who did this?” exclaimed the captain, naturally turning to Tom for information.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Tom.

“You know this gentleman, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, a little. I made his acquaintance while on the way to the mines.”

“Do you know his name?”

“He called himself Davenport.”

“You say, called himself?”

“It was not his real name. He told me he had enemies from whom he feared injury. Therefore he concealed his real name.”

“Do you know his real name?”

“No, sir.”

“You think the shot was fired by one of the enemies of whom he stood in fear?”

“I feel sure of it.”

The question arose what disposition to make of the money left by the murdered man. Eight hundred dollars in gold were found in his possession, but this question was solved by a paper found in his pocket-book.

It was to this effect:

“Should anything happen to me, which is quite possible, I desire that whatever property I leave may be given to my young friend and fellow-voyager, known as Thomas Temple.”

“It seems you are his heir,” said the captain, when the examination was over.

“I?” said Tom, in surprise.

“Yes. Probably the gentleman had few friends and took a fancy to you. I suppose there need be no formalities, except to give you the property at once.”

This decision of the captain was approved by the passengers, and Tom found himself unexpectedly rich. But he felt that he could not consent to retain the money for his own use, except, indeed, a sum equal to that of which he had been robbed. It was stolen property, and he could not conscientiously retain it. He resolved on reaching New York to give it to some charitable association, where it might be a public benefit.

A new surprise awaited him. Among the passengers was Mr. Stoddard, the invalid who had been his companion on the voyage out.

He was pleased to find that the old gentleman’s health had been materially improved by his brief residence in California.

“I am delighted to see you again, my young friend,” said Mr. Stoddard. “I sought for you in San Francisco, but was told that you had gone to the mines. Then I gave up all hopes of seeing you, but I left directions with my bankers to advance you any sum which you might require, should you apply to them.”

“How have I deserved so much kindness?” said Tom, surprised and grateful.

“You showed me attention when I required it, Tom. You gave me hours of your society when the companionship of younger persons would have been more to your taste. This you did out of the kindness of your heart, and I shall not soon forget it.”

“Mr. Stoddard, you exaggerate my merits,” said Tom modestly.

“I don’t think I do. At all events, I have taken a strong liking to you. I am without near relatives; I am rich and lonely. Will you give me the right to provide for your future? Will you let me regard you as my adopted son?”

Tom was surprised at this unexpected offer, and he felt that it was not to be lightly rejected. But it is due to him to say that he was urged quite as much by a feeling of sympathy for Mr. Stoddard’s loneliness as by his own interest to decide in the affirmative. He felt that he could respect and like him, and with proper acknowledgments of his kindness he gave his consent.

Mr. Stoddard’s eyes lighted up with pleasure.

“Thank you, Tom,” he said earnestly. “You have given me something to live for. Now I shall have an interest in life apart from the care of my health. I will pay your expenses, and make you an allowance of a thousand dollars a year, if you think that will be sufficient for the present.”

“You overwhelm me with kindness,” said Tom. “I don’t know what to say, except that I hope you will never have cause to repent your kindness.”

“I am sure I never shall,” said the old gentleman. “When we reach the city of New York I will consult you as to your plans in life. You may be interested to know that I have a house in the city and a country place on the Hudson. I hope you will like them both, as each will be your home.”

“A place on the Hudson!” exclaimed Tom. “I am sure I shall like that. Have you any saddle-horses?”

“Two; though I fear they have grown lazy from disuse. You must give them some exercise.”

“Trust me for that,” said Tom.

“One thing more. I think you had better call me uncle. The name will give you a claim upon me in the eyes of the world, and moreover, I shall be proud of such a spirited young nephew.”

“All right, uncle,” said Tom, smiling.