“WHAT do you think of my plan, Mr. Sharp?” asked Tom, after describing in detail his proposed journey.

“It is likely to be rather a wild-goose chase, Tom.”

“I expected you would say so.”

“But you want my consent, nevertheless?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As your mind is fixed upon it, I will not interpose any objections, but I have not the slightest expectation that you will succeed.”

“Even if I do not,” urged Tom, “I shall enjoy the journey.”

“And spend your money.”

“Not all of it.”

“Remember you have but a few hundred dollars with me.”

“Mr. Armstrong told me that he should probably be able to pay me thirty cents on a dollar. That will be three thousand dollars. So, you see, I shall have something to fall back upon when I return.”

“I am glad to hear it. It is much better than anticipated.”

“Besides, I shall only ask you to give me a hundred dollars, beside paying for my ticket.”

“Then you won’t have enough to pay for returning.”

“I mean to earn that,” said Tom confidently.

“You may not be as fortunate as you expect.”

“I am not afraid,” said Tom, “if I have my health. If I get sick, I will write to you.”

“When do you want the money?”

“At once, if possible. I want to sail by the next steamer.”

“The money shall be ready. I am not sure that I am doing right in humoring your whim, but a willful lad must have his way. By the way, Tom, I want to give you one piece of advice.”

“What is that, sir?”

“You know the name you have here?”

“The Bully of the Village,” said Tom, smiling.

“Yes. I am afraid you have deserved it. Now that you have assumed a man’s responsibilities, I hope you will give up your domineering spirit, and have a greater regard for the rights of others.”

“I mean to,” said Tom. “I think it has done me good to lose my fortune. I feel twice as old and twice as much confidence in myself as before.”

“That is well, but your success in life will depend largely upon the favorable impression you make upon others. If you still play the bully, you cannot expect to be liked.”

“I dare say you are right, sir,” said Tom thoughtfully. “I will remember what you say. But there is one thing I cannot give up.”

“What is that?”

“I mean to stand up for my rights. I won’t let anybody bully over me.”

“Be sure you don’t make any mistake about your rights. Some claim more than they are entitled to. You see I speak plainly.”

“Thank you, sir. I have no doubt you speak for my good. I will remember what you say.”

A week later Tom was a passenger on a steamer bound for California. He had got over his first feeling of seasickness, and was in a condition to enjoy his meals.

The steamer was full, but not crowded, and as usual contained in its passenger-list representatives of different social grades.

Tom was bright and active, and prepossessing in his appearance, and became known to all. He even penetrated at times into that part of the ship occupied by the steerage passengers.

His attention was particularly drawn to one poor fellow, a young Irishman of twenty-two, who was seasick through the entire voyage. Now, seasickness is scarcely tolerable if one has the best accommodations; in the steerage it must be perfect misery.

Tom carried from the table some fruit almost daily to poor Mike Lawton, whose stomach revolted from the coarse food to which he was entitled, and cheered up the poor fellow not a little.

“What would I do widout your kindness?” said Mike one day.

“Don’t speak of it,” said Tom. “It isn’t much to do. I know how bad it feels to be seasick.”

“Sure, it’s worse than the faver I had onc’t in Ireland, when they didn’t expect I’d live to see this day. If I was goin’ to be seasick much longer, I’d wish I hadn’t.”

“Cheer up, Mike. You’ll forget all about it when you get to shore.”

“Then I wish I was there now. But there’s one thing I won’t forget, and that is how kind a rich young gentleman like you was to a poor fellow like me.”

“You’re mistaken about my being rich, Mike,” said Tom.

“Sure you look like it.”

“I was rich once, but I am not now. I am going out like you to seek my fortune.”

“Then I hope you’ll find it. Sure you deserve to.”

“Thank you, Mike. I hope the same thing for you.”

“If iver the likes of me can do you a favor, Mister Tom, I hope you won’t be too proud to let me.”

“I promise that, Mike. The time may come when I’ll want a friend, and if I know where you are, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tom. I’m a poor fellow, but I can fight for you anyway.”

“I can fight for myself, too,” said Tom, smiling. “I’ve had to, more than once.”

There was another passenger, of quite a different character, with whom Tom became intimate, and to whom, also, he was able to do a service.

One morning he noticed an elderly man, evidently quite feeble, attempting with the help of a cane to pace the deck—about the only exercise practicable on shipboard. But the vessel was so unsteady that the old man found the task too great for his strength, and he was finally obliged, unwillingly, to sit down.

“That’s a pity,” thought Tom. “I’ll offer to help him.”

He approached the old man and said:

“You find it hard work pacing the deck, don’t you, sir?”

“Yes,” answered the other. “I am not young and strong like you, and the motion of the vessel makes it too much for my scanty strength.”

“If you’ll take my arm, sir, I think I can pilot you safe.”

“But it will be a great deal of trouble for you, won’t it?”

“Oh, don’t think of that, sir; I shall be very glad to be of any service to you.”

“Thank you. I am tired of sitting, and will accept your offer; but when you are tired, tell me so.”

“All right, sir.”

Supported by Tom, the old man was able to resume his walk and keep it up with ease. Our hero was stout and strong, and adapted himself to the slow gait of his elder companion.

“Are you traveling alone?” asked the old man.

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps you meet friends in California?”

“No, sir; I don’t know anybody there.”

“Then how happens it that you are going out? You are not over seventeen, I judge.”

“I am only sixteen, sir. My principal object in going out is to seek my fortune.”

“Are you poor?” asked the old man abruptly.

“Not exactly,” said Tom. “That is, I have a few hundred dollars, and shall perhaps have something besides, but my fortune is to be made. I have been rich, but I lost nearly all I had.”

“Does it trouble you?”

“Not at all,” said Tom. “I am not afraid but I can make my way.”

“You have, at any rate, something that is better than money,” said the old man.

“What is that, sir?”

“Youth, health and strength. I have neither of these, but I have money. How gladly would I exchange with you!”

Tom felt that he would not care to make the exchange.

“I am going to California for my health,” said Tom’s companion. “My doctor tells me that there is some hope that it may benefit me. Had I stayed at home, he said he would not insure me twelve months more of life.”

“Did you come alone, sir?”

“Yes. I am nearly alone in the world. I have neither wife nor child.”

There was a sadness in his voice as he said this, and Tom felt pity for his desolate condition.

“I think I will sit down now,” he said, after walking half an hour. “I feel much better for the exercise. It is the first I have enjoyed since we left the great metropolis of the East.”

“Let me know when you want to walk again, sir,” said Tom. “I shall be glad to walk with you.”

“You are very kind, my young friend. May I know to whom I am indebted?”

“My name is Thomas Temple. Everybody calls me Tom.”

“Let me give you my card. It may happen that I can at some time be of service to you. If so, be sure to communicate with me.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Tom took the card. It contained the name

Underneath, Mr. Stoddard wrote the name of a banker in San Francisco.

“I cannot tell where my pursuit of health may take me,” said Mr. Stoddard, “but a letter directed to the care of my banker will be sure to reach me.”

It was the second offer of service that Tom had received in the same day. He felt that he would not be wholly friendless in the strange land which he was about to visit.