ARRIVED at St. Joe, the town was found to be crowded, owing to some local celebration. At the first two hotels our two travelers were unable to gain admittance. At the third they were obliged to share a room with a third guest, already in possession.

Tom did not particularly care, as long as there was a comfortable bed to sleep in, but Mr. Burnett seemed very much annoyed.

“Can’t you do any better for us?” he asked the clerk.

The clerk shook his head.

“I don’t know about taking the room; I don’t like to be with a stranger.”

“Just as you like, major,” said the clerk, indifferently. “We sha’n’t have any trouble in letting the room.”

It is a Western fashion to bestow titles on strangers, and this accounts for Burnett being dubbed major.Percy Burnett hesitated, but just then another party applied for a room, and he hastily agreed to take it.

The room was a fair one. It contained two beds, one large and one small one. Naturally Tom and his new acquaintance selected the large one. The other was to be occupied by the stranger, who proved to be a stout man of middle age, who looked as if he had led an out-of-door life. A little conversation revealed the fact that he, too, was on his way to California.

“That’s lucky,” he said, in a free, cordial way, “why can’t we hitch horses?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Burnett, coldly.

“I mean, why can’t we go together? We shall find it more social.”

“I will think of it,” said Burnett, curtly.

Tom was pleased with the appearance and manner of their fellow room-mate, who gave his name as Peter Brush. He was not a man of education, but he seemed good-natured and gifted with a fund of common sense. He was a practical hunter, was familiar with the great middle region over which they must pass on their way to California, and told Tom a good many stories of his adventures upon the plains.

“Have you ever been to California?” asked Tom.

“There you’ve got me,” answered Mr. Brush. “I’ve been as far as Utah, but I haven’t been any farther. I ’spose I should have gone, but my wife was kind of sickly, and I didn’t want to be gone so long. Now she’s dead, and I’ve got nothing to tie me down.”

“Haven’t you any children?” asked our hero.

“Yes, I’ve got a youngster about thirteen. I’ve left him at school in St. Louis. He’s stayin’ with an uncle—his mother’s brother. I want him to have more learnin’ than his father. As for me, I never attended school but two years, and the most I can do is to read and write, and I’m no great shakes at either. But that’s no reason why little Ben shouldn’t be a scholar. Have you been to school much?”

“Considerably,” answered Tom.

“And I suppose you’re a good hand at writin’ an’ cipherin’, and so on?”

“Pretty good,” answered Tom, modestly.

“And you’re goin’ out to Californy to make your fortune?”

“I hope to do something that way.”

“And that gentleman with you—is he an old friend?”

“I am working for him; I am his private secretary.”

Peter Brush looked amazed.

“What does he want of a private secretary when he is crossing the plains?” he asked.

“I don’t know exactly.”

“What do you do, if you don’t mind tellin?” asked Mr. Brush.

“I carry a satchel,” said Tom.

He was about to add that the satchel contained a stock of jewelry, when he reflected that this would be imprudent, and that his employer would not like him to be so communicative.

“Does he pay you much for that?” asked the hunter, after a pause.

“Twelve dollars a week.”

“And your traveling expenses?”

“No; I pay those myself.”

Peter Brush whistled softly and looked thoughtful. He evidently thought the arrangement a queer one.

“Then you have money enough for your expenses?” he said.

Tom answered in the affirmative. He knew that he was perhaps unwise in so far trusting a stranger, but he could not, for the life of him, distrust the honest-looking hunter.

This conversation took place while Mr. Burnett was down-stairs, smoking a cigar and looking about the town.

On his return he seemed to view with displeasure the intimacy between Mr. Brush and his young secretary, and took the occasion of Mr. Brush leaving the room, to say:

“Don’t get too intimate with that man. I don’t like his looks.”

“He seems like a good, honest fellow,” Tom could not help saying.

“Don’t trust to appearances. I’ve seen more of the world than you, and to me he looks like a rascal.”

“I don’t believe there’s anything out of the way with him,” thought Tom, but he remained silent.