Gold Seekers of '49. Edwin L. Sabin

as any time," remarked the Frémont man, after a keen look at the back of the retreating clerk. "We'll have to make our own way—and I reckon we can do it. Come on."

      He shouldered ahead, Charley in his wake. The emerged aft, on the upper deck.

      "Wait here a moment," bade the Frémont man; and abruptly left Charley on guard over the baggage. He returned in a minute or two.

      "No berths," he reported. "I wanted to find out. Now I know. We can sleep in the steerage, they tell me. Huh! Not after we've paid extra for fresh air. Let me look around."

      He did, surveying the crowded deck. Suddenly picked up the baggage.

      "I see a spot," he said, and led the way.

      Just outside the rail, over the stern was slung a large boat—one of the ship's life-boats. It hung by ropes to the davits, and was covered with a tarpaulin, or canvas, stretched over it and tied down.

      The Frémont man halted, at the rail, and pitched the baggage over upon the boat.

      "There we are," he said with a smile, to Charley. "Some of us can sleep on top—and if it rains I reckon we can double under. Go get your father, now, and I'll hold the fort."

      Away hurried Charley—excited, and in his mind the idea that this was to be the queerest bed that he had occupied yet. But he had faith in the big Frémont man.

      He took a look from the rail, to watch the dock below. Most of the passengers up here were crowded at this rail, to survey just as he was surveying. The stern had been left comparatively free. There was his father—he recognized the tall figure, and the limp—just arrived below, gazing about anxiously. Charley yelled, and waved, but he could not make himself heard or seen. Too much else was going on. So he raced down, and rushed out upon the dock.

      "Come on, quick, dad," he greeted, breathless. "We've found a place!"

      "Who?"

      "The Frémont man and I. He found it, though."

      "Did you get a berth?" panted his father, following him. "They told me at the steamship office that every berth was taken long ago. I had to fight for the tickets, even. Never saw such a mob."

      "No, not a berth. But it's a place, anyhow. You'll see."

      In the short space of time the upper deck had grown more populous than ever. They worked their way through the crowd, Charley eagerly looking ahead for the Frémont man at his post.

      "This is awful," spoke Mr. Adams. "The steamship company ought to be brought to law about it."

      "There he is," directed Charley, gladly. "See him. We've got the life-boat!"

      But perhaps they hadn't, for when they arrived, the Frémont man was calmly barring the way of three other men—among them the long-nosed man, who was doing most of the arguing on their part.

      "No, gentlemen, you're too late," asserted the Frémont man, thrusting them back with his rifle-barrel held crosswise. "That boat's occupied."

      Charley remembered to have seen the little gang much together, on the Georgia, drinking and gambling. They were a tough lot.

      "Tell that to the marines," retorted the long-nosed man. "We'll have that boat, or we'll know a better reason than you're giving."

      "Reason enough, and here's my proof," quoth the Frémont man. "The boat's pre-empted by us three. You must hunt another claim."

      Mr. Adams promptly stepped forward, to the Frémont man's side.

      "What's this about?" he demanded.

      "Oh, it's you again, is it—you and your kid!" snarled the long-nosed man. "You're chalking up another score to settle, are you?" And, to his fellows: "What do you say, boys? Shall we throw them overboard?"

      "Over they go," announced one of the other men—a thin sallow, drooping-moustached kind—with marvelous swiftness whipping from under his coat breast a fifteen-inch blade bowie-knife.