’I reckon I don’t hitch on, pardner,’ sez I; ‘security what for?’ ‘’Spose you sell the ship?’ sez he, ’afore the two months is up.  I’ve heard that old Sleight wants to buy her.’  ‘Then you gets back your money,’ sez I.  ’And lose my room,’ sez he; ’not much, old man.  You sign a paper that whoever buys the ship inside o’ two months hez to buy me ez a tenant with it; that’s on the square.’  So I sign the paper.  It was mighty cute in the young feller, wasn’t it?” he said, scanning his daughter’s pretty puzzled face a little anxiously; “and don’t you see, ez I ain’t goin’ to sell the Pontiac, it’s just about ez cute in me, eh?  He’s a contractor somewhere around yer, and wants to be near his work.  So he takes the room next to the Frenchman, that that ship-captain quit for the mines, and succeeds naterally to his chest and things.  He’s mighty peart-looking, that young feller, Rosey—­long black mustaches, all his own color, Rosey—­and he’s a regular high-stepper, you bet.  I reckon he’s not only been a gentleman, but ez now.  Some o’ them contractors are very high-toned!”

“I don’t think we have any right to give him the captain’s chest, father,” said Rosey; “there may be some private things in it.  There were some letters and photographs in the hair-dye man’s trunk that you gave the photographer.”

“That’s just it, Rosey,” returned Abner Nott with sublime unconsciousness, “photographs and love letters you can’t sell for cash, and I don’t mind givin’ ’em away, if they kin make a feller-creature happy.”

“But, father, have we the right to give ’em away?”

“They’re collateral security, Rosey.” said her father grimly.  “Co-la-te-ral,” he continued, emphasizing each syllable by tapping the fist of one hand in the open palm of the other.  “Co-la-te-ral is the word the big business sharps yer about call ’em.  You can’t get round that.”  He paused a moment, and then, as a new idea seemed to be painfully borne in his round eyes, continued cautiously:  “Was that the reason why you wouldn’t touch any of them dresses from the trunks of that opery gal ez skedaddled for Sacramento?  And yet them trunks I regularly bought at auction—­Rosey—­at auction, on spec—­and they didn’t realize the cost of drayage.”

A slight color mounted to Rosey’s face.  “No,” she said, hastily, “not that.”  Hesitating a moment, she then drew softly to his side, and, placing her arms around his neck, turned his broad, foolish face towards her own.  “Father,” she began, “when mother died, would you have liked anybody to take her trunks and paw round her things and wear them?”

“When your mother died, just this side o’ Sweetwater, Rosey,” said Mr. Nott, with beaming unconsciousness, “she had n’t any trunks.  I reckon she had n’t even an extra gown hanging up in the wagin, ’cept the petticoat ez she had wrapped around yer.  It was about ez much ez we could do to skirmish round with Injins, alkali, and cold, and we sorter forgot to dress for dinner.  She never thought, Rosey, that you and me would live to be inhabitin’ a paliss of a real ship.  Ef she had she would have died a proud woman.”