“I am twenty-three.  And you?”

“Fifteen—­nearly sixteen.”

“I have a stateroom trunk, which will just slip in under my berth.  Where is your luggage?”

Joe looked embarrassed.

“I don’t know but you will feel ashamed of me,” he said; “but the only extra clothes I have are tied up in this handkerchief.”

Charles Folsom whistled.

“Well,” said he, “you are poorly provided.  What have you got inside?”

“A couple of shirts, three collars, two handkerchiefs, and a pair of stockings.”

“And you are going a journey of thousands of miles!  But never mind,” he said kindly.  “I am not much larger than you, and, if you need it, I can lend you.  Once in California, you will have less trouble than if you were loaded down with clothes.  I must get you to tell me your story when there is time.”

They came on deck just in time to see the steamer swing out of the dock.

There were some of the passengers with sober faces.  They had bidden farewell to friends and relatives whom they might not see for years—­perhaps never again.  They were going to a new country, where hardships undoubtedly awaited them, and where they must take their chances of health and success.  Some, too, feared seasickness, a malady justly dreaded by all who have ever felt its prostrating effects.  But Joe only felt joyful exhilaration.

“You look happy, Joe,” said young Folsom.

“I feel so,” said Joe.

“Are you hoping to make your fortune in California?”

“I am hoping to make a living,” said Joe.

“Didn’t you make a living here at home?”

“A poor living, with no prospects ahead.  I didn’t mind hard work and poor clothes, if there had been a prospect of something better by and by.”

“Tell me your story.  Where were you living?” Charles Folsom listened attentively.

“Major Norton didn’t appear disposed to pamper you, or bring you up in luxury, that’s a fact.  It would have been hard lines if, on account of losing your aunt’s legacy, you had been compelled to go back to Oakville.”

“I wouldn’t have gone,” said Joe resolutely.

“What would you have done?”

“Stayed in New York, and got a living somehow, even if I had to black boots in the street.”

“I guess you’ll do.  You’ve got the right spirit.  It takes boys and men like you for pioneers.”

Joe was gratified at his companion’s approval.

“Now,” said Folsom, “I may as well tell you my story.  I am the son of a New York merchant who is moderately rich.  I entered the counting-room at seventeen, and have remained there ever since, with the exception of four months spent in Europe.”

“If you are rich already, why do you go out to California?” asked Joe.

“I am not going to the mines; I am going to prospect a little for the firm.  Some day San Francisco will be a large city.  I am going to see how soon it will pay for our house to establish a branch there.”