William Fielding scratched his head.  This was a new view of things to him, but there seemed to be something in it.

“Ay! rake that into your upper soil,” cried our republican orator; then collecting into one his scattered items of argument, he invited his friend George to take his muscle, pluck, wind, backbone, and self, out of this miserable country, and come where the best man has a chance to win.

“Come, George,” he cried, “England is the spot if you happen to be married to a duke’s daughter, and got fifty thousand a year and three houses.

“And a coach.

“And a brougham.

“And a curricle.

“And ten brace of pointers.

“And a telescope so big the stars must move to it, instead of it to the stars.

“And no end of pretty housemaids.

“And a butler with a poultice round his neck and whiskers like a mop-head.

“And a silver tub full of rose-water to sit in and read the Morning Post.

“And a green-house full of peaches—­and green peas all the year round.

“And a pew in the church warmed with biling eau de Cologne.

“And a carpet a foot thick.

“And a piano-forte in every blessed room in the house.  But this island is the Dead Sea to a poor man.”

He then, diverging from the rhetorical to the metropolitan style, proposed to his friend “to open one eye.  That will show you this hole you are in is all poor hungry arable ground.  You know you can’t work it to a profit.” (George winced.) “No! steal, borrow, or beg 500 pounds.  Carry out a cargo of pea-jackets and fourpenny bits to swap for gold-dust, a few tools, a stout heart, and a light pair of—­’Oh, no; we never mention them; their name is never heard’—­and we’ll soon fill both pockets with the shiney in California.”

All this Mr. Robinson delivered with a volubility to which Berkshire had hitherto been a stranger.

“A crust of bread in England before buffalo beef in California,” was George’s reply; but it was not given in that assured tone with which he would have laughed at Robinson’s eloquence a week ago.

“I could not live with all those thieves and ruffians that are settled down there like crows on a dead horse; but I thank you kindly, my lad, all the same,” said the tender-hearted young man.

“Strange,” thought he, “that so many should sing me the same tune, and he fell back into his reverie.

Here they were all summoned to dinner, with a dash of asperity, by Sarah the stout farm servant.

Susan lingered an instant to speak to George.  She chose an unfortunate topic.  She warned him once more against Mr. Robinson.

“My father says that he has no business nor trade, and he is not a gentleman, in spite of his red and green cravat, so he must be a rogue of some sort.”