ays lingering with mind only half made up. But
the golden lure proved at length too temptingly attractive, and,
yielding to it, he took a last leave of his old shipmates, was rowed
ashore, and has since been sojourning at the "Sailor's Home"--for he is
still there, as Cadwallader rightly surmised--there in a very miserable
state of mind, not knowing how his wretchedness will be relieved.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE SAILOR'S HOME.

There is a "Sailor's Home," or "Snug Harbour" tavern in every seaport
town, often anything but home, or harbour, in a pleasant sense. This of
San Francisco, 1849, is a hostelry, half eating-house, half
drinking-saloon, of somewhat unpretentious appearance--being a rough,
weather-boarded building, without planing, or paint, and only two
storeys in height. But if low in stature, it is high enough in its
charges, as Harry Blew has learnt long since; these being out of all
proportion to the outside appearance of the place, or its interior
accommodation; though quite in keeping with the prices of other like
houses of entertainment in the Pacific seaport.

Harry's original intention was to make only a short stay at the
"Sailor's Home"--just long enough to put him through a bit of a spree;
for which twelve months' pay, received from the frigate's purser at
parting, had amply provided him. Then he would start off for the
Feather River, or some other tributary stream of the Sacramento, where
gold was being gathered, or dug for.

The first part of this programme he has already carried out, with
something besides; that something being the complete expenditure of all
his pay--every shilling he received from the ship, and in an incredibly
short space of time. He had been scarcely six days ashore when he
discovers his cash exchequer quite cleared out. As for credit, there is
no such thing in San Francisco. A shop parcel sent home always comes
conspicuously marked C.O.D.--"Cash on Delivery."

Since landing, he has not very carefully kept his dead-reckoning, and is
at first somewhat surprised to find himself so far out in it. He has
plunged his hands into his pockets without encountering coin. He
searches in his sea-chest and every other receptacle where he has been
accustomed to carry, with similar disappointing result. What can have
become of his twelve months' wage, drawn on the day he left the
_Crusader_? It has all disappeared!

No wonder he is unable to account for its disappearanc