of unfortunate beggars, I agree with you."

"Well, I've no objection," rejoined Ned, "to your taking my words in
that sense; but I mean to say that, over and above that, we are real,
veritable, _bona fide_ beggars, inasmuch as we have not a sixpence in
the world."

Tom Collins's visage grew exceedingly long.

"Our united purse," pursued Ned, "hung, as you are aware, at my
saddle-bow, and yon unmitigated villain who appropriated my good steed,
is now in possession of all our hard-earned gold!"

Tom's countenance became preternaturally grave, but he did not venture
to speak.

"Now," continued Ned, forcing a smile, "there is nothing for it but to
make for the nearest diggings, commence work again, and postpone our
travels to a future and more convenient season. We may laugh at it as
we please, my dear fellow, but there's no denying that we are in what
the Yankees would call an `oncommon fix.'"

Ned's remark as to "laughing at it," was altogether uncalled for and
inappropriate, for his own smile might have been more correctly termed a
grin, and nothing was further from Tom Collins's thoughts at that moment
than laughing.

"Are the victuals gone too?" inquired Ned, hastily.

Both turned their eyes towards Tom Collins's horse, which grazed hard
by, and both heaved a sigh of relief on observing that the saddle-bags
were safe. This was a small drop of comfort in their otherwise bitter
cup, and they made the most of it. Each, as if by a common impulse,
pretending that he cared very little about the matter, and assuming that
the other stood in need of being cheered and comforted, went about the
preparations for encamping with a degree of reckless joviality that
insensibly raised their spirits, not only up to but considerably above
the natural level; and when at last they had spread out their viands,
and lighted their fire and their pipes, they were, according to Tom's
assertion, "happy as kings."

The choosing of a spot to encamp on formed the subject of an amicable
dispute.

"I recommend the level turf under this oak," said Ned, pointing to a
huge old tree, whose gnarled limbs covered a wide space of level sward.

"It's too low," objected Tom, (Tom could always object--a quality which,
while it acted like an agreeable dash of cayenne thrown into the
conversation of some of his friends, proved to be sparks applied to
gunpowder in that of others;) "it's too low, and, doubtless, moist. I
think that yonder pine, w