“Yes, she was good—very good—but I tired her beyond her patience. One day the crisis came; the rent was behindhand; the bailiff was threatening; there seemed danger of an eviction. Then my mother, in her grief and anger, turned on me, said that if it had not been for my worthlessness the farm would have been prosperous. She had said that so often before that the words had lost all significance to me. But she ended in saying this: “‘If it hadn’t been for you, Samson, I shouldn’t ha’ been brought to this disgrace and poverty. The cost of keeping you in idleness would have paid an able-bodied farm laborer, who would have kept the place in order. And now I tell you, if you can’t work here, you had better go and find employment somewhere else to suit you.’” “Faix, it was harrd on ye,” said Mike. “It was, though she did not mean it. She was half crazy with the trouble that I might have warded off from her. But, boys,” added Longman solemnly, “her words fell on me stinging, burning, smarting, humiliating as a lash laid on a naked back. Without a word I took up my hat and walked out of the house, as I had often done before on other but less bitter occasions; only this time I did not return. That was five years ago. I have never seen my mother since.” A solemn silence fell on the trio. Presently old Dandy inquired: “An’ where did ye go thin? Ye couldn’t hev hed mooch money in yer pocket, if there was none to pay the rint.” “No, I had not a shilling. I walked into Chuxton, sold my silver watch for all it would bring, and then took a third-class ticket in the cheap parliamentary train to London, shipped as an able-bodied seaman on board the _Auro_, bound from St. Katherine’s Docks to the Golden Gate.” “So it was for goold ye kem, after all,” said Dandy. “Not at all. I never went near the mines in search of gold. I drew my pay at ’Frisco, bought a couple of guns, a lot of ammunition, some boots, and struck into the wilderness, where there was plenty of game and no game laws.” “An’ how hev ye thriven? Ye see, I niver knowed ye afore we met in the woods last summer,” said Dandy. “I have done well. I have been an industrious hunter. I have supplied forts, post agencies, miners’ camps and military caravans with game. I have saved more money than you have, Dandy; and I am going home to old England—on a visit, mind you, not to stay—I wouldn’t stay there on any terms, unless some one would make me head keeper on some estate where there is plenty of game. Even that would be a poor substitute for the grand, free life of the hunter in these wilds. But, Mike, why do you look at me in that strange way?” Longman inquired of the Irish boy, who had been sitting with his elbows on his knees, and his head held between the palms of his hands, gazing silently and steadfastly into the face of the hunter.