"Well," continued Mr. Grigsby, "if I'm around you can count on me. And there'll be other men who won't be inclined to stand for skullduggery. The diggin's will be put under law and order, after a bit, or else no man's life or property will be safe for a day. But until then, look out, and keep looking out." "We will," assured Mr. Adams, nodding confidently at Charley, who soberly nodded back. "And if I were you," added the Fremonter, "I'd tuck those papers in a safe place. Wouldn't leave them around anywhere. See?" "I've been carrying them on my own person," explained Mr. Adams. "The very place where anybody wanting them by hook or crook would look first," said the Fremonter. "Humph!" admitted Mr. Adams. "That's probably so." He looked about thoughtfully. "But I don't know of a better place--'twouldn't do to stick them anywhere in the cabin, or the baggage. Here!" he exclaimed, struck with an idea. "What's the matter with Charley! Nobody would suspect that a boy was in charge of valuables. Charley, you take these and tuck them away on you where they'll be safe." "Put them in your shoe--or in your bootleg when you wear boots," instructed Mr. Grigsby. "What about night?" asked Charley. "I'll tend to the nights," grimly said the Fremonter. "You might change them to your pillow, nights, and they wouldn't be any safer and you'd be apt to forget them. But my cot will be across the doorway, nights, and I in it." "Very good," approved Mr. Adams. And so Charley carried the papers in his shoe. For a week the _California_ sped on, over a smoothly rolling blue sea, accompanied by the gulls and porpoises and the steady thumps of her huge paddle-wheels. On the right, or east, the coastline was at first high and mountainous, but soon became only a bluish line, across the miles of water. The decks were hot, amidst this summer sea! Almost every night there was a gorgeous sunset; yet even after sunset the thermometer stood over eighty in the cabins. On up the full length of Central America ploughed the _California_; past Costa Rica and Nicaragua and Salvador and Guatemala--all of which looked about the same, at this distance, no matter how they were colored on the maps. Next came the coast of Mexico; and swinging in, the _California_ made for Acapulco. Beautiful was the coast of Mexico, hereabouts: a long strip of white beach where the blue surf broke; behind, vivid green hills, their bases dotted with white towns; and further behind, tremendous mountain-ranges, piercing the clouds. Acapulco seemed as hard to find as Chagres. The _California_ acted as if she were going to butt right into the beach; and the passengers, crowded along the landside rails, eagerly waiting, could make out no harbor. Yet Acapulco was said to have the finest harbor between Panama and San Francisco; and there was Acapulco itself--the old fort guarding the harbor, the roofs of houses beyond it, and the tips of masts betokening where ships lay at anchor.