"I'm sorry for you; but a man needn't be in that condition long here."

"Where do you sleep?" asked Hogan suddenly.

"Here. I put a bed on the floor in one corner, and so am on hand in the morning."

"I say," Hogan continued insinuatingly, "won't you let me stay here to-night?"

"Sleep here?"

"Yes."

"I'd rather not, Mr. Hogan."

"I haven't a cent to pay for a lodging. If you don't take me in, I shall have to stay in the street all night."

"You've slept out at the mines, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you can do it here."

"You're hard on a poor man," whined Hogan. "It wouldn't cost you anything to let me sleep here."

"No, it wouldn't," said Joe; "but I prefer to choose my own company at night."

"I may catch my death of cold," said Hogan.

"I hope not; but I don't keep lodgings," said Joe firmly.

"You haven't any feeling for an unlucky man."

"I have given you your supper, and not stinted you in any way. What you ate would cost two dollars at my regular prices. I wasn't called to do it, for you never did me any service, and you are owing me to-day fifty dollars, which you cheated me out of when I was a poor boy. I won't let you lodge here, but I will give you a breakfast in the morning, if you choose to come round. Then you will be strengthened for a day's work, and can see what you can find to do."

Hogan saw that Joe was in earnest and walked out of the restaurant, without a word.

When Joe was about to close his doors for the night his attention was drawn to a man who was sitting down on the ground, a few feet distant, with his head buried between his two hands, in an attitude expressive of despondency.

Joe was warm-hearted and sympathetic, and, after a moment's hesitation, addressed the stranger.

"Is anything the matter with you, sir?" he asked. "Don't you feel well?"

The man addressed raised his head. He was a stout, strongly built man, roughly dressed, but had a look which inspired confidence.

"I may as well tell you, boy," he answered, "though you can't help me. I've been a cursed fool, that's what's the matter."

"If you don't mind telling me," said Joe gently, "perhaps I can be of service to you."

The man shook his head.

"I don't think you can," he said, "but I'll tell you, for all that.

Yesterday I came up from the mines with two thousand dollars. I was about a year getting it together, and to me it was a fortune. I'm a shoemaker by occupation, and lived in a town in Massachusetts, where I have a wife and two young children. I left them a year ago to go to the mines. I did well, and the money I told you about would have made us all comfortable, if I could only have got it home."

"Were you robbed of it?" asked Joe, remembering his own experience.

"Yes; I was robbed of it, but not in the way you are thinking of. A wily scoundrel induced me to enter a gambling-den, the Bella Union, they call it. I wouldn't play at first, but soon the fascination seized me. I saw a man win a hundred dollars, and I thought I could do the same, so I began, and won a little. Then I lost, and played on to get my money back. In just an hour I was cleaned out of all I had. Now I am penniless, and my poor family will suffer for my folly."

He buried his face in his hands once more and, strong man as he was, he wept aloud.

"Have you had any supper, sir?" said Joe compassionately.

"No; but I have no appetite."

"Have you any place to sleep?"

"No."

"Then I can offer you a supper and a night's lodging. Don't be discouraged. In the morning we can talk the matter over, and see what can be done."

The stranger rose and laid his hand on Joe's arm.

"I don't know how it is," he said, "but your words give me courage.

I believe you have saved my life. I have a revolver left and I had a mind to blow my brains out."

"Would that have helped you or your family?"

"No, boy. I was a fool to think of it. I'll accept your offer, and to-morrow I'll see what I can do. You're the best friend I've met since I left home."

CHAPTER XIX

THE UNLUCKY MINER

Joe brought out some cold meat and bread and butter, and set it before his guest.

"The fire's gone out," he said, "or I would give you some tea. Here is a glass of milk, if you like it."

"Thank you, boy," said his visitor. "Milk is good enough for anybody. One thing I can say, I've steered clear of liquor. A brother of mine was intemperate and that was a warning to me. I took credit to myself for being a steady-going man, compared with many of my acquaintances out at the mines. But it don't do to boast. I've done worse, perhaps. I've gambled away the provision I had made for my poor family."

"Don't take it too hard," said Joe, in a tone of sympathy. "You know how it is out here. Down to-day and up to-morrow."

"It'll take me a long time to get up to where I was," said the other; "but it's my fault, and I must make the best of it."

Joe observed, with satisfaction, that his visitor was doing ample justice to the supper spread before him. With a full stomach, he would be likely to take more cheerful views of life and the future.

In this thought Joe proved to be correct.

"I didn't think I could eat anything," said the miner, laying down his knife and fork, twenty minutes later, "but I have made a hearty supper, thanks to your kindness. Things look a little brighter to me now. I've had a hard pullback, but all is not lost. I've got to stay here a year or two longer, instead of going back by the next steamer; but I must make up my mind to that. What is your name, boy?"