I joined them. There was a fine strong breeze, and fair for
boats bound in. Not one, however, was in sight. Away off in the Bay was
a homeward-bound schooner, with colors flying. A fisherman, probably,
returning from the Banks. The morning air was chilly. We silently
descended the hill.
During the day we heard that a vessel from Boston had spoken, half-way
on her passage, a small sloop-boat, with one man in it. Boston was sixty
miles distant, and it was something very unusual for a small boat to
make the passage. Friends in the city were written to, but no
information was obtained, and day after day passed without relieving our
suspense.
But this was at last ended by a letter from David himself. It was
written to me. He had sold his boat in Boston, and had gone to New York,
where his letter was dated. He was going to sail for California the next
day.
"I have long been meaning to go," he wrote, "but never thought of
leaving in this way, until I reached the fishing-ground, last Wednesday
morning. It came into my mind all at once, and I kept straight along. If
I'd gone back, the old folks, maybe, wouldn't have let me come, because,
you know, I'm the last.
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