We will now follow Mr Peacocke for a while upon his journey. He began his close connection with Robert Lefroy by paying the man’s bill at the inn before he left Broughton, and after that found himself called upon to defray every trifle of expense incurred as they went along. Lefroy was very anxious to stay for a week in town. It would, no doubt, have been two weeks or a month had his companion given way — but on this matter a line of conduct had been fixed by Mr Peacocke in conjunction with the Doctor from which he never departed. “If you will not be guided by me, I will go without you,” Mr Peacocke had said, “and leave you to follow your own devices on your own resources.”

“And what can you do by yourself?”

“Most probably I shall be able to learn all that I want to learn. It may be that I shall fail to learn anything either with you or without you. I am willing to make the attempt with you if you will come along at once — but I will not be delayed for a single day. I shall go whether you go or stay.” Then Lefroy had yielded, and had agreed to be put on board a German steamer starting from Southampton to New York.

But an hour or two before the steamer started he made a revelation. “This is all gammon, Peacocke,” he said, when on board.

“What is all gammon?”

“My taking you across to the States.”

“Why is it gammon?”

“Because Ferdinand died more than a year since — almost immediately after you took her off.”

“Why did you not tell me that at Bowick?”

“Because you were so uncommon uncivil. Was it likely I should have told you that when you cut up so uncommon rough?”

“An honest man would have told me the very moment that he saw me.”

“When one’s poor brother has died, one does not blurt it like that all at once.”

“Your poor brother!”

“Why not my poor brother as well as anybody else’s? And her husband too! How was I to let it out in that sort of way? At any rate he is dead as Julius C+aesar. I saw him buried — right away at ‘Frisco.”

“Did he go to San Francisco?”

“Yes — we both went there right away from St Louis. When we got up to St Louis we were on our way with them other fellows. Nobody meant to disturb you; but Ferdy got drunk, and would go and have a spree, as he called it.”

“A spree, indeed!”

“But we were off by train to Kansas at five o’clock the next morning. The devil wouldn’t keep him sober, and he died of D.T. the day after we got him to ‘Frisco. So there’s the truth of it, and you needn’t go to New York at all. Hand me the dollars. I’ll be off to the States; and you can go back and marry the widow — or leave her alone, just as you please.”

They were down below when this story was told, sitting on their portmanteaus in the little cabin in which they were to sleep. The prospect of the journey certainly had no attraction for Mr Peacocke. His companion was most distasteful to him; the ship was abominable; the expense was most severe. How glad would he avoid it all if it were possible! “You know it all as well as if you were there,” said Robert, “and were standing on his grave.” He did believe it. The man in all probability had at the last moment told the true story. Why not go back and be married again? The Doctor could be got to believe it.

But then if it were not true? It was only for a moment that he doubted. “I must go to ‘Frisco all the same,” he said.

“Why so?”

“Because I must in truth stand upon his grave. I must have proof that he has been buried there.”

“Then you may go by yourself,” said Robert Lefroy. He had said this more than once or twice already, and had been made to change his tone. He could go or stay as he pleased, but no money would be paid to him until Peacocke had in his possession positive proof of Ferdinand Lefroy’s death. So the two made their unpleasant journey to New York together. There was complaining on the way, even as to the amount of liquor that should be allowed. Peacocke would pay for nothing that he did not himself order. Lefroy had some small funds of his own, and was frequently drunk while on board. There were many troubles; but still they did at last reach New York.

Then there was a great question whether they would go on direct from thence to San Francisco, or delay themselves three or four days by going round by St Louis. Lefroy was anxious to go to St Louis — and on that account Peacocke was almost resolved to take tickets direct through for San Francisco. Why should Lefroy wish to go to St Louis? But then, if the story were altogether false, some truth might be learned at St Louis; and it was at last decided that thither they would go. As they went on from town to town, changing carriages first at one place and then at another, Lefroy’s manner became worse and worse, and his language more and more threatening. Peacocke was asked whether he thought a man was to be brought all that distance without being paid for his time. “You will be paid when you have performed your part of the bargain,” said Peacocke.

“I’ll see some part of the money at St Louis,” said Lefroy, “or I’ll know the reason why. A thousand dollars! What are a thousand dollars? Hand out the money.” This was said as they were sitting together in a corner or separated portion of the smoking-room of a little hotel at which they were waiting for a steamer which was to take them down the Mississippi to St Louis. Peacocke looked round and saw that they were alone.

“I shall hand out nothing till I see your brother’s grave,” said Peacocke.

“You won’t?”

“Not a dollar! What is the good of your going on like that? You ought to know me well enough by this time.”

“But you do not know me well enough. You must have taken me for a very tame sort o’ critter.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Perhaps I shall. It is quite possible that you should murder me. But you will not get any money by that.”

“Murder you. You ain’t worth murdering.” Then they sat in silence, waiting another hour and a half till the steamboat came. The reader will understand that it must have been a bad time for Mr Peacocke.

They were on the steamer together for about twenty-four hours, during which Lefroy hardly spoke a word. As far as his companion could understand he was out of funds, because he remained sober during the greater part of the day, taking only what amount of liquor was provided for him. Before, however, they reached St Louis, which they did late at night, he had made acquaintance with certain fellow-travellers, and was drunk and noisy when they got out upon the quay. Mr Peacocke bore his position as well as he could, and accompanied him up to the hotel. It was arranged that they should remain two days at St Louis, and then start for San Francisco by the railway which runs across the State of Kansas. Before he went to bed Lefroy insisted on going into the large hall in which, as is usual in American hotels, men sit and loaf and smoke and read the newspapers. Here, though it was twelve o’clock, there was still a crowd; and Lefroy, after he had seated himself and lit his cigar, got up from his seat and addressed all the men around him.

“Here’s a fellow,” said he, has come out from England to find out what’s become of Ferdinand Lefroy.”

“I knew Ferdinand Lefroy”, said one man, and I know you too, Master Robert.”

“What has become of Ferdinand Lefroy?” asked Mr Peacocke.

“He’s gone where all the good fellows go,” said another.

“You mean that he is dead?” asked Peacocke.

“Of course he’s dead,” said Robert. I’ve been telling him so ever since we left England; but he is such a d — unbelieving infidel that he wouldn’t credit the man’s own brother. He won’t learn much here about him.”

“Ferdinand Lefroy”, said the first man, died on the way as he was going out West. I was over the road the day after.”

“You know nothing about it,” said Robert. He died at ‘Frisco two days after we’d got him there.”

“He died at Ogden Junction, where you turn down to Utah City.”

“You didn’t see him dead,” said the other.

“If I remember right,” continued the first man, they’d taken him away to bury him somewhere just there in the neighbourhood. I didn’t care much about him, and I didn’t ask any particular questions. He was a drunken beast — better dead than alive.”

“You’ve been drunk as often as him, I guess,” said Robert.

“I never gave nobody the trouble to bury me at any rate,” said the other.

“Do you mean to say positively of your own knowledge,” asked Peacocke, “that Ferdinand Lefroy died at that station?”

“Ask him; he’s his brother, and he ought to know best.”

“I tell you,” said Robert, earnestly, that we carried him on to ‘Frisco, and there he died. If you think you know best, you can go to Utah City and wait there till you hear all about it. I guess they’ll make you one of their elders if you............