Bobby was so indignant at the conduct of Mr. Hardhand, that he entirely forgot the adventure of the morning; and he did not even think of the gold he had in his pocket. He loved his mother; he knew how hard she had worked for him and his brother and sisters; that she had burned the "midnight oil" at her clamps; and it made him feel very bad to hear her abused as Mr. Hardhand was abusing her. It was not her fault that she had not the money to pay him. She had been obliged to spend a large portion of her time over the sick beds of her children, so that she could not earn so much money as usual; while the family expenses were necessarily much greater.
Bobby knew also that Mr. Hardhand was aware of all the circumstances of his mother's position, and the more he considered the case the more brutal and inhuman was his course.
As our hero entered the family room with the basket of fish on his arm, the little crusty old man fixed the glance of his evil eye upon him.
"There is that boy, marm, idling away his time by the river, and eating you out of house and home," said the wretch. "Why don't you set him to work, and make him earn something?"
"Bobby is a very good boy," meekly responded the widow Bright.
"Humph! I should think he was. A great lazy lubber like him, living on his mother!" and Mr. Hardhand looked contemptuously at Bobby.
"I am not a lazy lubber," interposed the insulted boy with spirit.
"Yes, you are. Why don't you go to work?"
"I do work."
"No, you don't; you waste your time paddling in the river."
"I don't."
"You had better teach this boy manners too, marm," said the creditor, who, like all men of small souls, was willing to take advantage of the power which the widow's indebtedness gave him. "He is saucy."
"I should like to know who taughtyoumanners, Mr. Hardhand," replied Bobby, whose indignation was rapidly getting the better of his discretion.
"What!" growled Mr. Hardhand, aghast at this unwonted boldness.
"I heard what you said before I came in; and no decent man would go to the house of a poor woman to insult her."
"Humph! Mighty fine," snarled the little old man, his gray eyes twinkling with malice.
"Don't, Bobby; don't be saucy to the gentleman," interposed his mother.
"Saucy, marm? You ought to horsewhip him for it. If you don't, I will."
"No, you won't!" replied Bobby, shaking his head significantly. "I can take care of myself."
"Did any one ever hear such impudence!" gasped Mr. Hardhand.
"Don't, Bobby, don't," pleaded the anxious mother.
"I should like to know what right you have to come here and abuse my mother," continued Bobby, who could not restrain his anger.
"Your mother owes me money, and she doesn't pay it, you young scoundrel!" answered Mr. Hardhand, foaming with rage.
"That is no reason why you should insult her. You can callmewhat you please, but you shall not insult my mother while I'm round."
"Your mother is a miserable woman, and——"
"Say that again, and though you are an old man, I'll hit you for it. I'm big enough to protect my mother, and I'll do it."
Bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to Mr. Hardhand, fully determined to execute his threat if he repeated the offensive expression, or any other of a similar import. He was roused to the highest pitch of anger, and felt as though he had just as lief die as live in defence of his mother's good name.
I am not sure that I could excuse Bobby's violence under any other circumstances. He loved his mother—as the novelists would say, he idolized her; and Mr. Hardhand had certainly applied some very offensive epithets to her—epithets which no good son could calmly hear applied to a mother. Besides, Bobby, though his heart was a large one, and was in the right place, had never been educated into those nice distinctions of moral right and wrong which control the judgment of wise and learned men. He had an idea that violence, resistance with blows, was allowable in certain extreme cases; and he could conceive of no greater provocation than an insult to his mother.
"Be calm, Bobby; you are in a passion," said Mrs. Bright.
"I am surprised, marm," began Mr. Hardhand, who prudently refrained from repeating the offensive language—and I have no doubt he was surprised; for he looked both astonished and alarmed. "This boy has a most ungovernable temper."
"Don't you worry about my temper, Mr. Hardhand; I'll take care of myself. All I want of you is not to insult my mother. You may say what you like to me; but don't you call her hard names."
Mr. Hardhand, like all mean, little men, was a coward; and he was effectually intimidated by the bold and manly conduct of the boy. He changed his tone and manner at once.
"You have no money for me, marm?" said he, edging towards the door.
"No, sir; I am sorry to say that I have been able to save only five dollars since I paid you last; but I hope——"
"Never mind, marm, never mind; I shall not trouble myself to come here again, where I am liable to be kicked by this ill-bred cub. No, marm, I shall not come again. Let the law take its course."
"O, mercy! See what you have brought upon us, Bobby," exclaimed Mrs. Bright, bursting into tears.
"Yes, marm, let the law take its course."
"O, Bobby! Stop a moment, Mr. Hardhand; do stop a moment."
"Not a moment, marm. We'll see;" and Mr. Hardhand placed his hand upon the latch string.
Bobby felt very uneasy and very unhappy at that moment. His passion had subsided, and he realized that he had done a great deal of mischief by his impetuous conduct.
Then the remembrance of his morning adventure on the bridge came like a flash of sunshine to his mind, and he eagerly drew from his pocket the handkerchief in which he had deposited the precious gold,—doubly precious now, because it would enable him to retrieve the error into which he had fallen, and do something towards relieving his mother's embarrassment. With a trembling hand he untied the knot which secured the money.
"Here, mother, here is thirty-five dollars;" and he placed it in her hand.
"Why, Bobby!" exclaimed Mrs. Bright.
"Pay him, mother, pay him, and I will tell you all about it by and by."
"Thirty-five dollars! and all in gold! Wheredidyou get it, Bobby?"
"Never mind it now, mother."
Mr. Hardhand's covetous soul had already grasped the glittering gold; and removing his hand from the latch string, he approached the widow.
"I shall be able to pay you forty dollars now," said Mrs. Bright, taking the five dollars she had saved from her pocket.
"Yes, marm."
Mr. Hardhand took the money, and seating himself at the table, indorsed the amount on the back of the note.
"You owe me sixty more," said he, maliciously, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "It must be paid immediately."
"You must not be hard with me now, when I have paid more than you demanded."
"I don't wish to come here again. That boy's impudence has put me all out of conceit with you and your family," replied Mr. Hardhand, assuming the most benevolent look he could command. "There was a time when I was very willing to help you. I have waited a great while for my pay for this house; a great deal longer than I would have waited for anybody else."
"Your interest has always been paid punctually," suggested the widow, modestly.
"That's true; but very few people would have waited as long as I have for the principal. I wanted to help you——"
"By gracious!" exclaimed Bobby, interrupting him.
"Don't be saucy, my son, don't," said Mrs. Bright, fearing a repetition of the former scene.
"Hewanted to help us!" ejaculated Bobby.
It was a very absurd and hypocritical expression on the part of Mr. Hardhand; for he never wanted to help any one but himself; and during the whole period of his relations with the poor widow, he had oppressed, insulted, and abused her to the extent of his capacity, or at least as far as his interest would permit.
He was a malicious and revengeful man. He did not consider the great provocation he had given Bobby for his violent conduct, but determined to be revenged, if it could be accomplished without losing any part of the sixty dollars still due him. He was a wicked man at heart, and would not scruple to turn the widow and her family out of house and home.
Mrs. Bright knew this, and Bobby knew it too; and they felt very uneasy about it. The wretch still had the power to injure them, and he would use it without compunction.
"Yes, young man, I wanted to help you, and you see what I get for it—contempt and insults! You will hear from me again in a day or two. Perhaps you will change your tune, you young reprobate!"
"Perhaps I shall," replied Bobby, without much discretion.
"And you too, marm; you uphold him in his treatment of me. You have not done your duty to him. You have been remiss, marm!" continued Mr. Hardhand, growing bolder again, as he felt the power he wielded.
"That will do, sir; you can go!" said Bobby, springing from his chair, and approaching Mr. Hardhand. "Go, and do your worst!"
"Humph! you stump me,—do you?"
"I would rather see my mother kicked out of the house than insulted by such a dried-up old curmudgeon as you are. Go along!"
"Now, don't, Bobby," pleaded his mother.
"I am going; and if the money is not paid by twelve o'clock to-morrow, the law shall take its course;" and Mr. Hardhand rushed out of the house, slamming the door violently after him.
"O, Bobby, what have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Bright, when the hard-hearted creditor had departed.
"I could not help it, mother; don't cry. I cannot bear to hear you insulted and abused; and I thought when I heard him do it a year ago, that I couldn't stand it again. It is too bad."
"But he will turn us out of the house; and what shall we do then?"
"Don't cry, mother; it will come round all right. I have friends who are rich and powerful, and who will help us."
"You don't know what you say, Bobby. Sixty dollars is a great deal of money, and if we should sell all we have, it would scarcely bring that."
"Leave it all to me, mother; I feel as though I could do something now. I am old enough to make money."
"What can you do?"
"Now or never!" replied Bobby, whose mind had wandered from the scene to the busy world, where fortunes are made and lost every day. "Now or never!" muttered he again.
"But, Bobby, you have not told me where you got all that gold."
"Dinner is ready, I see, and I will tell you while we eat."
Bobby had been a fishing, and to be hungry is a part of the fisherman's luck; so he seated himself at the table, and gave his mother a full account of all that had occurred at the bridge.
The fond mother trembled when she realized the peril her son had incurred for the sake of the young lady; but her maternal heart swelled with admiration in view of the generous deed, and she thanked God that she was the mother of such a son. She felt more confidence in him then than she had ever felt before, and she realized that he would be the stay and the staff of her declining years.
Bobby finished his dinner, and seated himself on the front door step. His mind was absorbed by a new and brilliant idea; and for half an hour he kept up a most tremendous thinking.
"Now or never!" said he, as he rose and walked down the road towards Riverdale Centre.
A great idea was born in Bobby's brain. His mother's weakness and the insecurity of her position were more apparent to him than they had ever been before. She was in the power of her creditor, who might turn her out of the little black house, sell the place at auction, and thus, perhaps, deprive her of the whole or a large part of his father's and her own hard earnings.
But this was not the peculiar hardship of her situation, as her devoted son understood it. It was not the hard work alone which she was called upon to perform, not the coarseness of the fare upon which they lived, not the danger even of being turned out of doors, that distressed Bobby; it was that a wretch like Mr. Hardhand could insult and trample upon his mother. He had just heard him use language to her that made his blood boil with indignation, and he did not, on cool, sober, second thought, regret that he had taken such a decided stand against it.
He cared not for himself. He could live on a crust of bread and a cup of water from the spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could wear coarse and even ragged clothes; but he could not submit to have his mother insulted, and by such a mean and contemptible person as Mr. Hardhand.
Yet what could he do? He was but a boy, and the great world would look with contempt upon his puny form. But he felt that he was not altogether insignificant. He had performed an act that day, which the fair young lady, to whom he had rendered the service, had declared very few men would have undertaken. There was something in him, something that would come out, if he only put his best foot forward. It was a tower of strength within him. It told him that he could do wonders; that he could go out into the world and accomplish all that would be required to free his mother from debt, and relieve her from the severe drudgery of her life.
A great many people think they can "do wonders." The vanity of some very silly people makes them think they can command armies, govern nations, and teach the world what the world never knew before and never would know but for them. But Bobby's something within him was not vanity. It was something more substantial. He was not thinking of becoming a great man, a great general, a great ruler, or a great statesman; not even of making a great fortune. Self was not the idol and the end of his calculations. He was thinking of his mother, and only of her; and the feeling within him was as pure, and holy, and beautiful as the dream of an angel. He wanted to save his mother from insult in the first place, and from a life of ceaseless drudgery in the second.
A legion of angels seemed to have encamped in his soul to give him strength for the great purpose in his mind. His was a holy and a true purpose, and it was this that made him think he could "do wonders."
What Bobby intended to do the reader shall know in due time. It is enough now that he meant to do something. The difficulty with a great many people is, that they never resolve to do something. They wait for "something to turn up;" and as "things" are often very obstinate, they utterly refuse to "turn up" at all. Their lives are spent in waiting for a golden opportunity which never comes.
Now, Bobby Bright repudiated the Micawber philosophy. He would have nothing to do with it. He did not believe corn would grow without being planted, or that pouts would bite the bare hook.
I am not going to tell my young readers now how Bobby came out in the end; but I can confidently say that, if he had waited for "something to turn up," he would have become a vagabond, a loafer, out of money, out at the elbows, and out of patience with himself and all the world.
It was "now or never" with Bobby. He meant to do something; and after he had made up his mind how and where it was to be done, it was no use to stand thinking about it, like the pendulum of the "old clock which had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint."
Bobby walked down the road towards the village with a rapid step. He was thinking very fast, and probably that made him step quick. But as he approached Squire Lee's house, his pace slackened, and he seemed to be very uneasy. When he reached the great gate that led up to the house, he stopped for an instant, and thrust his hands down very deep into his trousers pockets. I cannot tell what the trousers pockets had to do with what he was thinking about; but if he was searching for anything in them, he did not find it; for after an instant's hesitation he drew out his hands, struck one of them against his chest, and in an audible voice exclaimed,—
"Now or never."
All this pantomime, I suppose, meant that Bobby had some misgivings as to the ultimate success of his mission at Squire Lee's, and that when he struck his breast and uttered his favorite expression, they were conquered and driven out.
Marching with a bold and determined step up to the squire's back door,—Bobby's ideas of etiquette would not have answered for the meridian of fashionable society,—he gave three smart raps.
Bobby's heart beat a little wildly as he awaited a response to his summons. It seemed that he still had some doubts as to the practicability of his mission; but they were not permitted to disturb him long, for the door was opened by the squire's pretty daughter Annie, a young miss of twelve.
"O, Bobby, is it you? I am so glad you have come!" exclaimed the little lady.
Bobby blushed—he didn't know why, unless it was that the young lady desired to see him. He stammered out a reply, and for the moment forgot the object of his visit.
"I want you to go down to the village for me, and get some books the expressman was to bring up from Boston for me. Will you go?"
"Certainly, Miss Annie, I shall be very glad to go foryou," replied Bobby, with an emphasis that made the little maiden blush in her turn.
"You are real good, Bobby; but I will give you something for going."
"I don't want anything," said Bobby, stoutly.
"You are too generous! Ah, I heard what you did this forenoon; and pa says that a great many men would not have dared to do what you did. I always thought you were as brave as a lion; now I know it."
"The books are at the express office, I suppose," said Bobby, turning as red as a blood beet.
"Yes, Bobby; I am so anxious to get them that I can't wait till pa goes down this evening."
"I will not be gone long."
"O, you needn't run, Bobby; take your time."
"I will go very quick. But, Miss Annie, is your father at home?"
"Not now; he has gone over to the wood lot; but he will be back by the time you return."
"Will you please to tell him that I want to see him about something very particular, when he gets back?"
"I will, Bobby."
"Thank you, Miss Annie;" and Bobby hastened to the village to execute his commission.
"I wonder what he wants to see pa so very particularly for," said the young lady to herself, as she watched his receding form. "In my opinion, something has happened at the little black house, for I could see that he looked very sober."
Either Bobby had a very great regard for the young lady, and wished to relieve her impatience to behold the coveted books, or he was in a hurry to see Squire Lee; for the squire's old roan horse could hardly have gone quicker.
"You should not have run, Bobby," said the little maiden, when he placed the books in her hand; "I would not have asked you to go if I had thought you would run all the way. You must be very tired."
"Not at all; I didn't run, only walked very quick," replied he; but his quick breathing indicated that his words or his walk had been very much exaggerated. "Has your father returned?"
"He has; he is waiting for you in the sitting room. Come in, Bobby."
Bobby followed her into the room, and took the chair which Annie offered him.
"How do you do, Bobby? I am glad to see you," said the squire, taking him by the hand, and bestowing a benignant smile upon him—a smile which cheered his heart more than anything else could at that moment. "I have heard of you before, to-day."
"Have you?"
"I have, Bobby; you are a brave little fellow."
"I came over to see you, sir, about something very particular," replied Bobby, whose natural modesty induced him to change the topic.
"Indeed; well, what can I do for you?"
"A great deal, sir; perhaps you will think I am very bold, sir, but I can't help it."
"I know you are a very bold little fellow, or you would not have done what you did this forenoon," laughed the squire.
"I didn't mean that, sir," answered Bobby, blushing up to the eyes.
"I know you didn't; but go on."
"I only meant that you would think me presuming, or impudent, or something of that kind."
"O, no, far from it. You cannot be presuming or impudent. Speak out, Bobby; anything under the heavens that I can do for you, I shall be glad to do."
"Well, sir, I am going to leave Riverdale."
"Leave Riverdale!"
"Yes, sir; I am going to Boston, where I mean to do something to help mother."
"Bravo! you are a good lad. What do you mean to do?"
"I was thinking I should go into the book business."
"Indeed!" and Squire Lee was much amused by the matter-of-fact manner of the young aspirant.
"I was talking with a young fellow who went through the place last spring, selling books. He told me that some days he made three or four dollars, and that he averaged twelve dollars a week."
"He did well; perhaps, though, only a few of them make so much."
"I know I can make twelve dollars a week," replied Bobby, confidently, for that something within him made him feel capable of great things.
"I dare say you can. You have energy and perseverance, and people take a liking to you."
"But I wanted to see you about another matter. To speak out at once, I want to borrow sixty dollars of you;" and Bobby blushed, and seemed very much embarrassed by his own boldness.
"Sixty dollars!" exclaimed the squire.
"I knew you would think me impudent," replied our hero, his heart sinking within him.
"But I don't, Bobby. You want the money to go into business with—to buy your stock of books?"
"O, no, sir; I am going to apply to Mr. Bayard for that."
"Just so; Mr. Bayard is the gentleman whose daughter you saved?"
"Yes, sir. I want this money to pay off Mr. Hardhand. We owe him but sixty dollars now, and he has threatened to turn us out, if it is not paid by to-morrow noon."
"The old hunks!"
Bobby briefly related to the squire the events of the morning, much to the indignation and disgust of the honest, kind-hearted man. The courageous boy detailed more clearly his purpose, and doubted not he should be able to pay the loan in a few months.
"Very well, Bobby, here is the money;" and the squire took it from his wallet, and gave it to him.
"Thank you, sir. May Heaven bless you! I shall certainly pay you."
"Don't worry about it, Bobby. Pay it when you get ready."
"I will give you my note, and——"
The squire laughed heartily at this, and told him that, as he was a minor, his note was not good for anything.
"You shall see whether it is, or not," returned Bobby. "Let me give it to you, at least, so that we can tell how much I owe you from time to time."
"You shall have your own way."
Annie Lee, as much amused as her father at Bobby's big talk, got the writing materials, and the little merchant in embryo wrote and signed the note.
"Good, Bobby! Now promise that you will come and see me every time you come home, and tell me how you are getting along."
"I will, sir, with the greatest pleasure;" and with a light heart Bobby tripped away home.
Squire Lee, though only a plain farmer, was the richest man in Riverdale. He had taken a great fancy to Bobby, and often employed him to do errands, ride the horse to plough in the cornfields, and such chores about the place as a boy could do. He liked to talk with Bobby because there was a great deal of good sense in him, for one with a small head.
If there was any one thing upon which the squire particularly prided himself, it was his knowledge of human nature. He declared that he only wanted to look a man in the face to know what he was; and as for Bobby Bright, he had summered him and wintered him, and he was satisfied that he would make something in good time.
He was not much astonished when Bobby opened his ambitious scheme of going into business for himself. But he had full faith in his ability to work out a useful and profitable, if not a brilliant, life. He often said that Bobby was worth his weight in gold, and that he would trust him with anything he had. Perhaps he did not suspect that the time was at hand when he would be called upon to verify his words practically; for it was only that morning, when one of the neighbors told him about Bobby's stopping the horse, that he had repeated the expression for the twentieth time.
It was not an idle remark. Sixty dollars was hardly worth mentioning with a man of his wealth and liberal views, though so careful a man as he was would not have been likely to throw away that amount. But as a matter of investment,—Bobby had made the note read "with interest,"—he would as readily have let him have it, as the next richest man in the place, so much confidence had he in our hero's integrity, and so sure was he that he would soon have the means of paying him.
Bobby was overjoyed at the fortunate issue of his mission, and he walked into the room where his mother was closing shoes, with a dignity worthy a banker or a great merchant. Mrs. Bright was very sad. Perhaps she felt a little grieved that her son, whom she loved so much, had so thoughtlessly plunged her into a new difficulty.
"Come, cheer up, mother; it is all right," said Bobby, in his usual elastic and gay tones; and at the same time he took the sixty dollars from his pocket and handed it to her. "There is the money, and you will be forever quit of Mr. Hardhand to-morrow."
"What, Bobby! Why, where did you get all this money?" asked Mrs. Bright, utterly astonished.
In a few words the ambitious boy told his story, and then informed his mother that he was going to Boston the next Monday morning, to commence business for himself.
"Why, what can you do, Bobby?"
"Do? I can do a great many things;" and he unfolded his scheme of becoming a little book merchant.
"You are a courageous fellow! Who would have thought of such a thing?"
"I should, and did."
"But you are not old enough."
"O, yes, I am."
"You had better wait a while."
"Now or never, mother! You see I have given my note, and my paper will be dishonored, if I am not up and doing."
"Your paper!" said Mrs. Bright, with a smile.
"That is what Mr. Wing, the boot manufacturer, calls it."
"You needn't go away to earn this money; I can pay it myself."
"This note is my affair, and I mean to pay it myself with my own earnings. No objections, mother."
Like a sensible woman as she was, she did not make any objections. She was conscious of Bobby's talents; she knew that he had a strong mind of his own, and could take care of himself. It is true, she feared the influence of the great world, and especially of the great city, upon the tender mind of her son; but if he was never tempted, he would never be a conqueror over the foes that beset him.
She determined to do her whole duty towards him; and she carefully pointed out to him the sins and the moral danger to which he would be exposed, and warned him always to resist temptation. She counselled him to think of her when he felt like going astray.
Bobby declared that he would try to be a good boy. He did not speak contemptuously of the anticipated perils, as many boys would have done, because he knew that his mother would not make bug-bears out of things which she knew had no real existence.
The next day, Mr. Hardhand came; and my young readers can judge how astonished and chagrined he was, when the widow Bright offered him the sixty dollars. The Lord was with the widow and the fatherless, and the wretch was cheated out of his revenge. The note was given up, and the mortgage cancelled.
Mr. Hardhand insisted that she should pay the interest on the sixty dollars for one day, as it was then the second day of July; but when Bobby reckoned it up, and found it was less than one cent, even the wretched miser seemed ashamed of himself, and changed the subject of conversation.
He did not dare to say anything saucy to the widow this time. He had lost his power over her, and there stood Bobby, who had come to look just like a young lion to him, coward and knave as he was.
The business was all settled now, and Bobby spent the rest of the week in getting ready for his great enterprise. He visited all his friends, and went each day to talk with Squire Lee and Annie. The little maiden promised to buy a great many books of him, if he would bring his stock to Riverdale, for she was quite as much interested in him as her father was.
Monday morning came, and Bobby was out of bed with the first streak of dawn. The excitement of the great event which was about to happen had not permitted him to sleep for the two hours preceding; yet when he got up, he could not help feeling sad. He was going to leave the little black house, going to leave his mother, going to leave the children, to depart for the great city.
His mother was up before him. She was even more sad than he was, for she could see plainer than he the perils that environed him, and her maternal heart, in spite of the reasonable confidence she had in his integrity and good principles, trembled for his safety.
As he ate his breakfast, his mother repeated the warnings and the good lessons she had before imparted. She particularly cautioned him to keep out of bad company. If he found that his companions would lie and swear, he might depend upon it they would steal, and he had better forsake them at once. This was excellent advice, and Bobby had occasion at a later period to call it to his sorrowing heart.
"Here is three dollars, Bobby; it is all the money I have. Your fare to Boston will be one dollar, and you will have two left to pay the expenses of your first trip. It is all I have now," said Mrs. Bright.
"I will not take the whole of it. You will want it yourself. One dollar is enough. When I find Mr. Bayard, I shall do very well."
"Yes, Bobby, take the whole of it."
"I will take just one dollar, and no more," replied Bobby, resolutely, as he handed her the other two dollars.
"Do take it, Bobby."
"No, mother; it will only make me lazy and indifferent."
Taking a clean shirt, a pair of socks, and a handkerchief in his bundle, he was ready for a start.
"Good by, mother," said he, kissing her and taking her hand. "I shall try and come home on Saturday, so as to be with you on Sunday."
Then kissing the children, who had not yet got up, and to whom he had bidden adieu the night before, he left the house. He had seen the flood of tears that filled his mother's eyes, as he crossed the threshold; and he could not help crying a little himself. It is a sad thing to leave one's home, one's mother, especially, to go out into the great world; and we need not wonder that Bobby, who had hardly been out of Riverdale before, should weep. But he soon restrained the flowing tears.
"Now or never!" said he, and he put his best foot forward.
It was an epoch in his history, and though he was too young to realize the importance of the event, he seemed to feel that what he did now was to give character to his whole future life.
It was a bright and beautiful morning—somehow it is always a bright and beautiful morning when boys leave their homes to commence the journey of life; it is typical of the season of youth and hope, and it is meet that the sky should be clear, and the sun shine brightly, when the little pilgrim sets out upon his tour. He will see clouds and storms before he has gone far—let him have a fair start.
He had to walk five miles to the nearest railroad station. His road lay by the house of his friend, Squire Lee; and as he was approaching it, he met Annie. She said she had come out to take her morning walk; but Bobby knew very well that she did not usually walk till an hour later; which, with the fact that she had asked him particularly, the day before, what time he was going, made Bobby believe that she had come out to say good by, and bid him God speed on his journey. At any rate, he was very glad to see her. He said a great many pretty things to her, and talked so big about what he was going to do, that the little maiden could hardly help laughing in his face.
Then at the house he shook hands with the squire and shook hands again with Annie, and resumed his journey. His heart felt lighter for having met them, or at least for having met one of them, if not both; for Annie's eyes were so full of sunshine that they seemed to gladden his heart, and make him feel truer and stronger.
After a pleasant walk, for he scarcely heeded the distance, so full was he of his big thoughts, he reached the railroad station. The cars had not yet arrived, and would not for half an hour.
"Why should I give them a dollar for carrying me to Boston, when I can just as well walk? If I get tired, I can sit down and rest me. If I save the dollar, I shall have to earn only fifty-nine more to pay my note. So here goes;" and he started down the track.
Whether it was wise policy, or "penny wise and pound foolish" policy for Bobby to undertake such a long walk, is certainly a debatable question; but as my young readers would probably object to an argument, we will follow him to the city, and let every one settle the point to suit himself.
His cheerful heart made the road smooth beneath his feet. He had always been accustomed to an active, busy life, and had probably often walked more than twenty miles in a day. About ten o'clock, though he did not feel much fatigued, he seated himself on a rock by a brook from which he had just taken a drink, to rest himself. He had walked slowly so as to husband his strength; and he felt confident that he should be able to accomplish the journey without injury to himself.
After resting for half an hour, he resumed his walk. At twelve o'clock he reached a point from which he obtained his first view of the city. His heart bounded at the sight, and his first impulse was to increase his speed so that he should the sooner gratify his curiosity; but a second thought reminded him that he had eaten nothing since breakfast; so, finding a shady tree by the road side, he seated himself on a stone to eat the luncheon which his considerate mother had placed in his bundle.
Thus refreshed, he felt like a new man, and continued his journey again till he was on the very outskirts of the city, where a sign, "No passing over this bridge," interrupted his farther progress. Unlike many others, Bobby took this sign literally, and did not venture to cross the bridge. Having some doubts as to the direct road to the city, he hailed a man in a butcher's cart, who not only pointed the way, but gave him an invitation to ride with him, which Bobby was glad to accept.
They crossed the Milldam, and the little pilgrim forgot the long walk he had taken—forgot Riverdale, his mother, Squire Lee, and Annie, for the time, in the absorbing interest of the exciting scene. The Common beat Riverdale Common all hollow; he had never seen anything like it before. But when the wagon reached Washington Street, the measure of his surprise was filled up.
"My gracious! how thick the houses are!" exclaimed he, much to the amusement of the kind-hearted butcher.
"We have high fences here," he replied.
"Where are all these folks going to?"
"You will have to ask them, if you want to know."
But the wonder soon abated, and Bobby began to think of his great mission in the city. He got tired of gazing and wondering, and even began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they sauntered along, and the gayly dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle butterflies, on the sidewalk. It was an exciting scene; but it did not look real to him. It was more like Herr Grunderslung's exhibition of the magic lantern, than anything substantial. The men and women were like so many puppets. They did not seem to be doing anything, or to be walking for any purpose.
He got out of the butcher's cart at the Old South. His first impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of the puppets. He did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and for several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the spot.
"All right!" exclaimed he to himself at last. "I am here. Now's my time to make a strike. Now or never."
He pulled Mr. Bayard's card from his pocket, and fixed the number of his store in his mind. Now, numbers were not a Riverdale institution, and Bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one indicated. A little study into the matter, however, set him right, and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller's name over his store.
"F. Bayard," he read; "this is the place."
"Country!" shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the street at that moment.
"Just so, my beauty!" said Bobby, a little nettled at this imputation of verdancy.
"What a greeny!" shouted the little vagabond from the other side of the street.
"No matter, rag-tag! We'll settle that matter some other time."
But Bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop, he determined to correct it as soon as possible.
A spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a mischievous glance at him as he entered.
"Mr. Bayard keep here?" asked Bobby.
"Well, I reckon he does. How are all the folks up country?" replied the spruce clerk, with a rude grin.
"How are they?" repeated Bobby, the color flying to his cheek.
"Yes, ha-ow do they dew?"
"They behave themselves better than they do here."
"Eh, greeny?"
"Eh, sappy?" repeated Bobby, mimicking the soft, silky tones of the young city gentleman.
"What do you mean by sappy?" asked the clerk indignantly.
"What do you mean by greeny?"
"I'll let you know what I mean!"
"When you do, I'll let you know what I mean by sappy."
"Good!" exclaimed one of the salesmen, who had heard part of this spirited conversation. "You will learn better by and by, Timmins, than to impose upon boys from out of town."
"You seem to be a gentleman, sir," said Bobby, approaching the salesman. "I wish to see Mr. Bayard."
"You can't see him!" growled Timmins.
"Can't I?"
"Not at this minute; he is engaged just now," added the salesman, who seemed to have a profound respect for Bobby's discrimination. "He will be at liberty in a few moments."
"I will wait, then," said Bobby, seating himself on a stool by the counter.
Pretty soon the civil gentleman left the store to go to dinner, and Timmins, a little timid about provoking the young lion, cast an occasional glance of hatred at him. He had evidently found that "Country" was an embryo American citizen, and that he was a firm believer in the self-evident truths of the Declaration of Independence.
Bobby bore no ill will towards the spruce clerk, ready as he had been to defend his "certain inalienable rights."
"You do a big business here," suggested Bobby, in a conciliatory tone, and with a smile on his face which ought to have convinced the uncourteous clerk that he meant well.
"Who told you so?" replied Timmins, gruffly.
"I merely judged from appearances. You have a big store, and an immense quantity of books."
"Appearances are deceitful," replied Timmins; and perhaps he had been impressed by the fact from his experience with the lad from the country.
"That is true," added Bobby, with a good-natured smile, which, when interpreted, might have meant, "I took you for a civil fellow, but I have been very much mistaken."
"You will find it out before you are many days older."
"The book business is good just now, isn't it?" continued Bobby, without clearly comprehending the meaning of the other's last remark.
"Humph! What's that to you?"
"O, I intend to go into it myself."
"Ha, ha, ha! Good! You do?"
"I do," replied Bobby, seemingly unconcerned at the taunts of the clerk.
"I suppose you want to get a place here," sneered Timmins, alarmed at the prospect. "But let me tell you, you can't do it. Bayard has all the help he wants; and if that is what you come for, you can move on as fast as you please."
"I guess I will see him," added Bobby, quietly.
"No use."
"No harm in seeing him."
As he spoke he took up a book that lay on the counter, and began to turn over the leaves.
"Put that book down!" said the amiable Mr. Timmins.
"I won't hurt it," replied Bobby, who had just fixed his eye upon some very pretty engravings in the volume.
"Put it down!" repeated Mr. Timmins, in a loud, imperative tone.
"Certainly I will, if you say so," said Bobby, who, though not much intimidated by the harsh tones of the clerk, did not know the rules of the store, and deemed it prudent not to meddle.
"Idosay so!" added Mr. Timmins, magnificently; "and what's more, you'd better mind me, too."
Bobby had minded, and probably the stately little clerk would not have been so bold if he had not. Some people like to threaten after the danger is over.
Then our visitor from the country espied some little blank books lying on the counter. He had already made up his mind to have one, in which to keep his accounts; and he thought, while he was waiting, that he would purchase one. He meant to do things methodically; so when he picked up one of the blank books, it was with the intention of buying it.
"Put that book down!" said Mr. Timmins, encouraged in his aggressive intentions by the previous docility of our hero.
"I want to buy one."
"No, you don't; put it down."
"What is the price of these?" asked Bobby, resolutely.
"None of your business!"
"Is that the way you treat your customers?" asked Bobby, with a little sternness in his looks and tones. "I say I want to buy one."
"Put it down."
"But I will not; I say I want to buy it."
"No, you don't!"
"What is the price of it?"
"Twenty-five cents," growled Timmins, which was just four times the retail price.
"Twenty-five cents! That's high."
"Put it down, then."
"Is that your lowest price?" asked Bobby, who was as cool as a cucumber.
"Yes, it is; and if you don't put it down, I'll kick you out of the store."
"Will you? Then I won't put it down."
Mr. Timmins took this as a "stump;" his ire was up, and he walked round from behind the counter to execute his threat.
I must say I think Bobby was a little forward, and I would have my young readers a little more pliant with small men like Timmins. There are always men enough in the world who are ready and willing to quarrel on any provocation; and it is always best not to provoke them, even if they are overbearing and insolent, as Mr. Timmins certainly was.
"Hold on a minute before you do it," said Bobby, with the same provoking coolness. "I want to buy this book, and I am willing to pay a fair price for it. But I happen to know that you can buy them up in Riverdale, where I came from, for six cents."
"No matter," exclaimed the indignant clerk, seizing Bobby by the coat collar for the purpose of ejecting him; "you shall find your way into the street."
Now Bobby, as I have before intimated, was an embryo American citizen, and the act of Mr. Timmins seemed like an invasion of his inalienable rights. No time was given him to make a formal declaration of rights in the premises; so the instinct of self-preservation was allowed to have free course.
Mr. Timmins pulled and tugged at his coat collar, and Bobby hung back like a mule; and for an instant there was quite a spirited scene.
"Hallo! Timmins, what does this mean?" said a voice, at which the valiant little clerk instantly let go his hold.