"Now tell me, Bobby, how you have made out," said Mrs. Bright, as the little merchant seated himself at the supper table. "You cannot have done much, for you have only been gone five days."
"I have done pretty well, mother," replied Bobby, mysteriously; "pretty well, considering that I am only a boy."
"I didn't expect to see you till to-morrow night."
"I sold out, and had to come home."
"That may be, and still you may not have done much."
"I don't pretend that I have done much."
"How provoking you are! Why don't you tell me, Bobby, what you have done?"
"Wait a minute, mother, till I have done my supper, and then I will show you the footings in my ledger."
"Your ledger!"
"Yes, my ledger. I keep a ledger now."
"You are a great man, Mr. Robert Bright," laughed his mother. "I suppose the people took their hats off when they saw you coming."
"Not exactly, mother."
"Perhaps the governor came out to meet you when he heard you were on the road."
"Perhaps he did; I didn't see him, however. This apple pie tastes natural, mother. It is a great luxury to get home after one has been travelling."
"Very likely."
"No place like home, after all is done and said. Who was the fellow that wrote that song, mother?"
"I forget; the paper said he spent a great many years in foreign parts. My sake! Bobby, one would think by your talk that you had been away from home for a year."
"It seems like a year," said he, as he transferred another quarter of the famous apple pie to his plate. "I miss home very much. I don't more than half like being among strangers so much."
"It is your own choice; no one wants you to go away from home."
"I must pay my debts, anyhow. Don't I owe Squire Lee sixty dollars?"
"But I can pay that."
"It is my affair, you see."
"If it is your affair, then I owe you sixty dollars."
"No, you don't; I calculate to pay my board now. I am old enough and big enough to do something."
"You have done something ever since you were old enough to work."
"Not much; I don't wonder that miserable old hunker of a Hardhand twitted me about it. By the way, have you heard anything from him?"
"Not a thing."
"He has got enough of us, I reckon."
"You mustn't insult him, Bobby, if you happen to see him."
"Never fear me."
"You know the Bible says we must love our enemies, and pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us."
"I should pray that the Old Nick might get him."
"No, Bobby; I hope you haven't forgot all your Sunday school lessons."
"I was wrong, mother," replied Bobby, a little moved. "I did not mean so. I shall try to think as well of him as I can; but I can't help thinking, if all the world was like him, what a desperate hard time we should have of it."
"We must thank the Lord that he has given us so many good and true men."
"Such as Squire Lee, for instance," added Bobby, as he rose from the table and put his chair back against the wall. "The squire is fit to be a king; and though I believe in the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, I wouldn't mind seeing a crown upon his head."
"He will receive his crown in due time," replied Mrs. Bright, piously.
"The squire?"
"The crown of rejoicing, I mean."
"Just so; the squire is a nice man; and I know another just like him."
"Who?"
"Mr. Bayard; they are as near alike as two peas."
"I am dying to know about your journey."
"Wait a minute, mother, till we clear away the supper things;" and Bobby took hold, as he had been accustomed, to help remove and wash the dishes.
"You needn't help now, Bobby."
"Yes, I will, mother."
Somehow our hero's visit to the city did not seem to produce the usual effect upon him; for a great many boys, after they had been abroad, would have scorned to wash dishes and wipe them. A week in town has made many a boy so smart that you couldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. It starches them up so stiff that sometimes they don't know their own mothers, and deem it a piece of condescension to speak a word to the patriarch in a blue frock who had the honor of supporting them in childhood.
Bobby was none of this sort. We lament that he had a habit of talking big, that is, of talking about business affairs in a style a little beyond his years. But he was modest to a fault, paradoxical as it may seem. He was always blushing when anybody spoke a pretty thing about him. Probably the circumstances of his position elevated him above the sphere of the mere boy; he had spent but little time in play, and his attention had been directed at all times to the wants of his mother. He had thought a great deal about business, especially since the visit of the boy who sold books to the little black house.
Some boys are born merchants, and from their earliest youth have a genius for trade. They think of little else. They "play shop" before they wear jackets, and drive a barter trade in jackknives, whistles, tops, and fishing lines long before they get into their teens. They are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste for commerce before they are old enough to know the meaning of the word.
We saw a boy in school, not long since, give the value of eighteen cents for a little stunted quince; boys have a taste for raw quinces, strange as it may seem. Undoubtedly he had no talent for trade, and would make a very indifferent tin pedler. Our hero was shrewd. He always got the best end of the bargain; though, I am happy to say, his integrity was too unyielding to let him cheat his fellows.
We have made this digression so that my young readers may know why Bobby was so much given to big talk. The desire to do something worthy of a good son turned his attention to matters above his sphere; and thinking of great things, he had come to talk great things. It was not a bad fault, after all. Boys need not necessarily be frivolous. Play is a good thing, an excellent thing, in its place, and is as much a part of the boy's education as his grammar and arithmetic. It not only develops his muscles, but enlarges his mental capacity; it not only fills with excitement the idle hours of the long day, but it sharpens the judgment, and helps to fit the boy for the active duties of life.
It need not be supposed, because Bobby had to turn his attention to serious things, that he was not fond of fun; that he could not or did not play. At a game of round ball, he was a lucky fellow who secured him upon his side; for the same energy which made him a useful son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult game.
When the supper things were all removed, the dishes washed and put away, Bobby drew out his pocket memorandum book. It was a beautiful article, and Mrs. Bright was duly astonished at its gilded leaves and the elegant workmanship. Very likely her first impulse was to reprove her son for such a piece of reckless extravagance; but this matter was set right by Bobby's informing her how it came into his possession.
"Here is my ledger, mother," he said, handing her the book.
Mrs. Bright put on her spectacles, and after bestowing a careful scrutiny upon the memorandum book, turned to the accounts.
"Fifty books!" she exclaimed, as she read the first entry.
"Yes, mother; and I sold them all."
"Fifty dollars!"
"But I had to pay for the books out of that."
"To be sure you had; but I suppose you made as much as ten cents apiece on them, and that would be—let me see; ten times fifty——"
"But I made more than that, I hope."
"How much?"
The proud young merchant referred her to the profit and loss account, which exhibited a balance of fifteen dollars.
"Gracious! Three dollars a day!"
"Just so, mother. Now I will pay you the dollar I borrowed of you when I went away."
"You didn't borrow it of me."
"But I shall pay it."
Mrs. Bright was astonished at this unexpected and gratifying result. If she had discovered a gold mine in the cellar of the little black house, it could not have afforded her so much satisfaction; for this money was the reward of her son's talent and energy. Her own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more than three or four dollars a week, and Bobby, a boy of thirteen, had come home with fifteen for five days' work. She could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses, and she ceased to wonder that he talked big.
It was nearly ten o'clock when the widow and her son went to bed, so deeply were they interested in discussing our hero's affairs. He had intended to call upon Squire Lee that night, but the time passed away so rapidly that he was obliged to defer it till the next day.
After breakfast the following morning, he hastened to pay the intended visit. There was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom as he knocked at the squire's door. He was proud of the success he had achieved, and even then his cheek burned under the anticipated commendations which his generous friend would bestow upon him. Besides, Annie would be glad to see him, for she had expressed such a desire when they parted on the Monday preceding. I don't think that Bobby cherished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely upon his warm heart. In coming from the house he had placed his copy of "The Wayfarer" under his arm, for Annie was fond of reading; and on the way over, he had pictured to himself the pleasure she would derive from readinghisbook.
Of course he received a warm welcome from the squire and his daughter. Each of them had bestowed more than a thought upon the little wanderer as he went from house to house, and more than once they had conversed together about him.
"Well, Bobby, how is trade in the book line?" asked the squire, after the young pilgrim had been cordially greeted.
"Pretty fair," replied Bobby, with as much indifference as he could command, though it was hard even to seem indifferent then and there.
"Where have you been travelling?"
"In B——."
"Fine place. Books sell well there?"
"Very well; in fact, I sold out all my stock by noon yesterday."
"How many books did you carry?"
"Fifty."
"You did well."
"I should think you did!" added Annie, with an enthusiasm which quite upset all Bobby's assumed indifference. "Fifty books!"
"Yes, Miss Annie; and I have brought you a copy of the book I have been selling; I thought you would like to read it. It is a splendid work, and will bethebook of the season."
"I shall be delighted to read it," replied Annie, taking the proffered volume. "It looks real good," she continued, as she turned over the leaves.
"It is first rate; I have read it through."
"It was very kind of you to think of me when you have so much business on your mind," added she, with a roguish smile.
"I shall never have so much business on my mind that I cannot think of my friends," replied Bobby, so gallantly and so smartly that it astonished himself.
"I was just thinking what I should read next; I amsoglad you have come."
"Never mind her, Bobby; all she wanted was the book," interposed Squire Lee, laughing.
"Now, pa!"
"Then I shall bring her one very often."
"You are too bad, pa," said Annie, who, like most young ladies just entering their teens, resented any imputation upon the immaculateness of human love, or human friendship.
"I have got a little money for you, Squire Lee," continued Bobby, thinking it time the subject was changed.
He took out his gilded memorandum book, whose elegant appearance rather startled the squire, and from its "treasury department" extracted the little roll of bills, representing an aggregate of ten dollars, which he had carefully reserved for his creditor.
"Never mind that, Bobby," replied the squire. "You will want all your capital to do business with."
"I must pay my debts before I think of anything else."
"A very good plan, Bobby, but this is an exception to the general rule."
"No, sir, I think not. If you please, I insist upon paying you ten dollars on my note."
"O, well, if you insist, I suppose I can't help myself."
"I would rather pay it, I shall feel so much better."
"You want to indorse it on the note, I suppose."
That was just what Bobby wanted. Indorsed on the note was the idea, and our hero had often passed that expression through his mind. There was something gratifying in the act to a man of business integrity like himself; it was discharging a sacred obligation,—he had already come to deem it a sacred duty to pay one's debts,—and as the squire wrote the indorsement across the back of the note, he felt more like a hero than ever before.
"'Pay as you go' is an excellent idea; John Randolph called it the philosopher's stone," added Squire Lee, as he returned the note to his pocket book.
"That is what I mean to do just as soon as I can."
"You will do, Bobby."
The young merchant spent nearly the whole forenoon at the squire's, and declined an invitation to dinner only on the plea that his mother would wait for him.
After dinner Bobby performed his Saturday afternoon chores as usual. He split wood enough to last for a week, so that his mother might not miss him too much, and then, feeling a desire to visit his favorite resorts in the vicinity, he concluded to go a fishing. The day was favorable, the sky being overcast and the wind very light. After digging a little box of worms in the garden back of the house, he shouldered his fish pole; and certainly no one would have suspected that he was a distinguished travelling merchant. He was fond of fishing, and it is a remarkable coincidence that Daniel Webster, and many other famous men, have manifested a decided passion for this exciting sport. No doubt a fondness for angling is a peculiarity of genius; and if being an expert fisherman makes a great man, then our hero was a great man.
He had scarcely seated himself on his favorite rock, and dropped his line into the water, before he saw Tom Spicer approaching the spot. The bully had never been a welcome companion. There was no sympathy between them. They could never agree, for their views, opinions, and tastes were always conflicting.
Bobby had not seen Tom since he left him to crawl out of the ditch on the preceding week, and he had good reason to believe that he should not be regarded with much favor. Tom was malicious and revengeful, and our hero was satisfied that the blow which had prostrated him in the ditch would not be forgotten till it had been atoned for. He was prepared, therefore, for any disagreeable scene which might occur.
There was another circumstance also which rendered the bully's presence decidedly unpleasant at this time,—an event that had occurred during his absence, the particulars of which he had received from his mother.
Tom's father, who was a poor man, and addicted to intemperance, had lost ten dollars. He had brought it home, and, as he affirmed, placed it in one of the bureau drawers. The next day it could not be found. Spicer, for some reason, was satisfied that Tom had taken it; but the boy stoutly and persistently denied it. No money was found upon him, however, and it did not appear that he had spent any at the stores in Riverdale Centre.
The affair created some excitement in the vicinity, for Spicer made no secret of his suspicions, and publicly accused Tom of the theft. He did not get much sympathy from any except his pot companions; for there was no evidence but his bare and unsupported statement to substantiate the grave accusation. Tom had been in the room when the money was placed in the drawer, and, as his father asserted, had watched him closely, while he deposited the bills under the clothing. No one else could have taken it. These were the proofs. But people generally believed that Spicer had carried no money home, especially as it was known that he was intoxicated on the night in question; and that the alleged theft was only a ruse to satisfy certain importunate creditors.
Everybody knew that Tom was bad enough to steal, even from his father; from which my readers can understand that it is an excellent thing to have a good reputation. Bobby knew that he would lie and use profane language; that he spent his Sundays by the river, or in roaming through the woods; and that he played truant from school as often as the fear of the rod would permit; and the boy that would do all these things certainly would steal if he got a good chance. Our hero's judgment, therefore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, and he would have thanked him to stay away from the river while he was there.
"Hallo, Bob! How are you?" shouted Tom, when he had come within hailing distance.
"Very well," replied Bobby, rather coolly.
"Been to Boston, they say."
"Yes."
"Well, how did you like it?" continued Tom, as he seated himself on the rock near our hero.
"First rate."
"Been to work there?"
"No."
"What have you been doing?"
"Travelling about."
"What doing?"
"Selling books."
"Was you, though? Did you sell any?"
"Yes, a few."
"How many?"
"O, about fifty."
"You didn't, though—did you? How much did you make?"
"About fifteen dollars."
"By jolly! You are a smart one, Bobby. There are not many fellows that would have done that."
"Easy enough," replied Bobby, who was not a little surprised at this warm commendation from one whom he regarded as his enemy.
"You had to buy the books first—didn't you?" asked Tom, who began to manifest a deep interest in the trade.
"Of course; no one will give you the books."
"What do you pay for them?"
"I buy them so as to make a profit on them," answered Bobby, who, like a discreet merchant, was not disposed to be too communicative.
"That business would suit me first rate."
"It is pretty hard work."
"I don't care for that. Don't you believe I could do something in this line?"
"I don't know; perhaps you could."
"Why not, as well as you?"
This was a hard question; and, as Bobby did not wish to be uncivil, he talked about a big pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of answering it. He was politic, and deprecated the anger of the bully; so, though Tom plied him pretty hard, he did not receive much satisfaction.
"You see, Tom," said he, when he found that his companion insisted upon knowing the cost of the books, "this is a publisher's secret; and I dare say they would not wish every one to know the cost of books. We sell them for a dollar apiece."
"Humph! You needn't be so close about it. I'll bet I can find out."
"I have no doubt you can; only, you see, I don't want to tell what I am not sure they would be willing I should tell."
Tom took a slate pencil from his pocket, and commenced ciphering on the smooth rock upon which he sat.
"You say you sold fifty books?"
"Yes."
"Well; if you made fifteen dollars out of fifty, that is thirty cents apiece."
Bobby was a little mortified when he perceived that he had unwittingly exposed the momentous secret. He had not given Tom credit for so much sagacity as he had displayed in his inquiries; and as he had fairly reached his conclusion, he was willing he should have the benefit of it.
"You sold them at a dollar apiece. Thirty from a hundred leaves seventy. They cost you seventy cents each—didn't they?"
"Sixty-seven," replied Bobby, yielding the point.
"Enough said, Bob; I am going into that business, anyhow."
"I am willing."
"Of course you are; suppose we go together," suggested Tom, who had not used all this conciliation without having a purpose in view.
"We could do nothing together."
"I should like to get out with you just once, only to see how it is done."
"You can find out for yourself, as I did."
"Don't be mean, Bob."
"Mean? I am not mean."
"I don't say you are. We have always been good friends, you know."
Bobby did not know it; so he looked at the other with a smile which expressed all he meant to say.
"You hit me a smart dig the other day, I know; but I don't mind that. I was in the wrong then, and I am willing to own it," continued Tom, with an appearance of humility.
This was an immense concession for Tom to make, and Bobby was duly affected by it. Probably it was the first time the bully had ever owned he was in the wrong.
"The fact is, Bob, I always liked you; and you know I licked Ben Dowse for you."
"That was two for yourself and one for me; besides, I didn't want Ben thrashed."
"But he deserved it. Didn't he tell the master you were whispering in school?"
"I was whispering; so he told the truth."
"It was mean to blow on a fellow, though."
"The master asked him if I whispered to him; of course he ought not to lie about it. But he told of you at the same time."
"I know it; but I wouldn't have licked him on my own account."
"Perhapsyou wouldn't."
"I know I wouldn't. But, I say, Bobby, where do you buy your books?"
"At Mr. Bayard's, in Washington Street."
"He will sell them to me at the same price—won't he?"
"I don't know."
"When are you going again?"
"Monday."
"Won't you let me go with you, Bob?"
"Let you? Of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business."
Bobby did not like the idea of having such a copartner as Tom Spicer, and he did not like to tell him so. If he did, he would have to give his reasons for declining the proposition, and that would make Tom mad, and perhaps provoke him to quarrel.
The fish bit well, and in an hour's time Bobby had a mess. As he took his basket and walked home, the young ruffian followed him. He could not get rid of him till he reached the gate in front of the little black house; and even there Tom begged him to stop a few moments. Our hero was in a hurry, and in the easiest manner possible got rid of this aspirant for mercantile honors.
We have no doubt a journal of Bobby's daily life would be very interesting to our young readers; but the fact that some of his most stirring adventures are yet to be related admonishes us to hasten forward more rapidly.
On Monday morning Bobby bade adieu to his mother again, and started for Boston. He fully expected to encounter Tom on the way, who, he was afraid, would persist in accompanying him on his tour. As before, he stopped at Squire Lee's to bid him and Annie good by.
The little maiden had read "The Wayfarer" more than half through, and was very enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure she derived from it. She promised to send it over to his house when she had finished it, and hoped he would bring his stock to Riverdale, so that she might again replenish her library. Bobby thought of something just then, and the thought brought forth a harvest on the following Saturday, when he returned.
When he had shaken hands with the squire and was about to depart, he received a piece of news which gave him food for an hour's serious reflection.
"Did you hear about Tom Spicer?" asked Squire Lee.
"No, sir; what about him?"
"Broken his arm."
"Broken his arm! Gracious! How did it happen?" exclaimed Bobby, the more astonished because he had been thinking of Tom since he had left home.
"He was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on Sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird's nest, he fell to the ground."
"I am sorry for him," replied Bobby, musing.
"So am I; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should have been, it would not have happened. If I had any boys, I would lock them up in their chambers if I could not keep them at home Sundays."
"Poor Tom!" mused Bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with him on Saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more pliant with him.
"It is too bad; but I must say I am more sorry for his poor mother than I am for him," added the squire. "However, I hope it will do him good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives."
Bobby bade the squire and Annie adieu again, resumed his journey towards the railroad station. His thoughts were busy with Tom Spicer's case. The reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared he would, was now apparent. He pitied him, for he realized that he must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he finally dismissed the matter with the squire's sage reflection, that he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him.
The young merchant did not walk to Boston this time, for he had come to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and the expense of shoe leather.
Before noon he was at B—— again, as busy as ever in driving his business. The experience of the former week was of great value to him. He visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not conscious in a single instance of offending any person's sense of propriety.
He was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was Saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with him. The net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he was abundantly pleased.
Mr. Bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and promptness. Mr. Timmins was even more civil than the last time, and when Bobby asked the price of Moore's Poems, he actually offered to sell it to him for thirty-three per cent less than the retail price. The little merchant was on the point of purchasing it, when Mr. Bayard inquired what he wanted.
"I am going to buy this book," replied Bobby.
"Moore's Poems?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Bayard took from a glass case an elegantly bound copy of the same work—morocco, full gilt—and handed it to our hero.
"I shall make you a present of this. Are you an admirer of Moore?"
"No, sir; not exactly—that is, I don't know much about it; but Annie Lee does, and I want to get the book for her."
Bobby's cheeks reddened as he turned the leaves of the beautiful volume, putting his head down to the page to hide his confusion.
"Annie Lee?" said Mr. Bayard with a quizzing smile. "I see how it is. Rather young, Bobby."
"Her father has been very good to me and to my mother; and so has Annie, for that matter. Squire Lee would be a great deal more pleased if I should make Annie a present than if I made him one. I feel grateful to him, and I want to let it out somehow."
"That's right, Bobby; always remember your friends. Timmins, wrap up this book."
Bobby protested with all his might; but the bookseller insisted that he should give Annie this beautiful edition, and he was obliged to yield the point.
That evening he was at the little black house again, and his mother examined his ledger with a great deal of pride and satisfaction. That evening, too, another ten dollars was indorsed on the note, and Annie received that elegant copy of Moore's Poems.
During the next four weeks Bobby visited various places in the vicinity of Boston; and at the end of that time he had paid the whole of the debt he owed Squire Lee. He had the note in his memorandum book, and the fact that he had achieved his first great purpose afforded him much satisfaction. Now he owed no man anything, and he felt as though he could hold up his head among the best people in the world.
The little black house was paid for, and Bobby was proud that his own exertions had released his mother from her obligation to her hard creditor. Mr. Hardhand could no longer insult and abuse her.
The apparent results which Bobby had accomplished, however, were as nothing compared with the real results. He had developed those energies of character which were to make him, not only a great business man, but a useful member of society. Besides, there was a moral grandeur in his humble achievements which was more worthy of consideration than the mere worldly success he had obtained. Motives determine the character of deeds. That a boy of thirteen should display so much enterprise and energy was a great thing; but that it should be displayed from pure, unselfish devotion to his mother was a vastly greater thing. Many great achievements are morally insignificant, while many of which the world never hears mark the true hero.
Our hero was not satisfied with what he had done, and far from relinquishing his interesting and profitable employment, his ambition suggested new and wider fields of success. As one ideal, brilliant and glorious in its time, was reached, another more brilliant and more glorious presented itself, and demanded to be achieved. The little black house began to appear rusty and inconvenient; a coat of white paint would marvellously improve its appearance; a set of nice Paris-green blinds would make a palace of it; and a neat fence around it would positively transform the place into a paradise. Yet Bobby was audacious enough to think of these things, and even to promise himself that they should be obtained.
In conversation with Mr. Bayard a few days before, that gentleman had suggested a new field of labor; and it had been arranged that Bobby should visit the State of Maine the following week. On the banks of the Kennebec were many wealthy and important towns, where the intelligence of the people created a demand for books. This time the little merchant was to take two hundred books, and be absent until they were all sold.
On Monday morning he started bright and early for the railroad station. As usual, he called upon Squire Lee, and informed Annie that he should probably be absent three or four weeks. She hoped no accident would happen to him, and that his journey would be crowned with success. Without being sentimental, she was a little sad, for Bobby was a great friend of hers. That elegant copy of Moore's Poems had been gratefully received, and she was so fond of the bard's beautiful and touching melodies that she could never read any of them without thinking of the brave little fellow who had given her the volume; which no one will consider very remarkable, even in a little miss of twelve.
After he had bidden her and her father adieu, he resumed his journey. Of course he was thinking with all his might; but no one need suppose he was wondering how wide the Kennebec River was, or how many books he should sell in the towns upon its banks. Nothing of the kind; though it is enough even for the inquisitive to know that he was thinking of something, and that his thoughts were very interesting, not to say romantic.
"Hallo, Bob!" shouted some one from the road side.
Bobby was provoked; for it is sometimes very uncomfortable to have a pleasant train of thought interrupted. The imagination is buoyant, ethereal, and elevates poor mortals up to the stars sometimes. It was so with Bobby. He was building up some kind of an air castle, and had got up in the clouds amidst the fog and moonshine, and that aggravating voice brought him down,slap, upon terra firma.
He looked up and saw Tom Spicer seated upon the fence. In his hand he held a bundle, and had evidently been waiting some time for Bobby's coming.
He had recovered from the illness caused by his broken arm, and people said it had been a good lesson for him, as the squire hoped it would be. Bobby had called upon him two or three times during his confinement to the house; and Tom, either truly repentant for his past errors, or lacking the opportunity at that time to manifest his evil propensities, had stoutly protested that he had "turned over a new leaf," and meant to keep out of the woods on Sunday, stop lying and swearing, and become a good boy.
Bobby commended his good resolutions, and told him he would never want friends while he was true to himself. The right side, he declared, was always the best side. He quoted several instances of men, whose lives he had read in his Sunday school books, to show how happy a good man may be in prison, or when all the world seemed to forsake him.
Tom assured him that he meant to reform and be a good boy; and Bobby told him that when any one meant to turn over a new leaf, it was "now or never." If he put it off, he would only grow worse, and the longer the good work was delayed, the more difficult it would be to do it. Tom agreed to all this, and was sure he had reformed.
For these reasons Bobby had come to regard Tom with a feeling of deep interest. He considered him as, in some measure, his disciple, and he felt a personal responsibility in encouraging him to persevere in his good work. Nevertheless Bobby was not exactly pleased to have his fine air castle upset, and to be tipped out of the clouds upon the cold, uncompromising earth again; so the first greeting he gave Tom was not as cordial as it might have been.
"Hallo, Tom!" he replied, rather coolly.
"Been waiting for you this half hour."
"Have you?"
"Yes; ain't you rather late?"
"No; I have plenty of time, though none to spare," answered Bobby; and this was a hint that he must not detain him too long.
"Come along then."
"Where are you going, Tom?" asked Bobby, a little surprised at these words.
"To Boston."
"Are you?"
"I am; that's a fact. You know I spoke to you about going into the book business."
"Not lately."
"But I have been thinking about it all the time."
"What do your father and mother say?"
"O, they are all right."
"Have you asked them?"
"Certainly I have; they are willing I should go withyou."
"Why didn't you speak of it then?"
"I thought I wouldn't say anything till the time came. You know you fought shy when I spoke about it before."
And Bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his companion, was a little disposed to "fight shy" now. Tom had reformed, or had pretended to do so; but he was still a raw recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful that he would run at the first fire.
To the good and true man life is a constant battle. Temptation assails him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called upon to gird on his armor and fight the good fight.
Bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. It was a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude of a battle. There was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion. He was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtilties.
Judging Tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run—that he wouldn't "stand fire." He had not been drilled. Heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun. To go out into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit. He lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than numbers on the field of battle.
Tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. He had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might.
"March on! in legions death and sinImpatient wait thy conquering hand;The foe without, the foe within—Thy youthful arm must both withstand."
"March on! in legions death and sinImpatient wait thy conquering hand;The foe without, the foe within—Thy youthful arm must both withstand."
"March on! in legions death and sin
Impatient wait thy conquering hand;
The foe without, the foe within—
Thy youthful arm must both withstand."
Bobby had great hopes of him. He felt that he could not well get rid of him, and he saw that it was policy for him to make the best of it.
"Well, Tom, where are you going?" asked Bobby, after he had made up his mind not to object to the companionship of the other.
"I don't know. You have been a good friend to me lately, and I had an idea that you would give me a lift in this business."
"I should be very willing to do so; but what can I do for you?"
"Just show me how the business is done; that's all I want."
"Your father and mother were willing you should come—were they not?"
Bobby had some doubts about this point, and with good reason too. He had called at Tom's house the day before, and they had gone to church together; but neither he nor his parents had said a word about his going to Boston.
"When did they agree to it?"
"Last night," replied Tom, after a moment's hesitation.
"All right then; but I cannot promise you that Mr. Bayard will let you have the books."
"I can fix that, I reckon," replied Tom, confidently.
"I will speak a good word for you, at any rate."
"That's right, Bob."
"I am going down into the State of Maine this time, and shall be gone three or four weeks."
"So much the better; I always wanted to go down that way."
Tom asked a great many questions about the business and the method of travelling, which Bobby's superior intelligence and more extensive experience enabled him to answer to the entire satisfaction of the other.
When they were within half a mile of the railroad station, they heard a carriage driven at a rapid rate approaching them from the direction of Riverdale.
Tom seemed to be uneasy, and cast frequent glances behind him. In a moment the vehicle was within a short distance of them, and he stopped short in the road to scrutinize the persons in it.
"By jolly!" exclaimed Tom; "my father!"
"What of it?" asked Bobby, surprised by the strange behavior of his companion.
Tom did not wait to reply, but springing over the fence fled like a deer towards some woods a short distance from the road.
Was it possible? Tom had run away from home. His father had not consented to his going to Boston, and Bobby was mortified to find that his hopeful disciple had been lying to him ever since they left Riverdale. But he was glad the cheat had been exposed.
"That was Tom with you—wasn't it?" asked Mr. Spicer, as he stopped the foaming horse.
"Yes, sir; but he told me you had consented that he should go with me," replied Bobby, a little disturbed by the angry glance of Mr. Spicer's fiery eyes.
"He lied! the young villain! He will catch it for this."
"I would not have let him come with me only for that. I asked him twice over if you were willing, and he said you were."
"You ought to have known better than to believe him," interposed the man who was with Mr. Spicer.
Bobby had some reason for believing him. The fact that Tom had reformed ought to have entitled him to some consideration, and our hero gave him the full benefit of the declaration. To have explained this would have taken more time than he could spare; besides, it was "a great moral question," whose importance Mr. Spicer and his companion would not be likely to apprehend; so he made a short story of it, and resumed his walk, thankful that he had got rid of Tom.
Mr. Spicer and his friend, after fastening the horse to the fence, went to the woods in search of Tom.
Bobby reached the station just in time to take the cars, and in a moment was on his way to the city.