Bobby had a poorer opinion of human nature than ever before. It seemed almost incredible to him that words so fairly spoken as those of Tom Spicer could be false. He had just risen from a sick bed, where he had had an opportunity for long and serious reflection. Tom had promised fairly, and Bobby had every reason to suppose he intended to be a good boy. But his promises had been lies. He had never intended to reform, at least not since he had got off his bed of pain. He was mortified and disheartened at the failure of this attempt to restore him to himself.
Like a great many older and wiser persons than himself, he was prone to judge the whole human family by a single individual. He did not come to believe that every man was a rascal, but, in more general terms, that there is a great deal more rascality in this world than one would be willing to believe.
With this sage reflection, he dismissed Tom from his mind, which very naturally turned again to the air castle which had been so ruthlessly upset. Then his opinion of "the rest of mankind" was reversed; and he reflected that if the world were only peopled by angels like Annie Lee, what a pleasant place it would be to live in. She could not tell a lie, she could not use bad language, she could not steal, or do anything else that was bad; and the prospect was decidedly pleasant. It was very agreeable to turn from Tom to Annie, and in a moment his air castle was built again, and throned on clouds of gold and purple. I do not know what impossible things he imagined, or how far up in the clouds he would have gone, if the arrival of the train at the city had not interrupted his thoughts, and pitched him down upon the earth again.
Bobby was not one of that impracticable class of persons who do nothing but dream; for he felt that he had a mission to perform which dreaming could not accomplish. However pleasant it may be to think of the great and brilliant things which onewilldo, to one of Bobby's practical character it was even more pleasant to perform them. We all dream great things, imagine great things; but he who stops there does not amount to much, and the world can well spare him, for he is nothing but a drone in the hive. Bobby's fine imaginings were pretty sure to bring out a "now or never," which was the pledge of action, and the work was as good as done when he had said it.
Therefore, when the train arrived, Bobby did not stop to dream any longer. He forgot his beautiful air castle, and even let Annie Lee slip from his mind for the time being. Those towns upon the Kennebec, the two hundred books he was to sell, loomed up before him, for it was with them he had to do.
Grasping the little valise he carried with him, he was hastening out of the station house when a hand was placed upon his shoulder.
"Got off slick—didn't I?" said Tom Spicer, placing himself by Bobby's side.
"You here, Tom!" exclaimed our hero, gazing with astonishment at his late companion.
It was not an agreeable encounter, and from the bottom of his heart Bobby wished him anywhere but where he was. He foresaw that he could not easily get rid of him.
"I am here," replied Tom. "I ran through the woods to the depot, and got aboard the cars just as they were starting. The old man couldn't come it over me quite so slick as that."
"But you ran away from home."
"Well, what of it?"
"A good deal, I should say."
"If you had been in my place, you would have done the same."
"I don't know about that; obedience to parents is one of our first duties."
"I know that; and if I had had any sort of fair play, I wouldn't have run away."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Bobby, somewhat surprised, though he had a faint idea of the meaning of the other.
"I will tell you all about it by and by. I give you my word of honor that I will make everything satisfactory to you."
"But you lied to me on the road this morning."
Tom winced; under ordinary circumstances he would have resented such a remark by "clearing away" for a fight. But he had a purpose to accomplish, and he knew the character of him with whom he had to deal.
"I'm sorry I did, now," answered Tom, with every manifestation of penitence for his fault. "I didn't want to lie to you; and it went against my conscience to do so. But I was afraid, if I told you my father refused, up and down, to let me go, that you wouldn't be willing I should come with you."
"I shall not be any more willing now I know all about it," added Bobby, in an uncompromising tone.
"Wait till you have heard my story, and then you won't blame me."
"Of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business; but let me tell you, Tom, in the beginning, that I won't go with a fellow who has run away from his father and mother."
"Pooh! What's the use of talking in that way?"
Tom was evidently disconcerted by this decided stand of his companion. He knew that his bump of firmness was well developed, and whatever he said he meant.
"You had better return home, Tom. Boys that run away from home don't often amount to much. Take my advice, and go home," added Bobby.
"To such a home as mine!" said Tom, gloomily. "If I had such a home as yours, I would not have left it."
Bobby got a further idea from this remark of the true state of the case, and the consideration moved him. Tom's father was a notoriously intemperate man, and the boy had nothing to hope for from his precept or his example. He was the child of a drunkard, and as much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. His home was not pleasant. He who presided over it, and who should have made a paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed.
Tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since his recovery. His one great desire now was to get away from home, for home to him was a place of torment. Bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart he pitied his companion. He did not know what to do.
"I am sorry for you, Tom," said he, after he had considered the matter in this new light; "but I don't see what I can do for you. I doubt whether it would be right for me to help you run away from your parents."
"I don't want you to help me run away. I have done that already."
"But if I let you go with me, it will be just the same thing. Besides, since you told me those lies this morning, I haven't much confidence in you."
"I couldn't help that."
"Yes, you could. Couldn't help lying?"
"What could I do? You would have gone right back and told my father."
"Well, we will go up to Mr. Bayard's store, and then we will see what can be done."
"I couldn't stay at home, sure," continued Tom, as they walked along together. "My father even talked of binding me out to a trade."
"Did he?"
Bobby stopped short in the street; for it was evident that, as this would remove him from his unhappy home, and thus effect all he professed to desire, he had some other purpose in view.
"What are you stopping for, Bob?"
"I think you had better go back, Tom."
"Not I; I won't do that, whatever happens."
"If your father will put you to a trade, what more do you want?"
"I won't go to a trade, anyhow."
Bobby said no more, but determined to consult with Mr. Bayard about the matter; and Tom was soon too busily engaged in observing the strange sights and sounds of the city to think of anything else.
When they reached the store, Bobby went into Mr. Bayard's private office and told him all about the affair. The bookseller decided that Tom had run away more to avoid being bound to a trade than because his home was unpleasant; and this decision seemed to Bobby all the more just because he knew that Tom's mother, though a drunkard's wife, was a very good woman. Mr. Bayard further decided that Bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be the companion of his journey. He also considered it his duty to write to Mr. Spicer, informing him of his son's arrival in the city, and clearing Bobby from any agency in his escape.
While Mr. Bayard was writing the letter, Bobby went out to give Tom the result of the consultation. The runaway received it with a great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded to have the decision reversed. But Bobby, though he would gladly have done anything for him which was consistent with his duty, was firm as a rock, and positively refused to have anything to do with him until he obtained his father's consent; or, if there was any such trouble as he asserted, his mother's consent.
Tom left the store, apparently "more in sorrow than in anger." His bullying nature seemed to be cast out, and Bobby could not but feel sorry for him. Duty was imperative, as it always is, and it must be done "now or never."
During the day the little merchant attended to the packing of his stock, and to such other preparations as were required for his journey. He must take the steamer that evening for Bath, and when the time for his departure arrived, he was attended to the wharf by Mr. Bayard and Ellen, with whom he had passed the afternoon. The bookseller assisted him in procuring his ticket and berth, and gave him such instructions as his inexperience demanded.
The last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, and the great wheels of the steamer began to turn. Our hero, who had never been on the water in a steamboat, or indeed anything bigger than a punt on the river at home, was much interested and excited by his novel position. He seated himself on the promenade deck, and watched with wonder the boiling, surging waters astern of the steamer.
How powerful is man, the author of that mighty machine that bore him so swiftly over the deep blue waters! Bobby was a little philosopher, as we have before had occasion to remark, and he was decidedly of the opinion that the steamboat was a great institution. When he had in some measure conquered his amazement, and the first ideas of sublimity which the steamer and the sea were calculated to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked forward to take a closer survey of the machinery. After all, there was something rather comical in the affair. The steam hissed and sputtered, and the great walking beam kept flying up and down; and the sum total of Bobby's philosophy was, that it was funny these things should make the boat go so like a race horse over the water.
Then he took a look into the pilot house, and it seemed more funny that turning that big wheel should steer the boat. But the wind blew rather fresh at the forward part of the boat, and as Bobby's philosophy was not proof against it, he returned to the promenade deck, which was sheltered from the severity of the blast. He had got reconciled to the whole thing, and ceased to bother his head about the big wheel, the sputtering steam, and the walking beam; so he seated himself, and began to wonder what all the people in Riverdale were about.
"All them as hasn't paid their fare, please walk up to the cap'n's office and s-e-t-t-l-e!" shouted a colored boy, presenting himself just then, and furiously ringing a large hand bell.
"I have just settled," said Bobby, alluding to his comfortable seat.
But the allusion was so indefinite to the colored boy that he thought himself insulted. He did not appear to be a very amiable boy, for his fist was doubled up, and with sundry big oaths, he threatened to annihilate the little merchant for his insolence.
"I didn't say anything that need offend you," replied Bobby. "I meant nothing."
"You lie! You did!"
He was on the point of administering a blow with his fist, when a third party appeared on the ground, and without waiting to hear the merits of the case, struck the negro a blow which had nearly floored him.
Some of the passengers now interfered, and the colored boy was prevented from executing vengeance on the assailant.
"Strike that fellow and you strike me!" said he who had struck the blow.
"Tom Spicer!" exclaimed Bobby, astonished and chagrined at the presence of the runaway.
A gentleman, who was sitting near Bobby when he made the remark which the colored boy had misunderstood, interfered to free him from blame, and probably all unpleasant feelings might have been saved, if Tom's zeal had been properly directed. As it was, the waiter retired with his bell, vowing vengeance upon his assailant.
"How came you here, Tom?" asked Bobby, when the excitement had subsided.
"You don't get rid of me so easily," replied Tom, laughing.
Bobby called to mind the old adage that "a bad penny is sure to return;" and, if it had not been a very uncivil remark, he would have said it.
"I didn't expect to see you again at present," he observed, hardly knowing what to say or do.
"I suppose not; but as I didn't mean you should expect me, I kept out of sight. Only for that darkey you wouldn't have found me out so soon. I like you, Bob, in spite of all you have done to get rid of me, and I wasn't a going to let the darkey thrash you."
"You only made matters worse."
"That is all the thanks I get for hitting him for you."
"I am sorry you hit him; at the same time I suppose you meant to do me a service, and I thank you, not for the blow you struck the black boy, but for your good intentions."
"That sounds better. I meant well, Bob."
"I dare say you did. But how came you here?"
"Why, you see, I was bound to go with you anyhow or at least to keep within hail of you. You told me, you know, that you were going in the steamboat; and after I left the shop, what should I see but a big picture of a steamboat on a wall. It said. 'Bath, Gardiner, and Hallowell,' on the bill; and I knew that was where you meant to go. So this afternoon I hunts round and finds the steamboat. I thought I never should have found it; but here I am."
"What are you going to do?"
"Going into the book business," replied Tom, with a smile.
"Where are your books?"
"Down stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, or whatever you call it."
"Where did you get them?"
"Bought 'em, of course."
"Did you? Where?"
"Well, I don't remember the name of the street now. I could go right there if I was in the city, though."
"Would they trust you?"
Tom hesitated. The lies he had told that morning had done him no good—had rather injured his cause; and, though he had no principle that forbade lying, he questioned its policy in the present instance.
"I paid part down, and they trusted me part."
"How many books you got?"
"Twenty dollars' worth. I paid eight dollars down."
"You did? Where did you get the eight dollars?"
Bobby remembered the money Tom's father had lost several weeks before, and immediately connected that circumstance with his present ability to pay so large a sum.
Tom hesitated again, but he was never at a loss for an answer.
"My mother gave it to me."
"Your mother?"
"Yes,sir!" replied Tom, boldly, and in that peculiarly bluff manner which is almost always good evidence that the boy is lying.
"But you ran away from home."
"That's so; but my mother knew I was coming."
"Did she?"
"To be sure she did."
"You didn't say so before."
"I can't tell all I know in a minute."
"If I thought your mother consented to your coming, I wouldn't say another word."
"Well, she did; you may bet your life on that."
"And your mother gave you ten dollars?"
"Who said she gave metendollars?" asked Tom, a little sharply.
That was just the sum his father had lost, and Bobby had unwittingly hinted his suspicion.
"You must have had as much as that if you paid eight on your books. Your fare to Boston and your steamboat fare must be two dollars more."
"I know that; but look here, Bob;" and Tom took from his pocket five half dollars and exhibited them to his companion. "She gave me thirteen dollars."
Notwithstanding this argument, Bobby felt almost sure that the lost ten dollars was a part of his capital.
"I will tell you my story now, Bob, if you like. You condemned me without a hearing, as Jim Guthrie said when they sent him to the House of Correction for getting drunk."
"Go ahead."
The substance of Tom's story was, that his father drank so hard, and was such a tyrant in the house, that he could endure it no longer. His father and mother did not agree, as any one might have suspected. His mother, encouraged by the success of Bobby, thought that Tom might do something of the kind, and she had provided him the money to buy his stock of books.
Bobby had not much confidence in this story. He had been deceived once; besides, it was not consistent with his previous narrative, and he had not before hinted that he had obtained his mother's consent. But Tom was eloquent, and protested that he had reformed, and meant to do well. He declared, by all that was good and great, Bobby should never have reason to be ashamed of him.
Our little merchant was troubled. He could not now get rid of Tom without actually quarrelling with him, or running away from him. He did not wish to do the former, and it was not an easy matter to do the latter. Besides, there was hope that the runaway would do well; and if he did, when he carried the profits of his trade home, his father would forgive him. One thing was certain; if he returned to Riverdale he would be what he had been before.
For these reasons Bobby finally, but very reluctantly, consented that Tom should remain with him, resolving, however, that, if he did not behave himself, he would leave him at once.
Before morning he had another reason. When the steamer got out into the open bay, Bobby was seasick. He retired to his berth with a dreadful headache; as he described it afterwards, it seemed just as though that great walking beam was smashing up and down right in the midst of his brains. He had never felt so ill before in his life, and was very sure, in his inexperience, that something worse than mere seasickness ailed him.
He told Tom, who was not in the least affected, how he felt; whereupon the runaway blustered round, got the steward and the captain into the cabin, and was very sure that Bobby would die before morning, if we may judge by the fuss he made.
The captain was angry at being called from the pilot house for nothing, and threatened to throw Tom overboard if he didn't stop his noise. The steward, however, was a kind-hearted man, and assured Bobby that passengers were often a great deal sicker than he was; but he promised to do something for his relief, and Tom went with him to his state room for the desired remedy.
The potion was nothing more nor less than a table spoonful of brandy, which Bobby, who had conscientious scruples about drinking ardent spirits, at first refused to take. Then Tom argued the point, and the sick boy yielded. The dose made him sicker yet, and nature came to his relief, and in a little while he felt better.
Tom behaved like a good nurse; he staid by his friend till he went to sleep, and then "turned in" upon a settee beneath his berth. The boat pitched and tumbled about so in the heavy sea that Bobby did not sleep long, and when he woke he found Tom ready to assist him. But our hero felt better, and entreated Tom to go to sleep again. He made the best of his unpleasant situation. Sleep was not to be wooed, and he tried to pass away the dreary hours in thinking of Riverdale and the dear ones there. His mother was asleep, and Annie was asleep; that was about all the excitement he could get up even on the home question. He could not build castles in the air, for seasickness and castle building do not agree. The gold and purple clouds would be black in spite of him, and the aerial structure he essayed to build would pitch and tumble about, for all the world, just like a steamboat in a heavy sea. As often as he got fairly into it, he was violently rolled out, and in a twinkling found himself in his narrow berth, awfully seasick.
He went to sleep again at last, and the long night passed away. When he woke in the morning, he felt tolerably well, and was thankful that he had got out of that scrape. But before he could dress himself, he heard a terrible racket on deck. The steam whistle was shrieking, the bell was banging, and he heard the hoarse bellowing of the captain. It was certain that something had happened, or was about to happen.
Then the boat stopped, rolling heavily in the sea. Tom was not there; he had gone on deck. Bobby was beginning to consider what a dreadful thing a wreck was, when Tom appeared.
"What's the matter?" asked Bobby, with some appearance of alarm.
"Fog," replied Tom. "It is so thick you can cut it with a hatchet."
"Is that all?"
"That's enough."
"Where are we?"
"That is just what the pilot would like to know. They can't see ahead a bit, and don't know where we are."
Bobby went on deck. The ocean rolled beneath them, but there was nothing but fog to be seen above and around them. The lead was heaved every few moments, and the steamer crept slowly along till it was found the water shoaled rapidly, when the captain ordered the men to let go the anchor.
There they were; the fog was as obstinate as a mule, and would not "lift." Hour after hour they waited, for the captain was a prudent man, and would not risk the life of those on board to save a few hours' time. After breakfast, the passengers began to display their uneasiness, and some of them called the captain very hard names, because he would not go on. Almost everybody grumbled, and made themselves miserable.
"Nothing to do and nothing to read," growled a nicely-dressed gentleman, as he yawned and stretched himself to manifest his sensation ofennui.
"Nothing to read, eh?" thought Bobby. "We will soon supply that want."
Calling Tom, they went down to the main deck where the baggage had been placed.
"Now's our time," said he, as he proceeded to unlock one of the trunks that contained his books. "Now or never."
"I am with you," replied Tom, catching the idea.
The books of the latter were in a box, and he was obliged to get a hammer to open it; but with Bobby's assistance he soon got at them.
"Buy 'The Wayfarer,'" said Bobby, when he returned to the saloon, and placed a volume in the hands of the yawning gentleman. "Best book of the season; only one dollar."
"That I will, and glad of the chance," replied the gentleman. "I would give five dollars for anything, if it were only the 'Comic Almanac.'"
Others were of the same mind. There was no present prospect that the fog would lift, and before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty copies of "The Wayfarer." Tom, whose books were of an inferior description, and who was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of twenty, which was more than half of his stock. The fog was a godsend to both of them, and they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, for almost all the passengers seemed willing to spend their money freely for the means of occupying the heavy hours and driving away that dreadfulennuiwhich reigns supreme in a fog-bound steamer.
About the middle of the afternoon, the fog blew over, and the boat proceeded on her voyage, and before sunset our young merchants were safely landed at Bath.
Bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their wares, and they remained there the rest of the week. They then proceeded to Brunswick, where their success was equally flattering.
Thus far Tom had done very well, though Bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct himself in a proper manner. He would swear now and then, from the force of habit; but invariably, when Bobby checked him, he promised to do better.
At Brunswick Tom sold the last of his books, and was in possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher who had furnished his stock. This money seemed to burn in his pocket. He had the means of having a good time, and it went hard with him to plod along as Bobby did, careful to save every penny he could.
"Come, Bob, let's get a horse and chaise and have a ride—what do you say?" proposed Tom, on the day he finished selling his books.
"I can't spare the time or the money," replied Bobby, decidedly.
"What is the use of having money if we can't spend it? It is a first rate day, and we should have a good time."
"I can't afford it. I have a great many books to sell."
"About a hundred; you can sell them fast enough."
"I don't spend my money foolishly."
"It wouldn't be foolishly. I have sold out, and I am bound to have a little fun now."
"You never will succeed if you do business in that way."
"Why not?"
"You will spend your money as fast as you get it."
"Pooh! we can get a horse and chaise for the afternoon for two dollars. That is not much."
"Considerable, I should say. But if you begin, there is no knowing where to leave off. I make it a rule not to spend a single cent foolishly, and if I don't begin, I shall never do it."
"I don't mean to spend all I get; only a little now and then," persisted Tom.
"Don't spend the first dollar for nonsense, and then you won't spend the second. Besides, when I have any money to spare, I mean to buy books with it for my library."
"Humbug! Your library!"
"Yes, my library; I mean to have a library one of these days."
"I don't want any library, and I mean to spend some of my money in having a good time; and if you won't go with me, I shall go alone—that's all."
"You can do as you please, of course; but I advise you to keep your money. You will want it to buy another stock of books."
"I shall have enough for that. What do you say? will you go with me or not?"
"No, I will not."
"Enough said; then I shall go alone, or get some fellow to go with me."
"Consider well before you go," pleaded Bobby, who had sense enough to see that Tom's proposed "good time" would put back, if not entirely prevent, the reform he was working out.
He then proceeded to reason with him in a very earnest and feeling manner, telling him he would not only spend all his money, but completely unfit himself for business. What he proposed to do was nothing more nor less than extravagance, and it would lead him to dissipation and ruin.
"To-day I am going to send one hundred dollars to Mr. Bayard," continued Bobby; "for I am afraid to have so much money with me. I advise you to send your money to your employer."
"Humph! Catch me doing that! I am bound to have a good time, anyhow."
"At least, send the money you owe him."
"I'll bet I won't."
"Well, do as you please; I have said all I have to say."
"You are a fool, Bob!" exclaimed Tom, who had evidently used Bobby as much as he wished, and no longer cared to speak soft words to him.
"Perhaps I am; but I know better than to spend my money upon fast horses. If you will go, I can't help it. I am sorry you are going astray."
"What do you mean by that, you young monkey?" said Tom, angrily.
This was Tom Spicer, the bully. It sounded like him; and with a feeling of sorrow Bobby resigned the hopes he had cherished of making a good boy of him.
"We had better part now," added our hero, sadly.
"I'm willing."
"I shall leave Brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the river. I hope no harm will befall you. Good by, Tom."
"Go it! I have heard your preaching about long enough, and I am more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me."
Bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk containing his books, while Tom made his way towards a livery stable. The boys had been in the place for several days, and had made some acquaintances; so Tom had no difficulty in procuring a companion for his proposed ride.
Our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to Mr. Bayard, in which he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with Tom Spicer, and the success that had attended his labors. At the bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it in the letter.
He felt sad about Tom. The runaway had done so well, had been so industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been very much encouraged about him. But if he meant to be wild again,—for it was plain that the ride was only "the beginning of sorrows,"—it was well that they should part.
By the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to Gardiner, passing through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very abundant harvest. His usual success attended him; for wherever he went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as Squire Lee had declared they would be. His pleasant, honest face was a capital recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the result which eloquence has ever achieved from Demosthenes down to the present day.
Our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him at Augusta. He had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty dollars more to Mr. Bayard. It was Wednesday, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for Boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day.
He had heard nothing from Tom since their parting, and had given up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the streets of Augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him—and this time it was indeed a misfortune.
"Hallo, Bobby!" shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations.
"Ah, Tom, I didn't expect to see you again," replied Bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet his late companion.
"I suppose not; but here I am, as good as new. Have you sold out?"
"No, not quite."
"How many have you left?"
"About twenty; but I thought, Tom, you would have returned to Boston before this time."
"No;" and Tom did not seem to be in very good spirits.
"Where are you going now?"
"I don't know. I ought to have taken your advice, Bobby."
This was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy for his companion—as who does not when the erring confess their faults?
"I am sorry you did not."
"I got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to Brunswick," continued Tom, rather sheepishly.
"And spent all your money," added Bobby, who could readily understand the reason why Tom had put on his humility again.
"Not all."
"How much have you left?"
"Not much," replied he, evasively. "I don't know what I shall do. I am in a strange place, and have no friends."
Bobby's sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he promised to be a friend in his extremity.
"I will stick by you this time, Bob, come what will. I will do just as you say, now."
Our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display of confidence. He did not give weight enough to the fact that it was adversity alone which made Tom so humble. He was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good behavior. He could not desert him now he was in difficulty.
"You shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to Boston together. Have you money enough left to pay your employer?"
Tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his mind.
"I don't know how it will be after I have paid my expenses to Boston," he replied, averting his face.
Bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as Tom seemed so reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more convenient season.
"Now, Tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and I will take those upon this side. You shall have the profits on all you sell."
"You are a first rate fellow, Bob; and I only wish I had done as you wanted me to do."
"Can't be helped now, and we will do the next best thing," replied Bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house.
Tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had sold all the books but four. "The Wayfarer" had been liberally advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand. Bobby's heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would ensue upon his return to the little black house. How glad his mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy Annie would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the State of Maine! Wouldn't she be astonished when he told her about the steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of the beautiful Kennebec!
Poor Bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in store for him.
As he walked along, thinking of Riverdale and its loved ones, Tom came out of a grocery store where he had just sold a book.
"Here, Bob, is a ten dollar bill. I believe I have sold ten books for you," said Tom, after they had walked some distance. "You had better keep the money now; and while I think of it, you had better take what I have left of my former sales;" and Tom handed him another ten dollar bill.
Bobby noticed that Tom seemed very much confused and embarrassed; but he did not observe that the two bills he had handed him were on the same bank.
"Then you had ten dollars left after your frolic," he remarked, as he took the last bill.
"About that;" and Tom glanced uneasily behind him.
"What is the matter with you, Tom?" asked Bobby, who did not know what to make of his companion's embarrassment.
"Nothing, Bob; let us walk a little faster. We had better turn up this street," continued Tom, as, with a quick pace, he took the direction indicated.
Bobby began to fear that Tom had been doing something wrong; and the suspicion was confirmed by seeing two men running with all their might towards them. Tom perceived them at the same moment.
"Run!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he took to his heels, and fled up the street into which he had proposed to turn.
Bobby did not run, but stopped short where he was till the men came up to him.
"Grab him," said one of them, "and I will catch the other."
The man collared Bobby, and in spite of all the resistance he could make, dragged him down the street to the grocery store in which Tom had sold his last book.
"What do you mean by this?" asked Bobby, his blood boiling with indignation at the harsh treatment to which he had been subjected.
"We have got you, my hearty," replied the man, releasing his hold.
No sooner was the grasp of the man removed, than Bobby, who determined on this as on former occasions to stand upon his inalienable rights, bolted for the door, and ran away with all his speed. But his captor was too fleet for him, and he was immediately retaken. To make him sure this time, his arms were tied behind him, and he was secured to the counter of the shop.
In a few moments the other man returned, dragging Tom in triumph after him. By this time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly filled the store.
Bobby was confounded at the sudden change that had come over his fortunes; but seeing that resistance would be vain, he resolved to submit with the best grace he could.
"I should like to know what all this means?" he inquired, indignantly.
The crowd laughed in derision.
"This is the chap that stole the wallet, I will be bound," said one, pointing to Tom, who stood in surly silence awaiting his fate.
"He is the one who came into the store," replied the shopkeeper.
"Ihaven't stole any wallet," protested Bobby, who now understood the whole affair.
The names of the two boys were taken, and warrants procured for their detention. They were searched, and upon Tom was found the lost wallet, and upon Bobby two ten dollar bills, which the loser was willing to swear had been in the wallet. The evidence therefore was conclusive, and they were both sent to jail.
Poor Bobby! the inmate of a prison!
The law took its course, and in due time both of them were sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the State Reform School. Bobby was innocent, but he could not make his innocence appear. He had been the companion of Tom, the real thief, and part of the money had been found upon his person. Tom was too mean to exonerate him, and even had the hardihood to exult over his misfortune.
At the end of three days they reached the town in which the Reform School is located, and were duly committed for their long term.
Poor Bobby!
The intelligence of Bobby's misfortune reached Mr. Bayard, in Boston, by means of the newspapers. To the country press an item is a matter of considerable importance, and the alleged offence against the peace and dignity of the State of Maine was duly heralded to the inquiring public as a "daring robbery." The reporter who furnished the facts in the case for publication was not entirely devoid of that essential qualification of the country item writer, a lively imagination, and was obliged to dress up the particulars a little, in order to produce the necessary amount of wonder and indignation. It was stated that one of the two young men had been prowling about the place for several days, ostensibly for the purpose of selling books, but really with the intention of stealing whatever he could lay his hands upon. It was suggested that the boys were in league with an organized band of robbers, whose nefarious purposes would be defeated by the timely arrest of these young villains. The paper hinted that further depredations would probably be discovered, and warned people to beware of ruffians strolling about the country in the guise of pedlers.
The writer of this thrilling paragraph must have had reason to believe that he had discharged his whole duty to the public, and that our hero was duly branded as a desperate fellow. No doubt he believed Bobby was an awful monster; for at the conclusion of his remarks he introduced some severe strictures on the lenity of the magistrate, because he had made the sentence two years, instead of five, which the writer thought the atrocious crime deserved. But, then, the justice differed from him in politics, which may account for the severity of the article.
Mr. Bayard read this precious paragraph with mingled grief and indignation. He understood the case at a glance. Tom Spicer had joined him, and the little merchant had been involved in his crime. He was sure that Bobby had had no part in stealing the money. One so noble and true as he had been could not steal, he reasoned. It was contrary to experience, contrary to common sense.
He was very much disturbed. This intelligence would be a severe blow to the poor boy's mother, and he had not the courage to destroy all her bright hopes by writing her the terrible truth. He was confident that Bobby was innocent, and that his being in the company of Tom Spicer had brought the imputation upon him; so he could not let the matter take its course. He was determined to do something to procure his liberty and restore his reputation.
Squire Lee was in the city that day, and had left his store only half an hour before he discovered the paragraph. He immediately sent to his hotel for him, and together they devised means to effect Bobby's liberation. The squire was even more confident than Mr. Bayard that our hero was innocent of the crime charged upon him. They agreed to proceed immediately to the State of Maine, and use their influence in obtaining his pardon. The bookseller was a man of influence in the community, and was as well known in Maine as in Massachusetts; but to make their application the surer, he procured letters of introduction from some of the most distinguished men in Boston to the governor and other official persons in Maine.
We will leave them now to do the work they had so generously undertaken, and return to the Reform School, where Bobby and Tom were confined. The latter took the matter very coolly. He seemed to feel that he deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious delight in seeing Bobby the companion of his captivity. He even had the hardihood to remind him of the blow he had struck him more than two months before, telling him that he had vowed vengeance then, and now the time had come. He was satisfied.
"You know I didn't steal the money, or have anything to do with it," said Bobby.
"Some of it was found upon you, though," sneered Tom, maliciously.
"You know how it came there, if no one else does."
"Of course I do; but I like your company too well to get rid of you so easy."
"The Lord is with the innocent," replied Bobby; "and something tells me that I shall not stay in this place a great while."
"Going to run away?" asked Tom, with interest, and suddenly dropping his malicious look.
"I know I am innocent of any crime; and I know that the Lord will not let me stay here a great while."
"What do you mean to do, Bob?"
Bobby made no reply; he felt that he had had more confidence in Tom than he deserved, and he determined to keep his own counsel in future. He had a purpose in view. His innocence gave him courage; and perhaps he did not feel that sense of necessity for submission to the laws of the land which age and experience give. He prayed earnestly for deliverance from the place in which he was confined. He felt that he did not deserve to be there; and though it was a very comfortable place, and the boys fared as well as he wished to fare, still it seemed to him like a prison. He was unjustly detained; and he not only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved to work out his own deliverance at the first opportunity.
Knowing that whatever he had would be taken from him, he resolved by some means to keep possession of the twenty dollars he had about him. He had always kept his money in a secret place in his jacket to guard against accident, and the officers who had searched him had not discovered it. But now his clothes would be changed. He thought of these things before his arrival; so, when he reached the entrance, and got out of the wagon, to open the gate, by order of the officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a hole in the wall.
It so happened that there was not a suit of clothes in the store room of the institution which would fit him; and he was permitted to wear his own dress till another should be made. After his name and description had been entered, and the superintendent had read him a lecture upon his future duties, he was permitted to join the other boys, who were at work on the farm. He was sent with half a dozen others to pick up stones in a neighboring field. No officer was with them, and Bobby was struck with the apparent freedom of the institution, and he so expressed himself to his companions.
"Not so much freedom as you think for," said one, in reply.
"I should think the fellows would clear out."
"Not so easy a matter. There is a standing reward of five dollars to any one who brings back a runaway."
"They must catch him first."
"No fellow ever got away yet. They always caught him before he got ten miles from the place."
This was an important suggestion to Bobby, who already had a definite purpose in his mind. Like a skilful general, he had surveyed the ground on his arrival, and was at once prepared to execute his design.
In his conversation with the boys, he obtained the history of several who had attempted to escape, and found that even those who got a fair start were taken on some public road. He perceived that they were not good generals, and he determined to profit by their mistake.
A short distance from the institution was what appeared to be a very extensive wood. Beyond this, many miles distant, he could see the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under the setting sun.
He carefully observed the hills, and obtained the bearings of various prominent objects in the vicinity which would aid him in his flight. The boys gave him all the information in their power about the localities of the country. They seemed to feel that he was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he would not long remain among them; but, whatever they thought, they kept their own counsel.
Bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent and prompt that he obtained the confidence of the superintendent, who began to employ him about the house, and in his own family. He was sent of errands in the neighborhood, and conducted himself so much to the satisfaction of his guardians that he was not required to work in the field after the second day of his residence on the farm.
One afternoon he was told that his clothes were ready, and that he might put them on the next morning. This was a disagreeable announcement; for Bobby saw that, with the uniform of the institution upon his back, his chance of escape would be very slight. But about sunset, he was sent by the superintendent's lady to deliver a note at a house in the vicinity.
"Now or never!" said Bobby to himself, after he had left the house. "Now's my time."
As he passed the gate, he secured his money, and placed it in the secret receptacle of his jacket. After he had delivered the letter, he took the road and hastened off in the direction of the wood. His heart beat wildly at the prospect of once more meeting his mother, after nearly four weeks' absence. Annie Lee would welcome him; she would not believe that he was a thief.
He had been four days an inmate of the Reform School, and nothing but the hope of soon attaining his liberty had kept his spirits from drooping. He had not for a moment despaired of getting away.
He reached the entrance to the wood, and taking a cart path, began to penetrate its hidden depths. The night darkened upon him; he heard the owl screech his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will chant his cheery song. A certain sense of security now pervaded his mind, for the darkness concealed him from the world, and he had placed six good miles between him and the prison, as he considered it.
He walked on, however, till he came to what seemed to be the end of the wood, and he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen in the distance before morning. Leaving the forest, he emerged into the open country. There was here and there a house before him; but the aspect of the country seemed strangely familiar to him. He could not understand it. He had never been in this part of the country before; yet there was a great house with two barns by the side of it, which he was positive he had seen before.
He walked across the field a little farther, when, to his astonishment and dismay, he beheld the lofty turrets of the State Reform School. He had been walking in a circle, and had come out of the forest near the place where he had entered it.
Bobby, as the reader has found out by this time, was a philosopher as well as a hero; and instead of despairing or wasting his precious time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed a little to himself at the blunder, and turned back into the woods again.
"Now or never!" muttered he. "It will never do to give it up so."
For an hour he walked on, with his eyes fixed on a great bright star in the sky. Then he found that the cart path crooked round, and he discovered where he had made his blunder. Leaving the road, he made his way in a straight line, still guided by the star, till he came to a large sheet of water.
The sheet of water was an effectual barrier to his farther progress; indeed, he was so tired he did not feel able to walk any more. He deemed himself safe from immediate pursuit in this secluded place. He needed rest, and he foresaw that the next few days would be burdened with fatigue and hardship which he must be prepared to meet.
Bobby was not nice about trifles, and his habits were such that he had no fear of taking cold. His comfortable bed in the little black house was preferable to the cold ground, even with the primeval forest for a chamber; but circumstances alter cases, and he did not waste any vain regrets about the necessity of his position. After finding a secluded spot in the wood, he raked the dry leaves together for a bed, and offering his simple but fervent prayer to the Great Guardian above, he lay down to rest. The owl screamed his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will still repeated his monotonous song; but they were good company in the solitude of the dark forest.
He could not go to sleep for a time, so strange and exciting were the circumstances of his position. He thought of a thousand things, but he could notthinkhimself to sleep, as he was wont to do. At last nature, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, conquered the circumstances, and he slept.