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[Illustration: THE BOAT CLUB
OLIVER OPTIC]
[Illustration: Tim seized an Oar. _P._ 217.]
THE BOAT CLUB
OR
THE BUNKERS OF RIPPLETON
By
OLIVER OPTIC
_NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED_
NEW YORK
THE MERSHON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1896,
By LEE AND SHEPARD
IN MEMORY OF
_MY NEPHEW_,
WILLIAM PARKER JEWETT
Who Died January 4, 1884,
TO WHOM
This Book
WAS ORIGINALLY DEDICATED
AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION
"THE BOAT CLUB" was written and published more than forty years ago,
and was the first juvenile book the author had ever presented to the
public. Young people who read it at the age of eighteen have now
reached threescore, and those who read it at ten have passed their
half-century of life. The electrotype plates from which it has been
printed for more than a generation of human life have suffered so much
from severe wear that new ones have become necessary, and they must be
replaced. This condition affords the author the opportunity to revise
the work, in fact, to make a new book of it; and the old boat must be
reconstructed and launched again. The author has something to say on
what suggests itself as a memorial occasion when something historical
may be said. First, it is proper that old things should be respected
and honored, and therefore is presented the--
ORIGINAL PREFACE
OF "THE BOAT CLUB."
The author of the following story pleads guilty of being more than
half a boy himself; and in writing a book to meet the wants and the
tastes of "Young America," he has had no difficulty in stepping
back over the weary waste of years that separates youth from
maturity, and entering fully into the spirit of the scenes he
describes. He has endeavored to combine healthy moral lessons with
a sufficient amount of exciting interest to render the story
attractive to the young; and he hopes he has not mingled these
elements of a good juvenile book in disproportionate quantities.
Thus was laid the foundation of the writer's life-work for young
people, after an initiation of over twenty years as a teacher in the
schools of Boston, in all grades from usher to principal. Even then he
had not the remotest idea of becoming an author; he never definitely
prepared himself for such a profession; and, as he has often stated it,
he "blundered into the business of writing books for the young," though
he had had considerable experience in story-writing for magazines and
newspapers.
This beginning has been followed by ninety-six volumes in sets of six
volumes or more, and two others, the whole of the ninety-eight books
being for young people. To these may be added the number of bound
yearly volumes of magazines for juveniles of which the writer has been
the editor for thirty-two years, making one hundred and thirty volumes
of this kind, besides half a dozen or more for adults, to say nothing
of nine hundred stories, long and short, for periodicals. This is the
literary record of the author in the seventy-fifth year of his age; and
being still in fair physical condition, it is possible that more may be
added to the number.
This is an introduction to the republication of "The Boat Club," and
this book suggested what has been written so far. It occurs to me that
some venerable person who read the book in childhood may have a desire
to know how it happened to be written, and possibly some others may
wish to know something of the motives which have animated the writer
for the long term in which he has been engaged in producing books for
juvenile readers. In a speech made by the author in 1875, at the
dedication of a branch of the Boston Public Library in Dorchester,
which had become a part of the city, the desire of the venerable
personage and the wishes of the other inquirers were fully answered;
and perhaps they cannot be better satisfied than in reading a portion
of this address, given after the writer had been introduced by the
Mayor of Boston:--
Though not to the manner born, Mr. Mayor, I have resided in
Dorchester during the greater portion of my life; and this church
has been my "religious home" for more than twenty-five years. I
confess that it seems very strange to me to be introduced to an
audience gathered within these walls by the Mayor of Boston. In
presenting me to this large audience, you have called me by a name
by which, perhaps, I am better known than by my real name. I am
willing to acknowledge that I have written a great many stories for
young people. And here I wish to say--what may perhaps surprise
some of this audience--that I fully approve of and indorse all that
Mr. Greenough, the President of the Board of Trustees of the
Library, has said in his very able and instructive address, in
regard to a proper supervision of the reading of the girls and
boys. It was only the other day that one of the ablest and most
successful masters of the public schools in this part of the city
told me that he did not regard the establishment of public
libraries in our towns and cities as wholly a benefit and a
blessing to the communities, for the reason that some of them
supply the young with books of doubtful tendency. I am glad,
therefore, to know that the management of our public libraries and
the selection of the books are in the hands of those who are fully
awake to the responsibilities of their important positions.
Mr. Mayor, the mention by you of the name under which I have been
in the habit of writing suggests that I may say now what I had on
my mind, but did not intend to utter on this occasion. In one of
the wall pews which were on my left before this church was
remodelled, as a teacher in the Sunday-school connected with this
parish, I had a class of boys. It was more than twenty-five years
ago, and some of those boys have passed away from earth; but the
others are now, as men of middle age, engaged in the active duties
of life. I well remember how I looked into their faces, Sunday
after Sunday, and how I endeavored to give them the good word that
would help them along safely in their career of existence. I gave
them the best I had to give, for I was interested in them. My
interest made me desire to do more for them; and I thought I might
write a story that would influence and benefit them. I had it in my
mind to print a small pamphlet of sixty pages, and dedicate it to
the boys of my Sunday-school class, putting all their names upon
the page. The plot and plan of the story were clear in my mind; and
the moral of it, which was not to be paraded in set terms, was even
more clearly defined than the plot and plan.
Circumstances prevented the carrying out of this purpose, and the
story was not written at that time. Several years afterwards, my
publishers, after the issue of a tolerably successful book of mine
for grown-up people,--for I had written a great many stories,
though none for young people,--asked me to write a juvenile book. I
assured them I could not do it; I had never attempted anything of
the kind. The publishers insisted, and finally I promised to see
what I could do. I had but little faith in my ability in this
direction; but the plot and plan of the story I had arranged for my
Sunday-school class came back to me, and I went to work upon it.
The result of my efforts was "The Boat Club."
When I began to write stories for the young I had a distinct
purpose in my mind. How well I remember the books I read, unknown
to my parents, when I was a boy! They were "The Three Spaniards,"
"Alonzo and Melissa," "The Mysteries of Udolpho," "Rinaldo
Rinaldini," "Freemantle the Privateersman," and similar works, not
often found at the present time on the shelves of the booksellers,
though I am sorry to say that their places have been filled with
books hardly less pernicious. The hero of these stories was a
pirate, a highwayman, a smuggler, or a bandit. He was painted in
glowing colors; and in admiring his boldness, my sympathies were
with this outcast and outlaw. These books were bad, very bad;
because they brought the reader into sympathy with evil and wicked
men. It seemed to me that stories just as interesting, just as
exciting if you please, could be written, without any of the evil
tendencies of these harmful books. I have tried to do this in the
stories I have written for young people. I have never written a
story which could excite the love, admiration, and sympathy of the
reader for an evil-minded person, a bad character. This has been my
standard; and however others may regard it, I still deem it a safe
one. I am willing to admit that I have sometimes been rather more
"sensational" than I now wish I had been; but I have never made a
hero whose moral character, or whose lack of high aims and
purposes, could mislead the reader.
But, Mr. Mayor, I hope you will pardon the egotism of these
remarks; for I did not prepare myself to say what I have said, and
I was rather surprised into it by your mention of my book name.
With the same apology to my readers of the present day for reproducing
this speech, and for saying so much about myself, I wish to allow a
young gentleman to state the influence upon himself of these books. He
is the son of a distinguished literary man whose works live after him,
and who was for several years United States Consul at Glasgow and
Edinburgh. I insert here the young man's letter, which I received in
Florence, Italy, in 1870.
BOSTON, _Sept._ 9, 1870.
MR. ADAMS:
_Dear Sir_,--I heard some one remark the other day, that, however
high a man might stand in the estimation of his fellow-men, there
would be times when it would be pleasant for him to know that he
had been of some especial benefit to one or more individuals. The
remark reminded me of you, and of the immense advantage which your
writings had been to me; and I thought that possibly it might give
you pleasure to know that to you--together with a good mother's
judicious management--I owe all my taste for reading.
Until I was about ten years of age, I perfectly detested the idea
of taking a book into my hands. At about this time my mother
procured "Poor and Proud," which she commenced reading to me; and
finding me a good deal interested, she contrived to stop reading at
one of the most interesting points in the story, when, giving me
the book, she said that perhaps I would like to read on and see
what came next. And I read on and on, becoming more and more
interested in the story, until I had finished the book. Seeing me
interested in your works, others were procured for me; and in
reading those I often met with something which would rouse in me a
desire to read history, until at last a taste for reading was
formed, which a lifetime will not gratify. Thus you see I have
especial reason for gratitude that you should ever have written
stories for boys. Not that I believe myself to be the only one, but
one of the many who have been benefited in the same way.
Hoping that you may find your visit to the Old World both pleasant
and profitable, and wishing you a safe return, I remain, sir,
Yours truly,
G. FRANK UNDERWOOD.
G. F. RANK.
I have received hundreds of similar letters, containing substantially
the same testimony. In December of the year this letter came to me, I
was confined to my hotel in England by a London fog one day; and in the
first daily paper I picked up in the reading-room I was surprised to
find myself "written up" in terms that made me blush; but the article
pleased me because it contained the same idea my young friend had
embodied in his letter.
Gratefully remembering my friends of over forty years' standing, and
with a hearty recognition of those of more recent years, I return to
them all my most sincere thanks for their generous appreciation of the
work of my lifetime, and for their continued kindness to me from the
first appearance of "The Boat Club" to the present time. I heartily
wish them all continued health, prosperity, and happiness; and I do so
in the sincere belief that I have never morally harmed any of my
readers, but have added pleasure as well as moral and intellectual
profit to their lives.
WILLIAM T. ADAMS
"Oliver Optic"
DORCHESTER, _October_ 9, 1896
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE FOURTH OF JULY COMING 19
II. THE WIDOW WESTON 32
III. A DISAPPOINTED BOY 47
IV. THE FOURTH OF JULY 60
V. THE CLUB BOAT 77
VI. THE EMBARKATION 89
VII. GIVE WAY TOGETHER 102
VIII. THE SECOND LESSON 116
IX. THE STOLEN WALLET 138
X. TONY'S CASE 152
XI. THE BOAT-HOUSE 166
XII. THE FIRST MEETING IN ZEPHYR HALL 180
XIII. THE THUNDERBOLT 194
XIV. THE COLLISION 207
XV. CENTRE ISLAND 221
XVI. THE GEOGRAPHY OF WOOD LAKE 236
XVII. OVERBOARD 251
XVIII. TIM BUNKER 268
XIX. THE TRIAL OF TONY 280
XX. THE STRANGER 294
XXI. THE CONCLUSION 308
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
I DON'T WANT TO FIGHT 71
I DID NOT KNOW IT WAS THERE 150
TIM SEIZED AN OAR 217
YOU MUST COME WITH ME 279
THE BOAT CLUB
OR
THE BUNKERS OF RIPPLETON
CHAPTER I
THE FOURTH OF JULY COMING
"How much money have you got, Frank?" asked Charles Hardy of his friend
Frank Sedley.
"Four dollars and seventy-five cents."
"That is more than twice as much as I have. Won't you have a glorious
time?"
It was the evening of the third of July, and the two boys were counting
the money they had saved for Independence. Captain Sedley, the father
of Frank, had promised to take him and his friend to Boston to attend
the celebration; and they had long looked forward to the event with the
liveliest anticipations of pleasure.
"I don't know, Charley," replied Frank Sedley, as he slid the money
into his purse; "I was thinking of something else."
"What, Frank?"
"I was thinking how poor the widow Weston is, and how much good this
money I am going to throw away on fire-crackers and gingerbread would
do her."
"Perhaps it would."
"I know it would."
"But you are not going to spoil our fun by giving it to her, are you?"
"There are a great many boys who will have no money to spend
to-morrow--Tony Weston, for instance," continued Frank.
"Tony is a good fellow."
"That he is; and his mother has a terrible hard time of it to support
herself and her son and daughter."
"I suppose she has. Why don't you ask your father to help her?"
"He does help her. He gives her wood and flour, and a great many other
things; and my mother employs her to do sewing. She is willing to
work."
"And Tony works too."
"He is too young to do much; but he loves his mother, and tries to do
all he can to lighten her burden."
"He makes a dollar a week sometimes."
"I was thinking just now that I would give Mrs. Weston the money I had
saved for Independence."
"Pooh! Frank."
"It would do her a great deal of good."
"What is the use of going to Boston, if you have no money?" asked
Charles, who was not a little disturbed by this proposed disbursement
of the Fourth of July funds.
"I can stay at home, then."
"That wouldn't be fair, Frank."
"Why not?"
"You not only rob yourself of the fun, but me too."
"I really pity the poor woman so much that I cannot find it in my heart
to spend the money foolishly, when it will buy so many comforts for
her."
"Your father will give you some money for her."
"That isn't the thing."
"What do you mean?"
"You went to meeting last Sunday?"
"Yes."
"And heard the sermon?"
"Some of it," replied Charles, smiling.
"You remember the minister spoke of the luxury of doing good; of the
benefit one gets by sacrificing his inclination for the good of others,
or something like that; I can't express it as he did, though I have the
idea."
Frank paused, and looked earnestly into the face of his friend, to
ascertain whether he was likely to find any sympathy in the heart of
Charles.
"I do remember it, Frank. He told a story to illustrate his meaning."
"That was it. I don't very often mind much about the sermon, but
somehow I was very much interested in that one."
"And so you mean to give your money to the widow Weston, just to see
how you will feel after it," added Charles with a laugh.
"No; that isn't it."
"What is it, then?"
"I will give it to her because I really feel that she needs it more
than I do. I feel a pleasure in the thought of sacrificing my
inclination for her happiness, which is more satisfactory than all the
fun I anticipate to-morrow."
"You'll be a parson, Frank."
"No, I won't; I will do my duty."
"Have you made up your mind?"
"We can have a good time at home."
"Pooh!"
"I shall give my money to the widow Weston, at any rate."
Charles Hardy could not but admire the generosity of his friend, though
he found it difficult to abandon the thought of the pleasure he
anticipated in spending the Fourth in Boston. He stood in silent
thought a few moments, and then spoke.
"Well, Frank," said he, "if you have determined to give your money to
the widow, I shall follow your example."
"But, Charley, I didn't mean to influence you. I will even go to Boston
with you, though I have no money."
"I will give my money to the widow. I think you are right."
"Good, Charley! I like you for it."
"I have two dollars and a quarter," continued Charles, taking the money
from his pocket.
"We shall make up just seven dollars. How it will rejoice the heart of
the poor woman!" exclaimed Frank with enthusiasm.
"So it will. But don't you think your father will make it up to us,
when he finds out how generous we have been?"
Frank looked into the face of his companion with an expression of
painful surprise on his countenance.
"I don't want him to do so."
"Why not?"
"It would rob the action of all its merit. If you give your money with
the hope of having it restored to you, I beg you not to give it at all.
I have abandoned all thoughts of having any money to spend to-morrow."
"And not go to Boston?"
"No."
"What will your father say when you tell him you are not going? He will
want to know the reason."
"I will tell him day after to-morrow."
"He will want to know to-morrow."
"I can persuade him to wait. Shall we go over to-night, and give the
money to Mrs. Weston?"
"Yes; if you like."
"Wait a moment, and I will go into the house and ask my father to let
me stay out till nine o'clock this evening."
Frank bounded lightly over the green lawn to his father's house, near
which the conversation took place.
Rippleton, the scene of my story, is a New England village, situated
about ten miles from Boston. It is one of those thriving places which
have sprung into existence in a moment, as it were, under the potent
stimulus of a railroad and a water privilege. Twenty years ago it
consisted of only one factory and about a dozen houses. Now it is a
great, bustling village, and probably in a few years will become a
city. Trains of cars arrive and depart every hour, as the Traveller's
Guide says; and a double row of factories extends along the sides of
the river. It has its banks, its hotels, its dozen churches, and its
noisy streets--indeed, almost all the pomp and circumstance of a great
city.
About a mile from the village was the beautiful residence of Captain
Sedley--Frank's father. He was a retired shipmaster, in which capacity
he had acquired a handsome fortune. His house was built within a few
rods of Wood Lake--a beautiful sheet of water, nearly three miles in
length, and a little more than a mile in width. On the river, which
formed the outlet of this lake, the village of Rippleton was situated;
and its clear waters turned the great wheels of the factories.
Captain Sedley had chosen this place in which to spend the evening of
his days, because it seemed to him the loveliest spot in all New
England. The glassy, transparent lake, with its wood-crowned shores,
its picturesque rocks, its little green islands, indeed, everything
about it was so grand and beautiful, that it seemed more like the
creation of an enthusiastic imagination than a substantial reality. The
retired shipmaster loved the beautiful in nature, and his first view of
the silver lake and the surrounding country enabled him to decide that
this spot should be his future habitation. He bought the land, built
him a fine house, and was as happy as a mortal could desire to be.
But I beg my young reader not to think that Captain Sedley was happy
because he lived in such a beautiful place, and had such a fine house,
and so much money at his command; for a beautiful prospect, a costly
dwelling, and plenty of money, alone, cannot make a person contented
and happy. The richest men are often the most miserable; a bed of down
may be a bed of thorns; and a magnificent mansion will not banish the
gnawings of remorse.
Captain Sedley was a good man. He had always endeavored to be true to
his God and true to himself; to be just and honest in his relations to
his fellow-men. In an active business experience of twenty years, he
had found a great many opportunities for doing good--opportunities
which he had had the moral courage to improve. He loved his God by
loving his fellow-man. He had made his fortune by being honest and
just. He had lived a good life; and as every good man will, whether he
get rich or poor by it, he was receiving his reward in the serene
happiness of his life in this world, and in the cherished hope of
everlasting bliss in the world to come.
Captain Sedley was happy, too, in his family. Mrs. Sedley was an
amiable and devoted woman; and Frank, his only child, was an
affectionate and obedient son. Perhaps my young friends cannot fully
appreciate the amount of satisfaction which a parent derives from the
good character of his child. Though the worthy shipmaster had a
beautiful estate and plenty of money, if his son had been a liar, a
thief, a profane swearer,--in short, if Frank had been a bad boy,--he
could not have been happy. If a wise and good father could choose
between having his son a hopeless drunkard or villain, and laying his
cold form in the dark grave, never more to see him on earth, he would
no doubt choose the latter. Almost all parents say so; and their words
are so earnest, their tears so eloquent, that we cannot but believe it.
Such was the father of Frank Sedley, and it was such a father that made
so good a son.
Charles Hardy was the son of one of the factory agents, who was Captain
Sedley's nearest neighbor; and a strong friendship had grown up between
the two boys. Charles's character was essentially different from that
of his friend; but as I prefer that my young reader should judge his
disposition for himself, and distinguish between the good and the evil
of his thoughts and actions as the story proceeds, I shall not now tell
him what kind of a boy he was.