THE FISHER-BOY.
The house in which Tom lived stood on a hill that commanded a fine
view of the village of Newport and the adjacent bay, and before it
was a wide lawn, that sloped gently down to the water’s edge, shaded
by grand old trees. On the day we introduce Tom to our readers, he
had been sent out of the school-room in disgrace, not having mastered
his arithmetic lesson. He lay at full length under one of the trees,
stretching his arms and yawning, throwing his book about, and looking
out over the bay at the vessels that were sailing in and out of the
harbor. Now and then he would think of his lesson, but the thought
was always dismissed with an impatient “O, I can’t learn it; I know
I can’t, and what’s the use in trying?” But it was evident that he
did not intend to abandon it altogether, for he would occasionally
open his book and study for a few moments, with his mouth twisted on
one side, as if he were on the point of crying. The fact was, Mr.
Newcombe was present at the recitation that morning, when his son had
made a worse failure than usual; and as he was about to leave the
school-room, he turned to Tom and told him, in language too plain
to be misunderstood, that if he “didn’t have that lesson by five
o’clock that afternoon, he would get his jacket dusted in a way that
would make him open his eyes.” Tom remembered the threat, and he
would now and then turn to his task with a listless, discouraged air,
as if he regarded it as far beyond his comprehension. His mind, as
usual, was wandering off over the bay, and to save his life he could
not learn the rule for addition.
His lesson, however, was not the only thing that troubled him just
then; a more important matter was on his mind, and perplexed him
exceedingly. He had that morning found an insurmountable obstacle in
his path--one that shut him out from all hopes of ever becoming a
sailor.
When the sight of that fine ship had again turned Tom’s attention to
the sea, he laid a regular siege to his father, and tried every plan
he could think of to obtain his consent to ship as boy on one of his
vessels; and that morning he had asked permission to go out on the
“Savannah,” a schooner that was to sail in a week or two.
Mr. Newcombe had, for a long time, patiently borne his fretting and
teasing; and, finally, to set the matter at rest at once and forever,
he said to Tom:
“My son, when you can add up a column of figures without counting
your fingers, and can tell me the capital of every State in the
Union, and where it is situated, you may go to sea. Now, wake up, and
see if you can’t display a little energy. The Savannah will not sail
under two weeks, so you will have plenty of time to do all this.”
“O no, father,” drawled Tom, (he always spoke in a very low tone, and
so slowly that it made one nervous to listen to him,) “I can’t learn
all that in two weeks. It’s too hard.”
Mr. Newcombe did not wait to hear what Tom had to say, but picked up
his cane and started for his office, leaving his son pondering upon
this new and wholly unexpected turn of events.
This was a death-blow to Tom’s hopes. It was, in his estimation, a
task that would have made a Hercules hesitate. Learn all that in
two weeks! Did his father take him for a walking arithmetic and
geography, that he expected him to accomplish so much in so short
a space of time? It was simply impossible, and he was astonished
at his father for proposing such a thing. Under almost any other
circumstances, Tom would have said, “Then I can’t be a sailor,” and
would have immediately turned his attention to something else. But
he remembered how grand that ship looked as she sailed out of the
harbor, and he could not bear the thought of forever giving up all
hopes of becoming the captain of a vessel like that.
Tom regarded this as one of his unlucky days. His lesson was very
hard. He had been promised a whipping if he did not get it. There was
that tremendous obstacle that had so suddenly risen up before him,
and altogether he felt most discontented and miserable. It was no
wonder he could not learn the rule.
“O, I do wish I could be a sailor,” said he, at length; “then I
wouldn’t have any teachers to bother me, and ask why I place units
under units, and tens under tens, when I want to add figures, and
why I carry the left-hand figure to the next column when the amount
exceeds nine. What good will it do me to learn all this? I can
manage a vessel without it. And then, if I was on board ship, there
wouldn’t be any one to tell me that he’d dust my jacket for me if I
didn’t get my lesson. Ah, that would be glorious! But I can’t be a
sailor now; I can’t add figures, and tell the capitals of all the
States--there’s too many of them. O, dear, what shall I do? I always
was an unlucky boy, and something is always happening to bother me.
Now, there’s Bob Jennings! He ought to be a happy fellow, having
nothing to do but row about the harbor all day, ferrying and catching
fish. He’s a lucky chap, and I wish I was in his place. Hullo, Bob,
come up here!”
Tom’s thoughts were turned into this channel by discovering a boy,
about his own age, rowing a scow up the bay. The fisher-boy had seen
Tom rolling about on the grass, and, if the latter could have known
the thoughts that passed through his mind, no doubt he would have
been greatly astonished.
Bob Jennings was the son of a poor widow who lived in the village.
His father, like the majority of men in Newport, had followed the sea
for a livelihood, but, having been washed overboard from his vessel
during a storm, Bob was left as the only support for his mother and
two little brothers. From the time he was strong enough to handle
an oar, he had been accustomed to work, and, unlike Tom, he was not
ashamed of it. He was ready to undertake any thing that would enable
him to turn an honest penny; and many a dime found its way into his
mother’s slim purse, that Bob had earned by running errands after his
day’s work was over. But, if he was obliged to work hard while his
father was living, he was compelled to redouble his exertions now,
for the pittance his mother earned by sewing and washing could not
go far toward feeding and clothing four persons. Bob well understood
this, and he worked hard and incessantly. Every morning, rain or
shine, he was on hand at pier Number 2, which he regarded as his own
particular “claim,” ready to ferry the workmen across the harbor to
the ship-yards. After this was done, he pulled down the bay to his
fishing grounds, from which he returned in time to be at his pier
when the six o’clock bell rang in the evening.
Bob was ambitious, and he longed to follow in the footsteps of
his father. Like all the boys in Newport, who seemed to inhale a
passionate love of salt water with the air they breathed, he looked
forward to the day when he should become the master of a fine vessel.
But his mother could not live without his assistance. His earnings,
however small, were needed to procure the common necessities of life;
and, thus far, Bob had been unable to take the first step toward
attaining his long-cherished object. A few weeks previous to the
commencement of our story, he had entered into an agreement with
his mother, to the effect, that as soon as he could lay by a sum
sufficient to support her and his brothers for two months, he was
to be allowed so go on a short voyage. This served as an incentive
to extra exertion, and Bob worked early and late to accomplish the
desired end. Every cent he earned, he placed in his mother’s hands;
and so impatient was he to save the amount required, that he reserved
not a penny for himself, but went about his work ragged, shoeless,
and almost hatless. How often, as he rowed by the elegant mansion in
which Tom Newcombe lived, had he given utterance to the wish that he
could find some way in which he might earn as much money as the rich
ship-owner allowed his son to spend foolishly every month. He was
confident that it would amount to double the sum required to support
his mother while he was gone on his first voyage, and would have
placed it in his power to enter upon his chosen work at once. Nearly
every day, as he pulled by in his leaky, flat-bottomed boat, he saw
Tom rolling about under the trees; and, when he drew a contrast
between their stations in life, it almost discouraged him.
Hearing Tom calling to him, Bob turned his boat toward the shore, and
in a few moments reached the spot where the young student was seated.
There was a great difference between the two boys. The rich man’s son
was neatly clad, while Bob was barefooted, wore a brimless hat on
his head, and his clothes were patched in a hundred places, and with
different kinds of cloth, so that it was almost an impossibility to
tell their original color. The fisher-boy thought his garments looked
worse than ever by thus being brought in contrast with those of the
well-dressed student, and he involuntarily seated himself on the
ground, with his feet under him, as if to hide them from the gaze of
his more fortunate companion. But the difference did not cease here.
About the one, there were virtues that could not be hidden by ragged
clothes; and in the other, there were glaring defects that made
themselves apparent in spite of his well-blacked boots and broadcloth
jacket; and, had a total stranger been standing by, with an errand he
wished promptly executed, the successful accomplishment of which was
of the utmost importance, he would, without hesitation, have selected
Bob as the more reliable. There was an honest, resolute look about
him, which showed that he was ready for any thing, and that he felt
within him the power to overcome all obstacles; while Tom had a
listless, die-away manner of moving and talking, that led one to
believe that he had been utterly exhausted by hard labor.
“You’re a lucky chap, Bob Jennings,” said Tom, at length, throwing
down his book rather spitefully, and seating himself on the grass
opposite the fisher-boy. “A most lucky chap.”
Bob looked down at his clothes, but made no reply.
“You have no arithmetic lesson to learn, as I have,” continued Tom.
“All you have to do is to row about in your boat all day, and be your
own master. That must be fun!”
For a moment Bob gazed at his companion in utter astonishment. Was it
fun that he was compelled to work day after day, through storm and
sunshine, and at such small wages that his mother could scarcely lay
by half a dollar a week? Was it fun for him to pull five miles down
the bay, in a leaky boat, and back, without catching a single fish,
as he had done that day? If there was any fun in that, the fisher-boy
thought he had never before understood the meaning of the word.
“No, I don’t see much sport in it,” answered Bob. “I call it
downright hard work, and so would you if you could trade places with
me for a few days. You are the one that sees all the fun. You have no
work to do.”
It was now Tom’s turn to be astonished. He started up in perfect
amazement, and looked at the fisher-boy for a moment without
speaking.
“I see all the fun, do I?” said he, when he had recovered somewhat
from his surprise. “Bob Jennings, let me tell you that you don’t know
what hard work is. Did your father ever tell you that he’d dust your
jacket for you if you didn’t get a difficult arithmetic lesson?”
“No,” answered, Bob, slowly.
“Well, that’s just what my father told me this morning,” continued
Tom, “and he also informed me that I can’t go to sea until I can add
up a column of figures, and tell him the capitals of all the States.
Now, that’s a harder job than you ever had laid out for you.”
The fisher-boy did not act as though he considered that a very
difficult task, for he brightened up, and said:
“I wish somebody would give me that job, and agree to support my
mother while I was at sea; I’d sign shipping articles in three days.
Don’t you want that book?” he added, as Tom picked up his arithmetic
and threw it down the bank toward the water, as if he wished it as
far as possible out of his sight. “If that book was mine I wouldn’t
fling it about that way. I’d study it and try to learn something.”
“Why, I thought you wanted to be a sailor,” said Tom.
“So I do. But I don’t want to be before the mast all my life. I want
to be captain; and I will, too, if I live to be a man.”
“So will I. I am going to be master of a full-rigged ship, like
the one that left port about two months ago. But what’s the use of
studying arithmetic?”
“Why, you can’t be captain until you understand navigation,” said
Bob; “and you can’t learn that unless you know something about
figures.”
As Tom heard this very disheartening piece of news, he stretched
himself at full length on the grass, drew on a long face, and twisted
his mouth on one side, as if he had half a mind to cry. He looked at
the fisher-boy a moment, then out over the bay, and finally drawled
out, “Then I can’t be a sailor! I didn’t know they had to study
arithmetic. I can’t learn it, and there’s no use in trying.”
As Tom said this, he happened to glance toward the gate, and saw his
father approaching. Remembering the whipping that had been promised
if he again failed in his lesson, he hastily sprang to his feet
and ran down the bank after his book; while Bob, thinking that the
gentleman regarded him rather suspiciously, retreated to his boat and
pulled toward home.
Mr. Newcombe always returned from his office at five o’clock; and
Tom, knowing that it was time to recite his lesson, applied himself
to his task with much more energy than he was accustomed to display.
But, as usual, his mind was upon something else; for, as he read
over the rule, he was pondering upon what the fisher-boy had told
him--that a sailor, in order to win promotion, must know something
about arithmetic. Here was another obstacle in his way. All that day
Tom had cherished the hope that he might, in some manner, be able
to avoid the task his father had imposed upon him, of committing to
memory the capitals of the different States, and learning to add
without counting his fingers; but here was something that could not
be got over. In building his air-castles (for he was continually
dreaming about something) he thought only of the happiness he
would experience when he should be able to grasp the object of
his ambition. He did not believe that whatever is worth having is
worth striving for! He never reflected upon the toil and privation
to which he must submit before he could work his way up from “boy”
to the responsible position of captain! Work! That was something he
never intended to do. His idea was, that, when he arrived at the
proper age, he would, in some mysterious manner, be placed in the
position at which he aimed, without the necessity of labor. He was
hopeful if he was unlucky; and, although he had suffered repeated
disappointments in the failure of his grand schemes, he clung to the
belief that, at some time during his life, something would “turn up”
in his favor, and that then he would have plain sailing. There was
but one way out of his present difficulty that he could discover,
and that was to hope that the fisher-boy was mistaken. What did
Bob Jennings--a boy who had never been to school three months in
his life--know about such things? He was just as liable to make
mistakes as any body; and Tom at first hoped, and ended with finally
believing, that Bob knew nothing about the matter.
As these thoughts passed through Tom’s mind, he was industriously
studying his lesson, but of course without comprehending one word
of it, and presently the ringing of a bell summoned him to the
school-room. The sound acted like a charm on Tom, for, as he arose
to his feet and walked slowly toward the house, he began to study
earnestly, and to such good advantage--for he learned very readily
when he set himself resolutely to work--that he began to hope he
might pass a creditable recitation. When he entered the school-room,
he found his father and the teacher waiting for him. A hasty glance
at the former served to convince him that the threatened whipping
would certainly be forthcoming if he failed, and just then he looked
upon himself as the most abused boy in the world. The recitation
commenced, and with considerable assistance from his teacher Tom
managed to blunder through his lesson, but it is certain that he
knew no more about it when he got through than he did when he began.
Although Mr. Newcombe was far from being satisfied, Tom escaped
without a whipping, and that was all he cared for.