TOM’S GAME CHICKENS.
The fisher-boy had not performed a very heroic nor yet very difficult
task in taking the Mystery safely into port; and Tom, when he had
straightened up and looked about him, began to feel ashamed of
himself. His pride, however, would not permit him to acknowledge that
he had acted cowardly; so, as soon as he saw that the vessel and
cargo were safe, he exclaimed:
“Well, we did bring her in all right, didn’t we, Bob? I knew we could
do it.”
Had the Mystery been a few minutes later in reaching her shelter, it
is probable that not even Bob could have saved her from being dashed
upon the shore; for, no sooner had they reached the cove, than the
storm burst forth in all its fury. The wind blew a perfect gale; the
waves broke upon the beach with deafening roars; the clouds were
lighted up with almost incessant flashes of lightning, which were
accompanied by terrific peals of thunder, that had the effect of
convincing Tom that, perhaps, they were not yet altogether safe.
The fisher-boy made no reply to Captain Newcombe’s remark; but, after
making the sloop’s painter fast to a tree on the shore, he hauled
down the mainsail and proceeded to spread it over the boat, to
protect the cargo, and also to afford them a shelter from the rain,
which soon began to fall in torrents. Captain Newcombe and his mate
then crawled under the sail; and, as was invariably the case with
Tom, when every thing did not go off smoothly, he began to grumble.
He was the most unlucky boy in the whole world, he said. Every one
else got along easily, and without the least trouble, but whenever he
attempted any thing, something always happened to bother him. He knew
he couldn’t be a trader before he commenced, and that would be his
last attempt at speculating. If Bob would give him fifteen dollars,
he might have the whole cargo, game chickens and all. He would sell
it for five dollars less than he had intended to ask for it, for the
sake of disposing of it then and there, as he was fully resolved to
retire from business. But fifteen dollars was a much larger amount
than the fisher-boy ever had in his possession at one time, and,
besides, (although he did not say so,) he was rather inclined to
believe that the cargo was not worth so much money.
At the end of two hours the storm was over, and the waves had abated
sufficiently to allow the Mystery to continue her voyage. Tom,
although he retained the name of captain, allowed the fisher-boy
to have things all his own way; and, when he found himself sailing
toward the village once more, he began to recover his usual spirits.
He again thought of his profits; how grand he would feel when he
should inform his father that he had made just ten dollars that day;
how all the boys of his acquaintance would envy him, and he finally
concluded that a traders life was not so bad after all.
Half an hour’s sail brought them to the village, and the fisher-boy,
in obedience to Captain Newcombe’s orders, landed on the beach at
his own home. As soon as the boat had been made fast to the shore,
Bob’s wagon, with its shrieking wooden wheels, was again brought into
requisition, and the fisher-boy began the work of discharging the
cargo. As the articles, one after another, were brought out on the
beach, Tom was astonished to discover that there was another incident
in the life of a trader of which he had never dreamed. It had never
occurred to him to think what he would do in case his cargo should be
damaged; but now the question was presented to him in such a manner
that it could not be avoided. He found that a great many of his eggs
were broken. No doubt the damage had been done, either while they
were going into the cove or coming out of it. The butter, also, was
not in as good condition as it was when they left the farm-house. The
rolls were broken, the cloth soiled, and the pail in which it was
packed, having, by some means become uncovered during the storm, was
half-filled with water. In fact, the only part of the cargo which
did not seem to be injured, was the rooster, which crowed loudly, as
Bob picked up the box and carried it to the shore. The fisher-boy
was dismayed, when he came to examine into the condition of things;
but Tom, who stood on the beach with his hands in his pockets, had
suddenly discovered a way out of his difficulty.
“Never mind, Bob,” said he; “I’ll charge more for the eggs that are
left than I intended to in the first place, and then I’ll sell those
game chickens if I can get three dollars apiece for them. That would
be--let me see--how much for the lot?”
“Nine dollars,” answered Bob.
“Well, I gave three dollars for them,” continued the young trader,
“and I shall make by the operation, just--just--let me think a
moment.”
“Six dollars,” said the fisher-boy.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Tom. “Then it will take (and here the young
trader, being deeply interested in his calculations, forgot himself,
and began to count his fingers) seven--eight--nine--ten. It will take
just four dollars more to make up the ten dollars. I shall certainly
clear that off the butter and eggs. Now, don’t you see where my ten
dollars profit is to come from?”
Although the fisher-boy answered in the affirmative, he did not quite
agree with Tom, for the thought occurred to him that, perhaps, he
might not be able to sell his chickens at such a high price. However,
he made no remark, and as soon as he had loaded his wagon with the
eggs, he started off for Mr. Henry’s store. Tom waited until he was
out of sight, and then went around by the wharf as before; and, when
he arrived at the grocery, Bob had already been there, unloaded his
wagon, and gone back to the boat after the rest of the cargo. The
grocer met the young trader as he entered the store, and, after
inquiring how he had weathered the storm, called one of the clerks to
count the eggs. Tom stood by, looking on, and relating his adventures
to the merchant--being very careful, however, not to say one word
about the disgraceful manner in which he had deserted his vessel and
crew in time of danger--and, when the eggs had all been counted, he
found that he had just fifteen dozen whole ones left; six dozen
had been broken during the storm. As the young trader stood looking
intently at the floor, trying his best to determine how much he ought
to ask for the eggs that were left, in order to make good what he
would lose on the broken ones, the fisher-boy returned, bringing the
game chickens and the butter.
“Those are fine looking chickens, Tom,” said the grocer. “How much do
you ask for them?”
“Three dollars apiece!” was the answer.
“Three dollars apiece!” repeated the merchant, in surprise. “You mean
three dollars for the lot.”
“No I don’t,” replied Tom. “I mean just what I said--three dollars
apiece--nine dollars for the lot.”
“That’s too much! You surely did not give that price for them?”
“Of course not!” replied Tom. “If I had, I wouldn’t sell them for
that. I want to make something, don’t I?”
“Certainly! But you want to make too much. I’ll give you fifty cents
apiece for them.”
“No, sir!” said Tom, emphatically. “I can’t sell them for a cent less
than three dollars each.”
“What makes them so valuable?” asked the grocer.
“Why, they’re first-class game chickens,” replied Tom. “Don’t you
want them?”
“Not at your price. I am not speculating in game chickens now.”
“Well, _I_ am,” said the young trader. “They are worth three dollars
apiece to me, and I’ll keep them before I’ll sell them for a cent
less.”
While this conversation was going on, one of the clerks had weighed
the butter, and, when Mr. Henry had been informed of the number of
pounds, he leaned his elbows on the counter and said:
“Now, then, Tom, you have fifteen dozen eggs and ten pounds of
butter. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct; but I’d like to have you take those game
chickens.”
“I can’t give your price for them,” repeated the grocer. “Now, how
much are the eggs and butter worth?”
The young trader did not know what reply to make to this question,
for the breaking of six dozen of his eggs, and Mr. Henry’s refusal to
take his chickens at three dollars each, had completely upset all his
calculations. He wanted to make ten dollars by his day’s work, but he
did not know how much to ask for the eggs and butter to clear that
amount. He would have been very much relieved could he have had a few
moment’s conversation with the fisher-boy; but, by such a proceeding,
he would certainly show his ignorance, and that was something he did
not wish to do. He could see but one way to act; so, after looking
about the store for a moment, and putting on a serious face, as if
busily engaged in making calculations, he turned to the grocer and
asked:
“What do you think my cargo is worth?”
“Well,” was the answer, “although that butter is rather mussed up, I
will give you full price for it--thirteen cents a pound.”
Down came all the bright hopes of the young trader, who started back
from the counter in astonishment, and looked at the grocer as if he
could hardly believe that he had heard aright.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mr. Henry.
“Thirteen--did--did you say _thirteen_ cents a pound for that
butter?” Tom almost gasped.
“Exactly! Butter is very plenty now, and that is all it is
worth--thirteen cents.”
Tom was now convinced that the merchant was in earnest; and so
astounded and vexed was he to discover that his grand attempt at
speculating had failed, that it was with the greatest difficulty that
he could refrain from crying.
“Did you pay more than that?” asked Mr. Henry, who plainly saw what
was the matter.
“O, yes,” drawled Tom, “I paid more than that. I paid too much.”
“Prices have fallen lately, you know,” said the grocer.
“Then I’ll keep that butter until they rise again,” said Tom, in
desperation. “How much do you pay for eggs?”
“Ten cents,” was the answer.
“O, no,” drawled Tom. “I can’t sell for that.”
The store was full of customers; and at this moment the grocer left
Tom, to attend to the wants of a gentleman, who appeared to be in a
great hurry to transact his business, and the young trader determined
to seize the opportunity to do a little calculating. He knew that if
he accepted the price offered by the merchant, he would be a heavy
loser, and he was anxious to know the full extent of his losses.
Beckoning to the fisher-boy to follow him toward the office, he
whispered:
“I am afraid I can’t make _quite_ ten dollars, aint you? Now ten
pounds of butter, at thirteen cents a pound, that makes--let me see.”
“A dollar and thirty cents,” said the fisher-boy.
“O, I can’t sell that good butter for such a small price as that,”
whined Tom. “That farmer swindled me, didn’t he? He said that butter
was the best in the country. And now, fifteen dozen eggs, at ten
cents a dozen, that makes--just--”
“A dollar and a half,” said Bob.
“And that makes the butter and eggs worth--worth--”
“Two dollars and eighty cents,” said the fisher-boy, who knew that
he was expected to do all the calculating; “and you paid six dollars
and ninety cents for your cargo, taking out the price of your game
chickens. So you lose just four dollars and ten cents.”
“O, that’s too much!” said Tom. “If I was to lose that every day,
that would be--let me see--how much a week?”
“Almost twenty-five dollars,” said Bob.
“That’s too much!” exclaimed Tom, again. “I can’t afford to lose
that. I’ll keep my things until prices rise again. Bob, put the cargo
into your wagon, and take it up to the house. I knew I couldn’t
be a speculator. I’m the most unlucky boy in the whole world, and
something’s always happening to bother me.”
Tom was now thoroughly disgusted with trading, and he resolved that,
as long as he lived, he never would attempt it again. As he started
to leave the store, the grocer inquired:
“Well, what do you say?”
“I say I can’t sell at your prices,” was the answer; and, in a moment
more, Tom was taking long steps toward his home. He did not stop to
speak to any of his numerous acquaintances he met on the streets,
for fear they might ask him how he was succeeding in business; and
not until he reached home, and closed the gate behind him, did he
feel safe. As he walked slowly toward the house, he glanced in at the
door, and saw his father, seated in the library, reading his paper,
and Tom knew that he still had a most difficult task to perform. Mr.
Newcombe, of course, would want to know all the particulars of the
voyage; and, at that moment, the young trader would have given even
his game chickens to be able to avoid the interview. But that was
impossible, for his father discovered him as he came up the lawn, and
called him into the house. Tom obeyed, and the moment he entered the
room, Mr. Newcombe saw at a glance that he had made another failure.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “I suppose you have cleared a small fortune
to-day?”
“O, no, I haven’t, either,” whined the discouraged young trader. “I’m
afraid I shall lose lots of money. Didn’t I tell you I couldn’t be a
speculator?”
“Did you allow somebody to cheat you?” asked the merchant.
Tom saw that his father was determined to know all about the matter,
and thinking that the sooner it was over with the better, he drew his
memorandum-book from his pocket, and turned to the bill he had made
out. His feelings, as he presented it, were very different from what
he had that morning imagined they would be. Then, he was confident
that he should be able to tell his father he had made money by his
day’s work; instead of that he had been a heavy loser.
Mr. Newcombe took the book, and as he glanced over the list of
articles that had comprised Tom’s cargo, he saw in an instant where
his son had made his mistake.
“What’s this!” he exclaimed, “twenty-one dozen eggs, at--why, Tom,
twenty cents for eggs!”
The unpleasant interview was over much sooner than the young trader
had expected. His father did not read all the bill, but, closing the
book, returned it to Tom, and resumed his reading. He saw that his
son was in no humor to talk about what he had done, nor to listen to
advice regarding his future operations.
Tom, who had expected a long lecture, was glad, indeed, to escape so
easily, and, putting the book into his pocket, he walked out of the
house, and started toward the barn, where he sat down to think over
his day’s experience, and to await the arrival of the fisher-boy.
The latter came at length, with his wagon loaded with eggs. A place
was cleared for them in one end of the oat-bin, and there they were
packed away to remain until the market prices should rise. Bob
then returned to the store, and, in due time, came back with the
butter and the game chickens. The butter was also packed away in the
oat-bin, the cover of which was closed and fastened.
“There!” exclaimed Tom, “that’s all right. I haven’t lost my money
yet. Eggs and butter will be higher next winter, and then I’ll show
you a trick or two in speculating. Now, the next thing is to drive
all father’s chickens into the hen-house, and shut them up. I want to
let my game rooster out.”
But driving the chickens into the hen-house was a much harder task
than the boys had anticipated. Having no desire to be shut up before
night, they found secure retreats under the barn; and, after half an
hour’s chase, during which only one solitary hen was captured, Tom’s
patience was exhausted.
“Never mind them, Bob!” he exclaimed, panting hard after his long
run. “We have tried to put them out of harm’s way, and now they must
look out for themselves. If they knew what they were about, they
would get into that hen-house as soon as possible. Now, Bob,” he
continued, as he stood with a hammer in his hand ready to knock the
bars off the box in which the rooster was confined, “we must name
this fellow before we let him out. What shall we call him?”
Bob proposed several names which he thought would be appropriated,
but they did not suit Tom, who finally said he wanted to call his
chicken after some great general.
“Name him Washington, then,” said the fisher-boy.
“That’s the name!” exclaimed Tom. “Come out here, General
Washington,” and, with a few blows of the hammer, he knocked off the
bars, when out walked the rooster and the two hens.
They seemed to be well satisfied with their new quarters; and the
rooster, as if to carry out the designs of his master, flapped his
wings and crowed, to announce to all the fowls within hearing that he
had come there to take possession.
He had a pair of good lungs, and Tom fully expected that his crowing
would be sufficient to frighten every thing in the yard into
submission, and that the General would be permitted to assume the
honors of champion without a single battle. But the old residents of
the barn-yard had no intention of allowing the new-comer to lord it
over them, for scarcely had Washington ceased his crowing, when an
answer came from under the barn, and, the next moment, out popped a
very small specimen of a bantam, bristling all over with rage and
excitement.
“Drive him back, Bob!” shouted Tom; “drive him back! He’s too small!
He’ll certainly get hurt!”
But the bantam had not come out there to be driven back. Dodging
the cap which Tom threw at him, he spread his wings, thrust out his
neck, and made at the intruder as if he meant to annihilate him on
the spot. Washington was evidently astonished. He stood perfectly
still, looking at his diminutive antagonist first with one eye, then
with the other, and, just as Tom was expecting to see him assume the
offensive, and drive the bantam from the field, the General uttered
one long, deep cackle, and turned and took to his heels.
This was the last feather on the camel’s back. Every thing had gone
wrong with Tom that day. He had been offered ten cents a dozen for
eggs for which he had paid twenty cents, and had been assured that
the butter for which he had given twenty-two cents was worth only
thirteen, and he had, as he imagined, borne up bravely under it all.
But to stand there and see his game rooster--one for which he had
paid a dollar, and of which he had hoped such great things--to see
him disgracefully leave the field when faced by an antagonist that
he could almost swallow--that was too much; and Tom, filled with
disappointment and vexation, seated himself on the ground and cried
aloud.