TIM’S START IN LIFE.
During the first day of Tim’s stay at the Simpson farm he was careful
to help in every kind of work, and many were the praises he won from
Mrs. Simpson, who held him up as an example to Sam until that young man
almost felt sorry he had brought him there.
At night Tim went with Sam for the cow, and here it was that Tip made
a most miserable failure, so far as showing that he was a valuable dog
was concerned.
Sam, remembering how easily the dog had found the cow the night before,
wanted to wait by the bars and let Tip go in and bring her out, and Tim
was obliged to tell him that his pet had not been trained to do that.
Then Sam put on an injured air, as if his mistake had come from
something Tim had said, rather than being an idea from his own rather
thick head.
That night the boys and the dog went again to Mr. Coburn’s store; not
because Tim proposed to spend any of his two dollars, but because there
was a great fascination about the place for Sam. He delighted to lounge
around there, at a time when he ought to have been in bed, listening to
the conversation of older loafers, believing he was gaining wisdom and
an insight into the ways of the world at the same time.
On that particular night there were not so many of the noble army
of loafers present as usual, and the conversation was so dull that
Mr. Coburn found plenty of time to question Tim as to every little
particular about himself.
Tim saw no reason why he should gratify the store-keeper’s curiosity,
and perhaps let some one know his story who would think it his duty to
send information to Captain Babbige, so he contented himself by simply
saying that he had come there in the hope of getting some work to do.
“Want to work, do yer?” asked a stout man, with a very red face and
gruff voice, who had been listening to the conversation.
“Yes, sir,” replied Tim, a trifle awed by the gruffness of the voice.
“What can you do?” and the red-faced man now turned to have a better
view.
“’Most anything, sir.”
“Where are yer folks?”
“My father an’ mother are dead,” said Tim, sadly, as he stooped to pat
Tip’s head in a loving way.
“Well, now, see here,” and the man took Tim by the arm, as if he was
about to examine his muscle: “I’m the captain of a steamboat that runs
out of the city, and I want just such a boy as you are to work ’round
at anything. I’ll give you three dollars a month and find you. What do
you say to it? Will you come?”
Tim was not exactly certain what the gruff-voiced man meant when he
said he would pay him so much money and “find him,” and he hesitated
about answering until he could understand it.
Mr. Coburn thought it was the wages that prevented a speedy acceptance
of the brilliant offer, and he hastened to show his friendliness to the
captain by saying:
“Such offers as them don’t grow on every bush, sonny, an’ you had
better take it. I’ve known Captain Pratt a good many years, an’ I know
he will treat you just as if he was your father. Three dollars is a
good deal of money for a little shaver like you.”
Tim looked at Sam for a moment doubtfully, and then he thought of what
Mr. Simpson had said about his remaining at the farm.
“Can I take Tip with me?”
“Oh, that’s your dog, is it? He hain’t a very handsome one; but I
suppose you can find a chance for him somewhere on the boat――yes, you
can take him.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“All right. I shall start from this store to-morrow morning at ten
o’clock. Will you be here?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tim, and then he beckoned Sam to go out. He had
made up his mind suddenly, and now that it was too late to draw back he
wanted to talk the matter over, and hear what Sam had to say about it.
There was no need for him to have feared that Sam did not look with
favor upon the plan, for before they were out of sight of the loungers
in the store that young man burst out in an envious tone:
“Well, you are the awfullest luckiest feller I ever heard of! Here
you’ve gone an’ got a chance to run a steamboat, where you won’t have
anything to do but jest sail ’round wherever you want to. I wish it
was me that was going.”
If Tim had been in doubt before as to the wisdom of the step he was
about to take, he was perfectly satisfied now that Sam was so delighted
with it, and he began to think that perhaps he had been fortunate.
Mr. Simpson did not seem to think the opening in life which had been
so suddenly discovered for Tim was so very brilliant, and Mrs. Simpson
actually looked as if she felt sorry. But, as neither of them made any
objection to it, or offered the boy a home with them, there was nothing
to prevent him from carrying out the agreement he had made.
At a very early hour on the following morning Tim was up and dressed.
Sam’s glowing pictures of the happy life he was about to lead had so
excited him that he was anxious to begin it at once, and his sleep had
been troubled by dreams of life on a steamboat under all kinds of
possible and impossible circumstances.
Mr. Simpson gave him twenty-five cents as a nest-egg to the fortune he
was about to make; and when Mrs. Simpson packed a generous lunch for
him he choked up so badly that it was only with the greatest difficulty
he could thank her for her kindness.
“Be a good boy, and never do anything to be ashamed of,” was the good
lady’s parting charge, and he answered:
“I’ll try hard, so’s you sha’n’t be sorry you was so good to me.”
Sam walked toward the store with him, while as lonely and envious a
feeling as he ever knew came over him as he thought of all the things
Tim would see, simply because he had neither home nor parents, while
he, who had both, was obliged to remain where he could see nothing.
“I wish it was me that was goin’,” he said, with a sigh of envy.
“If I had as good a home as you’ve got I wouldn’t want to go away,”
replied Tim, gravely; and yet Sam had talked so much about the charms
of the life he was so soon to lead that he had already begun to look
upon himself as a very fortunate boy, and was impatient to begin his
work at once.
The walk to Mr. Coburn’s store was not a long one; and although they
were there fully half an hour before the time agreed upon, they found
Captain Pratt ready and waiting for them. In fact, it seemed almost as
if he feared his new boy, however unimportant the position he was to
occupy, would not keep the agreement he had made.
“I’m glad to see you on hand early, for it’s a good sign,” and the
captain’s face was wreathed in what he intended should be a pleasing
smile, but which really was an ugly grimace.
Tim hardly knew what reply to make, for that smile caused him to feel
very uncomfortable; but he managed to say that he would always try to
be on time, and the captain, in the excess of his good nature, gave him
such a forcibly friendly slap on the shoulder that his teeth chattered.
In order to reach the city from the four corners where Mr. Pratt lived
it was necessary to ride four miles in a carriage, and then take the
steam cars.
An open wagon was the mode of conveyance; and as the driver was quite
large, while Captain Pratt was no small party, there was no other
way for Tim to ride save curled up in the end, where he could keep a
lookout for Tip, who was, of course, to follow on behind as fast as his
short legs would permit.
When everything was ready for the start, and Captain Pratt was making
some final business arrangements with Mr. Coburn, Sam bade Tim good-bye.
“You’re awful lucky,” he said, as he clambered up on the wagon, where
he could whisper in his friend’s ear; “an’ if you see any place for me
on the steamer, send word right up――you can tie a note on Tip’s collar
an’ send him up with it――an’ I’ll come right down.”
Sam would have said more, but the horse started; he nearly tumbled from
his perch, and Tim’s journey to the city had begun.
It seemed to Tim that Captain Pratt changed as soon as they started.
Instead of keeping up the idea of fatherly benevolence, which he had
seemed to be full to running over with, he spoke sharply, and did not
try to avoid hurting the boy’s feelings.
If, when the wagon jolted over the rough road, the boy’s head came in
contact with his arm, which was thrown across the back of the seat, he
would tell him to keep down where he belonged; and if he heard Tim’s
heels knocking against the axle, he would scold him for not holding
them up.
Between this sudden change in the kind captain’s ways and his fear that
Tip would not be able to keep up with the wagon, Tim was feeling rather
sad when the depot was reached.
During the ride on the cars Captain Pratt took very little notice of
Tim, and when they arrived at the depot he simply said:
“Here boy, go down to Pier 43, and tell the steward of the _Pride of
the Wave_ that I’ve hired you, and get to work.”
Tim had no more idea of where Pier 43 was than he had of the location
of the Cannibal Islands, but he started out with a great show of pluck,
yet with a heavy heart.
With Tip following close at his heels, Tim walked some distance without
seeing either wharves or water, and then he inquired the way.
The first gentleman to whom he spoke was a stranger in the city, and
knew no more about it than he did; the second directed him in such a
confusing way that he went almost opposite to where he should have
gone; but the third one gave him the directions so clearly that he had
no farther trouble in reaching the desired place.
The _Pride of the Wave_ was not a large boat, and to any one accustomed
to steamers would have seemed very shabby; but to Tim she appeared like
a veritable floating palace, and it was some time before he dared to
venture on board of her.
Finally he saw one of the deck hands, who, despite his dirty clothes,
did not appear to be awed by the magnificence of the boat, and Tim
asked him where he should find the steward.
The man told him to go below, and, with Tip still close at his heels,
he went down the brass-covered stairs to the cabin, which was lined
with berths on either side, wondering at all he saw, until he almost
forgot why he was there.
He was soon startled out of this state of wonderment, however, by
hearing a gruff voice shout:
“Now, then, youngster, what do _you_ want?”
“I want to see the steward,” replied Tim, in a voice which could hardly
be heard.
“I’m the steward. Now what else do you want?” replied the party who had
spoken first, and who was a little, old, rather pleasant-faced man,
with a voice about six sizes too large for his body.
Tim repeated the captain’s words as nearly as he could remember them,
and the steward looked him over carefully, with just the faintest show
of pity on his face.
“You don’t look as if you’d stand it very long to work for the captain
of this boat; but that’s none of my business. Whose dog is that?”
“That’s Tip: he’s mine.”
“You’d better take him ashore. The captain ain’t over and above fond of
dogs, and he won’t be likely to fall in love with one as ugly as that.”
“But he told me I could find a place for him somewhere on the boat,”
said Tim, quickly, alarmed even at the suggestion that he part with
Tip.
“Did he tell you so before or after he hired you?”
“Before I agreed to come he said I could keep Tip with me,” replied
Tim, wondering at the question.
“Then he’ll forget he ever said so; and if you think anything of the
dog, you’d better leave him on shore.”
“But I can’t,” cried Tim, piteously, his eyes filling with tears.
“Tip’s the only relation I’ve got, an’ there’s no place where he could
go.”
Tim’s distress touched the man’s heart, evidently, for he said, after a
moment’s thought:
“Then you must find some place on board where the captain won’t be
likely to see him, for he would throw him overboard in a minute if he
took the notion. Come with me.”
The steward led the way to the bows of the boat, where the freight was
stored, and after looking about some time, pointed out a little space
formed by some water barrels.
“You’d better tie him in there for a while, and then, if you are going
to stay very long on the boat, give him away.”
“But the captain said I might keep him with me,” cried Tim, fearing to
leave Tip in so desolate a place.
“Well”――and now the steward began to grow impatient――“you can try
keeping him with you if you want to run the risk, but I promise you the
captain will make quick work of him if he sees him.”
Tim hesitated a moment, and then, stooping down, he kissed Tip on the
nose, whispering to him:
“I wouldn’t leave you here if I could help it, Tip; but be a good dog,
an’ we’ll have it fixed somehow pretty soon.”
Tip licked his master’s face in reply, but did not appear to understand
the command to be a good dog; for when the rope was put around his
neck he began to howl dolefully, and his cries went straight to Tim’s
heart, inflicting as much pain as a blow on his flesh.
With the tears dropping very fast from his eyes, Tim tied Tip in the
narrow place which was to serve him as home, at least until Captain
Pratt’s intentions concerning him could be known, and then returned to
the cabin as the steward had told him.
But as he started to go Tip looked up at him so piteously, uttering a
whine that sounded in Tim’s ears so sad, that he ran back, knelt down
by his dumb friend, and kissed him over and over again, saying, as he
did so:
“Do be good, Tip. You don’t know how bad it makes me feel to have to
leave you here, an’ I’d do anything in the world to have you go with me
every step I take; but you’ve got to stay here, Tip, an’ I’ve got to
leave you.”
Then, as the dog whined again, he cried, passionately: “Oh, what
lonesome things we are, Tip! an’ we ain’t got anybody but each other in
all this wide world;” and, with both arms around Tip’s neck, he gave
way to a perfect flood of tears.
“Now, _do_ be good, Tip, an’ don’t make me feel so bad,” he said, as he
wiped his eyes on the dog’s head, and prepared once more to leave him.
It seemed almost as if the dog understood what his master had said,
for he stopped whining, and made no sound, but kept wagging his little
stump of a tail till Tim did not dare to look at him any longer.
He turned resolutely away, and, with eyes still blinded with tears,
walked down into the cabin, where he was soon busily engaged in the not
very pleasant occupation of cleaning knives.