IN CONCLUSION.
Every one knew that Tip’s life depended on their getting home quickly,
and all the strength they could command was expended on the oars to
such purpose that in a trifle more than two hours the boat was moored
alongside Dunham’s wharf again.
Without stopping for anything, the entire party followed Tim and Bill
to Dr. Abbott’s office, and there they could hardly prevent themselves
from cheering when the doctor told them that Tip’s injuries were by no
means serious, and that he would soon be well, although it was possible
that he might always be lame in one hind-leg.
The shots were soon extracted, and Tip taken to the most comfortable
spot in Mr. Tucker’s barn, where it is safe to say he did not suffer
from want of attention.
That night, after Bobby and Tim had told the story of their camping-out,
Mr. Tucker thoroughly frightened them by saying that on the next day he
was going to take Tim back to Selman, to see Captain Babbige.
Tim’s face grew very pale, and it was plain to be seen that he was in
the greatest terror, while Bobby was thrown into a perfect fever of
excitement.
“I am not going to leave you there, Tim, if I can help it, for I intend
to do by you as I would some one should do by my Bobby if I had been
called to meet the Great Father. As matters now stand, you have no
right to be here, nor I to keep you; for Captain Babbige is your lawful
guardian, whom I hope you did not leave without sufficient cause.
To-morrow night we will start for Selman, and there the law shall
decide whether you may not be permitted to choose another guardian.”
Bobby caught eagerly at the idea that Tim would soon return, with a
perfect right to stay on Minchin’s Island; but the homeless boy took
a more gloomy view of the case. He felt certain that Captain Babbige
would force him to remain with him, and the future now looked as dark
as a day or two before it had looked bright.
So positive did he feel that he should not be allowed to return that if
Tip’s wound had been any less severe he would have taken him with him;
but as it was he made Bobby promise faithfully to send him as soon as
he should be able to travel.
The next day, when the boy population of Minchin’s Island learned that
Tim was to be taken back to the man who had abused him so cruelly, they
held a sort of indignation meeting back of Mr. Tucker’s barn, where
the matter was discussed.
Some of the more excitable among them proposed that, since the steamer
on which Tim was to leave would not touch at the island until nearly
six o’clock, there was plenty of time for him to run away again, making
it impossible for Mr. Tucker to take him back. They argued that he
could build himself a hut in the woods, where, protected by Tip, he
could live the jolliest kind of a life, and they could all come to see
him, as summer boarders.
But Tim rejected all such counsel, giving good reason for doing so:
“Mr. Tucker says I ought not have run away in the first place, and I
s’pose he knows, though it does seem hard to have to stay where folks
are so awful ugly to you. Now he says I must go back, an’ I wouldn’t be
any kind of a feller if I run away from him after he’s been so good to
me. I’d like to go out in the woods to live, if it wouldn’t rain any,
and I’d do anything rather than go back to Selman; but Mr. Tucker says
I ought to go, an’ I’m goin’, whatever Captain Babbige does to me.”
Every boy present knew that Tim was right, and those who had first
advised him felt ashamed of having done so, while all united in
cheering him for his resolution, until Tip, awakened by the noise,
barked loudly, which to Tim’s mind at least was proof that he approved
of his master’s decision.
That night Tim was escorted to the steamer by a large number of boys,
and while he was on the wharf he felt reasonably brave, even though
he was obliged to pass directly in front of Captain Pratt. But when
the steamer left the dock, and the cheers of the boys died away in the
distance, he fully expected to be summoned to the wheel-house.
But Captain Pratt paid no attention to him, and on the following day
Selman was reached without any incident worthy of mention.
There Tim was never exactly certain how the matter was arranged. He
knew that he was taken into court almost as if he had been a criminal,
that many questions were asked him by the judge, and that a number of
gentlemen whom he knew told of the ill-treatment he had received from
Captain Babbige.
Then it seemed as if Mr. Tucker had been accused of something, for
he told about his business and himself, and showed a great number of
letters from people on Minchin’s Island, all speaking of him as a kind
and good man.
Captain Babbige was there, apparently in a very uncomfortable frame of
mind, and he spoke to Tim in the kindest manner possible, asking if he
hadn’t always treated him as a son.
Tim was not sure how fathers did treat sons, except in one or two
cases; but he told the captain of what he had said about wanting him
to die, and then coaxed the judge――oh, so hard!――to let him go back
with Mr. Tucker.
Then some other people had a good deal to say, and the judge talked
some more; after they were all through Mr. Tucker told Tim it had been
decided he could go back to Minchin’s Island.
Tim’s delight was so great that it seemed impossible for him to keep
his feet on the ground, and when he was back at the island again, in
the midst of the crowd of boys who had come to welcome him for the
second time, his joy found vent in words.
And when Tim got into Mr. Tucker’s house, where Bobby cheered until
he was hoarse, and Mrs. Tucker kissed him again and again, he found
it impossible even to speak, because of a great lump in his throat,
which was not caused by sorrow; but he said over and over again to
himself that no one should regret in the man what they had done for the
homeless orphan boy.
TOM’S TROUBLES
BY JAMES OTIS
I.
“It’s no use, boys; I can’t stand it any longer”; and Tom Gibson leaned
against the fence in front of four of his most intimate friends,
assuming such an attitude as he believed should be taken by a very
badly abused boy.
“What is it now?” asked little Dwight Holden, in a very unsympathetic
tone, much as if he did not believe Tom’s troubles to be so very severe.
“It’s the same thing every day till I’m all worn out,” and Tom wiped
his dry eyes with his jacket-sleeve, more to show how heavy his heart
was than from any necessity. “I have to ’tend to that ugly baby every
time when there’s a good game of ball or I spy going on; an’ if it
does happen that I get out for a day’s fun, I have to lug wood an’
water after I get home till my arms are just ready to drop off. But I’m
through now an’ that’s all there is to it.”
“What’ll you do?” and Kirk Masters continued to eat a very small and
very green apple in a way that showed how much more intent he was upon
his limited feast than upon his friend’s wrongs.
“I know what I _can_ do,” said Tom, with a shake of his head that was
intended should convey the idea of great mystery, and in this attempt
he was remarkably successful. His friends had heard of his troubles
before and it was an old story, but the fact that he had formed some
plan which he intended should be kept a secret was sufficient to arouse
all their curiosity. Dwight was as eager as he had been apathetic,
Kirk’s apple seemed suddenly to have lost its flavor, and the entire
group of boys gathered around Tom very closely, as if fearful lest
they should lose some portion of the wonderful secret they were certain
he was about to tell them.
“I am not sure that I dare to tell you,” said Tom, in a mysterious
whisper, and the boys knew at once that he was ready to tell them all.
“You see, if my folks should know what I’m going to do, that would
spoil everything.”
“But what _are_ you going to do?” persisted Kirk, whose interest in his
apple was now wholly gone.
“Promise that you won’t ever tell.”
In an instant every boy had vowed that he would keep the secret, and,
after assuring himself that there was no other person near who might
hear him, Tom began:
“I’m going to run away.”
The little circle of listeners gazed at the bold boy in almost
breathless astonishment, and Tom, fully enjoying the sensation he had
caused, continued his story after first pausing sufficiently long to
note the effect which his announcement had upon his hearers.
“Yes, I’m going, and you just better believe that I’ll go so far away
that nobody’ll ever find me. I’ve stood this working around home just
as long as I can, and I’ll show my folks what it is to treat a boy the
way they’ve treated me.”
“But where are you going, Tom?”
“That part of it I’m not going to tell,” said Tom, with a decided shake
of the head, preferring to seem cruel rather than confess that he had
no idea as to where he should go to escape the tyranny of his parents.
“I’ll leave here some night, hide under the bridge at Rankin’s brook
till morning, and then go to some place where none of the folks around
here will ever find me.”
“But what makes you hide under Rankin’s bridge all night?” asked Dwight
Holden, curiously.
“So’s I’ll be ready to start just as soon’s it’s daylight, of course.”
“I don’t see what you want to do that for,” persisted Dwight. “You
could sleep at home all night and then start from there as early as you
wanted to. Nobody would think of stopping you, for they’d believe you
were just going to the pasture.”
Tom was puzzled, just for an instant, as to how he should answer the
question, and then realizing that it would never do for a boy who was
about to run away from home to confess that he did not fully understand
his own plans he answered, with a great show of dignity:
“Don’t you bother. I think I know what I’m about. I’ve got to sleep
under Rankin’s bridge the night I run away or else the thing wouldn’t
work.”
The vagueness of the plan gave it a greater charm in the eyes of Tom’s
friends. If it had been a simple scheme of running away, and they
had understood it in all its details, it would have seemed dull and
commonplace compared to what it was when it was so essential that Tom
should sleep under the bridge the night previous to his leaving home
forever.
Tom Gibson thoroughly enjoyed the sensation he was causing, and was by
no means disposed to leave his friends before whom he was posing as a
hero. He did his best to be mysterious both in speech and action, and
would have continued to throw out vague hints as to his plans all the
afternoon had not one of his oppressors――his mother――called him into
the house to perform some one of the many tasks which he believed was
wearing his young life away.
It is quite possible, if the whole truth could be known, that Tom had
not fully made up his mind to run away from his comfortable home when
he first broached the subject to his friends; but they had looked upon
him as such a hero from the first moment he mentioned it that he
decided it was necessary for him to go.
“I’ll keep on doing what she tells me to, so that folks will see how
hard I have to work,” he muttered to himself as he left the boys and
went toward the house, “and then when I’m off so far that nobody knows
where I am mother’ll be sorry she made me work so hard.”
As a matter of course, however, Tom’s friends met him, after he had
announced his determination of leaving home, they made inquiries as
to the carrying out of his plan, and this was so pleasant to the
dissatisfied and abused young man that he put off taking the final step
as long as possible. In fact, he delayed so long that Dwight Holden
plainly said one day that he did not believe Tom had ever intended to
run away, but that he had said so simply for the purpose of “making
himself look big.”
From that day he set about making his preparations for departure in
earnest, telling his friends that on the following Tuesday he would
disappear, never to be seen in Sedgwick again, unless he should decide,
many years later, to come back as a wealthy gentleman, to see how much
the town had suffered by his absence.
Since he would be obliged to walk a good portion of the distance to the
place where his fortune was to be made, he was forced to leave out of
the bundle he was making up many of his valuables because of their size
and weight. A toy engine, a glass pen and holder, two rubber balls, a
large collection of marbles (agates and alleys), a folding kite frame,
three odd skates, a lodestone, and two mouth harmonicas made up the
list of treasures that could be carried, and these were carefully
packed in an old army blanket. He had saved cookies, gingerbread, and
choice pieces of pie until he had as much as he believed would suffice
as food for a week, and this he intended to carry in a paper parcel in
his hand.
Every arrangement had been made. The day Tom had set for his departure
came so quickly that it seemed as if there must have been some mistake
in the almanac, and two or three days had been lost. Tom met his
friends, acted the part of a hero before them until it was so late that
each one had been obliged to go home, and then he, having bidden each
one in turn a solemn good-by, was compelled to carry out the plan he
had laid.
It is certain that at the moment his friends left him Tom was
thoroughly sorry he had ever said anything about running away. He had
suddenly come to understand what it was to be alone, and he by no
means fancied the sensation. At that moment his troubles which were
obliging him to leave home did not seem to be nearly so great as they
had been a few days before; his home had never appeared so cheerful
as now when he was leaving it, and he actually began to hope that some
insurmountable obstacle would occur to prevent his running away.
The tears filled his eyes as he crept softly up the back stairs,
wishing so much that he could kiss his mother and sister good-by,
wishing that he had never thought of going, but fully believing that
it would be unmanly not to do so, and that his schoolmates would laugh
at him if he should abandon the scheme before he had even attempted to
carry it into execution.
He hoped the stairs would creak so loudly that his mother would come
to see what the matter was and discover him leaving the house with his
bundles, but when he came down there was hardly a sound. He was out of
the house without, apparently, having been discovered, and his heart
was very heavy as he walked slowly around the yard to the gate, with a
long, lonely journey before him and with no idea as to where would be
the end.
He had opened the gate and was taking a farewell look at the house,
when, to his great delight, the front door was opened and he saw his
mother. He would surely be called back now, he thought, and his friends
could not accuse him of having been afraid to carry out his plans.
“So you are really going to run away, are you, Tommy?” said his mother,
who did not appear in the least surprised by his intended departure.
“Yes’m,” replied Tom, in a _very_ low tone, feeling foolish and at the
same time wondering whether his secret had been betrayed by his friends.
“Well,” continued Mrs. Gibson, speaking in a matter-of-fact way and as
if the subject was an indifferent one to her, “if you feel that you
must go, I see no reason why you should not have left the house in the
daytime; but of course you know best. I noticed that you did not pack
any of your clothes, so I put the most of them in this satchel, which
I think you will find more convenient than that bundle.”
Tom didn’t want to accept the satchel his mother held out to him; but
there seemed to be no other course to pursue, and he took it, feeling
as he did so that if his mother had loved him very dearly she would
have boxed his ears severely, ordering him at the same time to come
back into the house.
“Your father said he heard that Captain Harrison was ready to sail,
and knowing that you have decided to sleep under Rankin’s bridge we
concluded that you were going with him, since the vessel is in the
river just below there.”
Tommy’s heart was so full that he could not speak. Instead of being
told to come into the house and behave himself, as he would have been
only too glad to do, here was his mother actually helping him to run
away, and talking as if she thought it was the best course he could
pursue.
“I suppose you are in a hurry, Tommy,” said Mrs. Gibson, kindly, “so I
won’t detain you. We shall be glad to see you if you should conclude to
come back here. Good-by. I hope you will enjoy yourself better than you
ever could at home.”
The door was closed, and the almost broken-hearted runaway could do no
less than continue his flight, out of which all the romance had been
taken.
II.
As Tom walked from the house he was in a very uncomfortable frame of
mind. He felt that his mother had been unkind in allowing him to do as
he had at first wanted to do, and that if she had really loved him she
would have obliged him to come back. He felt as if he had been wronged
because he had not been punished severely, and he was fully convinced
that he had made a mistake when he had decided that the only thing he
could do was to run away.
There was no possible excuse for him to return. If his mother had not
seen him, he believed he would have sneaked back into the house and
have borne all the jeers of his schoolmates because he had “backed
out.” But he decided that he could not even do that now, and that it
was absolutely necessary for him to go on as he had begun.
“How I wish I hadn’t started!” he said to himself as he trudged along
toward Rankin’s brook, his bundles growing heavier each moment. “She
told me about Captain Harrison’s going away to-morrow, so that I could
go with him and that she’d know where I was. But I won’t do anything
like that. I’ll go ’way off where she won’t ever see me again, and then
she’ll be sorry she was so willing to let me run away.”
Tommy was being severely punished for wanting to leave his home and
he knew it, but he had not suffered enough to cause him to be willing
to admit his fault and to ask his mother to forgive him; therefore the
discouraged runaway very unwillingly continued his decidedly desolate
course.
By some singular chance he met no one on his way. If he could have done
so he felt that he might in some slight degree revenge himself, for he
would have sent word to his mother that he did not intend to go with
Captain Harrison and that she should never hear from him again.
But he did not meet any one from the time he left his home until he
arrived at the bridge, and then he realized that if the scheme had not
been entirely a success neither had the details been perfect. To sleep
under Rankin’s bridge, when he thought of it in the daytime, and with
his schoolmates around him, was nothing more than a pleasant little
adventure; but when it came to carrying the plan into execution it
was quite a different matter. The night was dark; the brook gurgled
and sang in a most ghostly fashion; the air under the stone arches
felt damp; and he could find no place where he could lie down with any
prospect of comfort.
“It’s no use. I can’t fix any kind of a bed here, so I’ve got to sit up
all night――that’s all there is to it.”
Tom was reckless by this time, and without any care as to a selection
of the spot where he was to spend the night he sat down in about as
uncomfortable a place as he could have found, confident that the time
would seem very short.
He tried to make up his mind as to where he would go when the morning
should come; then he felt about for a softer seat, very nearly falling
into the water in the attempt. He thought of his mother’s sorrow, which
was to be his revenge, and then again he changed his position. He
wondered if his schoolmates were snugly tucked up in bed asleep; and
then he began to doze, leaning his head against the granite sides of
the arch.
Suddenly he awoke with a start that gave him a very uncomfortable
twinge in his neck, while every portion of his body was stiff and lame.
He thought that he had slept a long time, and he looked out from under
the bridge, fully expecting to see the sun. It was as dark as when he
first sought this very uncomfortable sleeping-place.
“The sun hasn’t come up,” he said as he settled back on the rock in a
very awkward manner, as if it hurt him to move around much; “but I know
it must be morning, because I feel as if I’d been asleep ten or twelve
hours. I’ll start up the road a little.”
Just at that moment the village clock began to strike and Tom counted:
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, _eleven_!”
Only eleven o’clock, and he had thought it was time for the sun to rise!
Tom tried to lie down first in one place and then in another, but
the sharp-pointed rocks prevented him from assuming anything like a
reclining position. Then he thought of his own nice bed; but he knew he
could not enjoy it, at least not without too great a sacrifice of manly
dignity.
He thought of Captain Harrison’s schooner, which was to sail on the
following morning. He might go on board of her; but if he should do so,
how could he revenge himself on his mother?
“I can’t stay here all night if it’s going to last as long as this hour
has. I don’t want to walk up the road, because I can’t see where I’m
going. Mother won’t know for certain that I’ve gone on the _Swiftsure_,
and she’ll feel bad enough to-morrow morning when I don’t come home to
breakfast, so I’ll go on board where I can get some sleep.”
Tom knew exactly where the clumsy old schooner was moored, for many a
time had he and his friends been up to look at her when she was in port
and laughed at the name of _Swiftsure_, which it seemed must have been
painted on her stern in mockery.
With his bundles in his hands he stumbled down through the pasture,
following the course of the brook, until he arrived at a little stone
pier, at the head of which could be seen the old schooner which had
been made ready for a fishing cruise down the coast.
Tom scrambled on board as softly as was possible in the darkness;
but he might have saved himself the trouble of taking precautions to
prevent any one from hearing him, for the old schooner was deserted and
looked quite as lonesome as _he_ felt. The cabin-doors were locked, the
hatches were fastened down too securely for him to raise them unaided,
and it seemed very much as if even the _Swiftsure_ denied him the
shelter he so sadly needed.
On the deck lay an upturned dory. He might crawl under that, and
although it would be but poor shelter it was surely better than trying
to lie on the sharp rocks under the bridge. Tom was not nearly as
particular where he slept as he would have been at home, and he counted
himself very fortunate in finding under the boat a quantity of old nets
that made him quite a soft bed, so soft, in fact, that he was asleep in
less than five minutes after he had found shelter.
Everything had contributed to make Tom very tired on the day when he
ran away, and he slept on the fishing-nets quite as soundly as if
he had been at home. He did not even hear Captain Harrison and his
crew when they came on board at a very early hour in the morning. The
bustle and confusion attendant upon getting the _Swiftsure_ under way
failed to awaken him. When, however, the _Swiftsure_ was on the open
sea, tumbling about on the waves in her own clumsy fashion, he came
to understand where he was, and he gained this information in quite a
sensational manner.
Shortly after the old schooner had left the dock the wind freshened
until it was blowing quite half a gale, and Captain Harrison began to
fear that the crazy old sails would be blown away. In order to prevent
such a catastrophe, the schooner was hove to and all hands set to work
reefing sail.
As a matter of course the clumsy old _Swiftsure_ was wallowing in the
trough of the sea, tossing and tumbling about in a most provoking
manner. Captain Harrison was helping his crew of fishermen “shorten”
the foresail, when, just as all hands were standing amidships trying to
reef without pulling the very reef-points out of the decayed canvas,
a queer-looking bundle rolled from under the dory, capsizing one or
two of the sailors as it struck them and then rolling into the lee
scuppers, where it lay uttering cries of pain.
The crew were absolutely frightened, first at seeing this queer-looking
parcel and then at hearing it make a noise, while those who had been
knocked down actually fled forward in alarm. Captain Harrison started
aft, but on looking back he stopped short, gazed for an instant, first
at the dory and then at the bundle in the scuppers, and said as he gave
his hat a forcible blow, as if to prevent it from flying off his head
in surprise, “I’m blowed if it ain’t a boy!”
Tom looked up as if amazed that he should have been mistaken for other
than what he was, and then the rolling of the vessel threw him back
again toward the dory, tossing him from one side to the other much as
if he had been a rubber ball.
“Where did you come from?” roared Captain Harrison, angry now because
he had shown what looked to be fear.
“He come out of the dory,” replied one of the men, for Tom was too much
engaged in rolling about the deck to be able to make any reply.
It was impossible for all hands to stand staring at Tom when the
foresail needed immediate attention, and the sick runaway was allowed
to roll up and down the deck at his own sweet will, or, rather, at the
will of the wind, until the _Swiftsure_ was on her course again with
reduced canvas. Then Captain Harrison shouted, “Somebody catch that boy
before he breaks himself all to pieces and bring him aft here to me.”
In a few moments, but not without considerable difficulty, the
captain’s orders were obeyed, and Tom, looking pale and thoroughly
wretched, was held up in front of the _Swiftsure’s_ commander.
“Why, you’re Tom Gibson!” exclaimed that gentleman, in surprise.
Tom nodded his head; he could not trust himself to speak.
“How came you on board? Been running away, eh?”
Again Tom nodded his head, and Captain Harrison began to understand
that his passenger was in no mood for conversation.
“Take him below; I’ll dress him down after he gets a little better.”
Tom was led below into a cabin that smelled like fish, oil, stale
vegetables, and, in fact, everything that is disagreeable. And there,
amid this combination of terrible odors, poor, sick, runaway Tom could
hear the creaking and grinding of the timbers of the crazy old hulk,
while all he could do was to moan and groan in unison.
III.
If at any time during the twenty-four hours following Tom Gibson’s
appearance among the startled crew of the _Swiftsure_ that young
gentleman had been asked if the old schooner was in any danger, he
would have answered that she would surely sink within an hour and that
all on board would perish with her.
No one asked Tom such a question; but he fully believed that it was
impossible for the old craft to live much longer in the gale, and
although he knew he was in even a more dangerous position than any one
else, owing to the fact that he was below, he felt so sick that he paid
but little attention to the supposed danger.
At the end of twenty-four hours, however, matters presented a decidedly
different appearance. The wind having subsided, the clumsy old schooner
no longer tumbled and tossed about; the sun was shining brightly, and,
what was of more importance to Tom, he had so nearly recovered from
his illness as to have eaten a very hearty breakfast in spite of the
mixture of bad odors that had been so disagreeable to him.
Tom went on deck, almost enjoying the motion of the vessel which, a few
hours before, had been so uncomfortable, and was beginning to think
that there was some pleasure to be had by running away, when Captain
Harrison said, in anything but a pleasant tone of voice:
“Well, Tom, you’ve come on board my vessel and eaten my food without so
much as asking my permission, so now s’posin’ me an’ you have some kind
of a settlement.”
Poor Tom! All idea of enjoyment vanished at once, and again he
understood that the boy who runs away is obliged to pay a very high
price for what is a continual pain, rather than a pleasure.
“Why don’t you say something?” demanded Captain Harrison. “Do you think
I keep this schooner jest to accommodate boys who want to run away from
home?”
“No, sir,” faltered Tom; “but I don’t know what to say, because, you
see, I don’t know how we can have a settlement, unless you should take
the things I brought on board to pay you.”
“I’ve seen what you brought with you,” thundered Captain Harrison,
acting as if he was very angry, although if any one had been observing
him closely a twinkle of mirth could have been seen in his eyes. “All
the traps you’ve got wouldn’t pay for your breakfast. Now listen to me
and take care that you don’t forget what I say. You’ve seen fit to come
aboard this schooner, which is bound on a fishing cruise, consequently
you’ve got to pay my price for your fun. You’ll have to do your share
of the work without grumbling, and I tell you candidly that it’ll be
more than you ever dreamed of, coddled by your mother as you have been.”
It was pretty hard for a boy who had run away from home because he had
been obliged to work too hard to be told that he would have so much
to do that what he had been obliged to submit to at home was hardly
more than petting. But he _had_ run away, and he was obliged to pay the
price. He did not even dare to offer any objections, for he understood
only too well that he was in the captain’s power.
“Why don’t you go to work?” shouted Captain Harrison, after he had
given Tom plenty of time in which to think the matter over.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Go forward and you’ll soon find plenty to keep you out of mischief.”
Tom did as he was directed, and he learned that the captain had said no
more than was strictly true. Every one on board appeared to think that
he had a perfect right to set a task for the stowaway and there was no
hesitation about doing so. If the cook wanted wood split, the pots and
pans scoured, vegetables pared, or any other disagreeable work done Tom
was called upon, and he soon learned that it was dangerous to refuse.
If any of the crew wanted an assistant at any time or on any piece of
work, Tom was that assistant, and at the slightest hesitation a blow
was given to remind him that in no sense was he his own master. He was
the boy-of-all-work and with no opportunity to play.
Compared with his condition on the _Swiftsure_, Tom had lived a life
of luxurious ease at home, and there was hardly a moment, when he was
awake, during which he did not regret that he had ever been so foolish
as to run away.
Before the fishing-grounds were reached the _Swiftsure_ put into a
harbor for supplies, and there Tom decided upon a bold step. He asked
one of the men who had treated him with more consideration than the
others had done to lend him two cents with which to buy a postage
stamp, and on a dirty piece of paper he wrote the following letter to
his mother:
“DEAR MAMA,――I was wicked to want to run away, and I want to
come back terribly. If I had any money I would try to get back
from here; but I haven’t, so I shall have to stay till this
old vessel comes home. You’ll let me come, won’t you, mother?
I won’t say a word, no matter how hard you whip me for running
away, and I won’t ever grumble when you want me to do anything.
My hands are all covered with blisters; but they don’t begin to
be as sore as my heart is when I have to get into these dirty
berths at night, knowing that I can’t even speak to you. Don’t
be angry with me any more, but _please_ let me in when I come
home.
“Yours truly,
“THOMAS GIBSON.”
Captain Harrison, who had seen Tom writing, and who suspected at once
to whom the letter was to be sent, gave the boy an envelope and allowed
him to go on shore in order to mail it.
Tom felt better after this, even though his condition was in no wise
improved. His mother would know that he was sorry for what he had done,
and even though but a short time before he had looked upon her as a
hard-hearted parent, it seemed as if her forgiveness was the one thing
he wanted above all others.
If, during the voyage to the fishing-grounds, Tom thought he had worked
as hard as was possible, he learned that he had been mistaken when the
real labor of the cruise was commenced. All day he was obliged to fish
with twenty or thirty fathoms of line, to which was attached a heavy
sinker of lead that required nearly all his strength to pull up, and
when the catch had been large he was compelled to remain up half the
night helping the men dress the fish. His hands, which had been covered
with blisters, as he wrote his mother, were cut and bleeding, while
many times the pain was so great that he could not go to sleep even
when he had the opportunity.
In this work Tom could not say that he was obliged to do more than
any one else; all hands worked to the best of their ability, and it
but serves to show that Tom was getting to be quite a sensible boy
when it is said that he felt he was doing no more than was right under
the circumstances. But nevertheless his heart was quite as sore and
his homesickness as severe as when he wrote the letter to his mother.
The only time when he was in the slightest degree contented was when
he was fishing. He knew that the sooner the old schooner was loaded,
the sooner would she be headed toward home, and he counted each fish
he caught as another step toward his getting home to Sedgwick and to
mother.
The time finally came, six weeks after Tom had started to pass the
night under Rankin’s bridge, when Captain Harrison said:
“We won’t ‘dress down’ to-night, boys; but try to carry back fresh what
we catch to-day.”
“What does he mean by that?” Tom asked of one of the crew.
“It means that we shall start for home after the fish are done biting
to-day.”
Tom could hardly realize his good-fortune, and he worked in a dazed
sort of way, but kept repeating to himself each moment: “I’m going
home, I’m going home. And what’s better, I’ll stay when I get there.”
At an early hour that afternoon the bow of the old _Swiftsure_ was
turned toward Sedgwick, and as she rose and fell heavily on the waves,
sending clouds of spray fore and aft, Tom could hardly refrain from
giving vent to his joy by at least three hearty cheers.
The trip home was by no means as speedy as Tom could have desired. It
seemed to him as if the old vessel was sailing more slowly than she had
ever sailed before and as if the winds were really trying to delay him.
Then came the day when he could see the spire of the church in
Sedgwick, and just at the time when he knew that his father and mother
were sitting down to supper Tom leaped on shore. He waited for nothing,
but ran home at full speed, and it was not until he had kissed his
mother and father again and again and heard them assure him of their
forgiveness that he could breathe freely.
As may be expected, Tom had not been home more than an hour before the
friends to whom he had confided his purpose of running away called to
see him and to learn how much of his fortune he had made.
“I tell you what it is, fellows,” he said, in reply to their questions.
“I’m not as big a fool as I was before I ran away. I thought I was
having a mighty hard time of it here, but I soon found out my mistake.
All I can say is that I pity fellows that haven’t got any homes to go
to when they get as homesick as I was.”
“Then you don’t think of running away again very soon?” suggested
Dwight Holden, laughingly.
“Boys,”――and Tom spoke very solemnly now――“when I was on the
_Swiftsure_ I found out how lonesome a boy can be without his mother;
I never knew before. Just as long as I can I shall stay where I can see
my mother and speak to her; and if at any time any one of you thinks
that his mother isn’t the best and dearest friend a boy can have, just
do as I did and it won’t take you very long to find out that you are
mistaken.”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
――A bonus short story (“Tom’s Troubles”), by the author, is included
in the source volume, and follows the main story at p. 209.