IN WHICH BOBBY DECLINES A COPARTNERSHIP AND VISITS B---- AGAIN
After dinner Bobby performed his Saturday afternoon chores as
usual. He split wood enough to last for a week, so that his mother
might not miss him too much, and then, feeling a desire to visit his
favorite resorts in the vicinity, he concluded to go a fishing. The
day was favorable, the sky being overcast and the wind very
light. After digging a little box of worms in the garden back of the
house, he shouldered his fish pole; and certainly no one would have
suspected that he was a distinguished travelling merchant. He was fond
of fishing, and it is a remarkable coincidence that Daniel Webster,
and many other famous men, have manifested a decided passion for this
exciting sport. No doubt a fondness for angling is a peculiarity of
genius; and if being an expert fisherman makes a great man, then our
hero was a great man.
He had scarcely seated himself on his favorite rock, and dropped his
line into the water, before he saw Tom Spicer approaching the
spot. The bully had never been a welcome companion. There was no
sympathy between them. They could never agree, for their views,
opinions, and tastes were always conflicting.
Bobby had not seen Tom since he left him to crawl out of the ditch on
the preceding week, and he had good reason to believe that he should
not be regarded with much favor. Tom was malicious and revengeful,
and our hero was satisfied that the blow which had prostrated him in
the ditch would not be forgotten till it had been atoned for. He was
prepared, therefore, for any disagreeable scene which might occur.
There was another circumstance also which rendered the bully's
presence decidedly unpleasant at this time,--an event that had
occurred during his absence, the particulars of which he had received
from his mother.
Tom's father, who was a poor man, and addicted to intemperance, had
lost ten dollars. He had brought it home, and, as he affirmed, placed
it in one of the bureau drawers. The next day it could not be
found. Spicer, for some reason, was satisfied that Tom had taken it;
but the boy stoutly and persistently denied it. No money was found
upon him, however, and it did not appear that he had spent any at the
stores in Riverdale Centre.
The affair created some excitement in the vicinity, for Spicer made no
secret of his suspicions, and publicly accused Tom of the theft. He
did not get much sympathy from any except his pot companions; for
there was no evidence but his bare and unsupported statement to
substantiate the grave accusation. Tom had been in the room when the
money was placed in the drawer, and, as his father asserted, had
watched him closely, while he deposited the bills under the
clothing. No one else could have taken it. These were the proofs. But
people generally believed that Spicer had carried no money home,
especially as it was known that he was intoxicated on the night in
question; and that the alleged theft was only a ruse to satisfy
certain importunate creditors.
Everybody knew that Tom was bad enough to steal, even from his father;
from which my readers can understand that it is an excellent thing to
have a good reputation. Bobby knew that he would lie and use profane
language; that he spent his Sundays by the river, or in roaming
through the woods; and that he played truant from school as often as
the fear of the rod would permit; and the boy that would do all these
things certainly would steal if he got a good chance. Our hero's
judgment, therefore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, and
he would have thanked him to stay away from the river while he was
there.
"Hallo, Bob! How are you?" shouted Tom, when he had come within
hailing distance.
"Very well," replied Bobby, rather coolly.
"Been to Boston, they say."
"Yes."
"Well, how did you like it?" continued Tom, as he seated himself on
the rock near our hero.
"First rate."
"Been to work there?"
"No."
"What have you been doing?"
"Travelling about."
"What doing?"
"Selling books."
"Was you, though? Did you sell any?"
"Yes, a few."
"How many?"
"O, about fifty."
"You didn't, though--did you? How much did you make?"
"About fifteen dollars."
"By jolly! You are a smart one, Bobby. There are not many fellows
that would have done that."
"Easy enough," replied Bobby, who was not a little surprised at this
warm commendation from one whom he regarded as his enemy.
"You had to buy the books first--didn't you?" asked Tom, who began to
manifest a deep interest in the trade.
"Of course; no one will give you the books."
"What do you pay for them?"
"I buy them so as to make a profit on them," answered Bobby, who, like
a discreet merchant, was not disposed to be too communicative.
"That business would suit me first rate."
"It is pretty hard work."
"I don't care for that. Don't you believe I could do something in this
line?"
"I don't know; perhaps you could."
"Why not, as well as you?"
This was a hard question; and, as Bobby did not wish to be uncivil, he
talked about a big pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of
answering it. He was politic, and deprecated the anger of the bully;
so, though Tom plied him pretty hard, he did not receive much
satisfaction.
"You see, Tom," said he, when he found that his companion insisted
upon knowing the cost of the books, "this is a publisher's secret; and
I dare say they would not wish every one to know the cost of books. We
sell them for a dollar apiece."
"Humph! You needn't be so close about it. I'll bet I can find out."
"I have no doubt you can; only, you see, I don't want to tell what I
am not sure they would be willing I should tell."
Tom took a slate pencil from his pocket, and commenced ciphering on
the smooth rock upon which he sat.
"You say you sold fifty books?"
"Yes."
"Well; if you made fifteen dollars out of fifty, that is thirty cents
apiece."
Bobby was a little mortified when he perceived that he had unwittingly
exposed the momentous secret. He had not given Tom credit for so much
sagacity as he had displayed in his inquiries; and as he had fairly
reached his conclusion, he was willing he should have the benefit of
it.
"You sold them at a dollar apiece. Thirty from a hundred leaves
seventy. They cost you seventy cents each--didn't they?"
"Sixty-seven," replied Bobby, yielding the point.
"Enough said, Bob; I am going into that business, anyhow."
"I am willing."
"Of course you are; suppose we go together," suggested Tom, who had
not used all this conciliation without having a purpose in view.
"We could do nothing together."
"I should like to get out with you just once, only to see how it is
done."
"You can find out for yourself, as I did."
"Don't be mean, Bob."
"Mean? I am not mean."
"I don't say you are. We have always been good friends, you know."
Bobby did not know it; so he looked at the other with a smile which
expressed all he meant to say.
"You hit me a smart dig the other day, I know; but I don't mind
that. I was in the wrong then, and I am willing to own it," continued
Tom, with an appearance of humility.
This was an immense concession for Tom to make, and Bobby was duly
affected by it. Probably it was the first time the bully had ever
owned he was in the wrong.
"The fact is, Bob, I always liked you; and you know I licked Ben Dowse
for you."
"That was two for yourself and one for me; besides, I didn't want Ben
thrashed."
"But he deserved it. Didn't he tell the master you were whispering in
school?"
"I was whispering; so he told the truth."
"It was mean to blow on a fellow, though."
"The master asked him if I whispered to him; of course he ought not to
lie about it. But he told of you at the same time."
"I know it; but I wouldn't have licked him on my own account."
"_Perhaps_ you wouldn't."
"I know I wouldn't. But, I say, Bobby, where do you buy your books?"
"At Mr. Bayard's, in Washington Street."
"He will sell them to me at the same price--won't he?"
"I don't know."
"When are you going again?"
"Monday."
"Won't you let me go with you, Bob?"
"Let you? Of course you can go where you please; it is none of my
business."
Bobby did not like the idea of having such a copartner as Tom Spicer,
and he did not like to tell him so. If he did, he would have to give
his reasons for declining the proposition, and that would make Tom
mad, and perhaps provoke him to quarrel.
The fish bit well, and in an hour's time Bobby had a mess. As he took
his basket and walked home, the young ruffian followed him. He could
not get rid of him till he reached the gate in front of the little
black house; and even there Tom begged him to stop a few moments. Our
hero was in a hurry, and in the easiest manner possible got rid of
this aspirant for mercantile honors.
We have no doubt a journal of Bobby's daily life would be very
interesting to our young readers; but the fact that some of his most
stirring adventures are yet to be related admonishes us to hasten
forward more rapidly.
On Monday morning Bobby bade adieu to his mother again, and started
for Boston. He fully expected to encounter Tom on the way, who, he was
afraid, would persist in accompanying him on his tour. As before, he
stopped at Squire Lee's to bid him and Annie good by.
The little maiden had read "The Wayfarer" more than half through, and
was very enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure she derived
from it. She promised to send it over to his house when she had
finished it, and hoped he would bring his stock to Riverdale, so that
she might again replenish her library. Bobby thought of something just
then, and the thought brought forth a harvest on the following
Saturday, when he returned.
When he had shaken hands with the squire and was about to depart, he
received a piece of news which gave him food for an hour's serious
reflection.
"Did you hear about Tom Spicer?" asked Squire Lee.
"No, sir; what about him?"
"Broken his arm."
"Broken his arm! Gracious! How did it happen?" exclaimed Bobby, the
more astonished because he had been thinking of Tom since he had left
home.
"He was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on
Sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird's nest, he fell to the
ground."
"I am sorry for him," replied Bobby, musing.
"So am I; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should
have been, it would not have happened. If I had any boys, I would lock
them up in their chambers if I could not keep them at home Sundays."
"Poor Tom!" mused Bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with
him on Saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more
pliant with him.
"It is too bad; but I must say I am more sorry for his poor mother
than I am for him," added the squire. "However, I hope it will do him
good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives."
Bobby bade the squire and Annie adieu again, resumed his journey
towards the railroad station. His thoughts were busy with Tom Spicer's
case. The reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared
he would, was now apparent. He pitied him, for he realized that he
must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he
finally dismissed the matter with the squire's sage reflection, that
he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him.
The young merchant did not walk to Boston this time, for he had come
to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel
to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be
more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and
the expense of shoe leather.
Before noon he was at B---- again, as busy as ever in driving his
business. The experience of the former week was of great value to him.
He visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he
was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not
conscious in a single instance of offending any person's sense of
propriety.
He was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was
Saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with
him. The net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he
was abundantly pleased.
Mr. Bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and
promptness. Mr. Timmins was even more civil than the last time, and
when Bobby asked the price of Moore's Poems, he actually offered to
sell it to him for thirty-three per cent less than the retail
price. The little merchant was on the point of purchasing it, when
Mr. Bayard inquired what he wanted.
"I am going to buy this book," replied Bobby.
"Moore's Poems?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Bayard took from a glass case an elegantly bound copy of the same
work--morocco, full gilt--and handed it to our hero.
"I shall make you a present of this. Are you an admirer of Moore?"
"No, sir; not exactly--that is, I don't know much about it; but Annie
Lee does, and I want to get the book for her."
Bobby's cheeks reddened as he turned the leaves of the beautiful
volume, putting his head down to the page to hide his confusion.
"Annie Lee?" said Mr. Bayard with a quizzing smile. "I see how it
is. Rather young, Bobby."
"Her father has been very good to me and to my mother; and so has
Annie, for that matter. Squire Lee would be a great deal more pleased
if I should make Annie a present than if I made him one. I feel
grateful to him, and I want to let it out somehow."
"That's right, Bobby; always remember your friends. Timmins, wrap up
this book."
Bobby protested with all his might; but the bookseller insisted that
he should give Annie this beautiful edition, and he was obliged to
yield the point.
That evening he was at the little black house again, and his mother
examined his ledger with a great deal of pride and satisfaction. That
evening, too, another ten dollars was indorsed on the note, and Annie
received that elegant copy of Moore's Poems.