IN WHICH BOBBY FINDS "IT IS AN ILL WIND THAT BLOWS NO ONE ANY GOOD"
A gentleman, who was sitting near Bobby when he made the remark which
the colored boy had misunderstood, interfered to free him from blame,
and probably all unpleasant feelings might have been saved, if Tom's
zeal had been properly directed. As it was, the waiter retired with
his bell, vowing vengeance upon his assailant.
"How came you here, Tom?" asked Bobby, when the excitement had
subsided.
"You don't get rid of me so easily," replied Tom, laughing.
Bobby called to mind the old adage that "a bad penny is sure to
return;" and, if it had not been a very uncivil remark, he would have
said it.
"I didn't expect to see you again at present," he observed, hardly
knowing what to say or do.
"I suppose not; but as I didn't mean you should expect me, I kept out
of sight. Only for that darkey you wouldn't have found me out so
soon. I like you, Bob, in spite of all you have done to get rid of me,
and I wasn't a going to let the darkey thrash you."
"You only made matters worse."
"That is all the thanks I get for hitting him for you."
"I am sorry you hit him; at the same time I suppose you meant to do me
a service, and I thank you, not for the blow you struck the black boy,
but for your good intentions."
"That sounds better. I meant well, Bob."
"I dare say you did. But how came you here?"
"Why, you see, I was bound to go with you anyhow or at least to keep
within hail of you. You told me, you know, that you were going in the
steamboat; and after I left the shop, what should I see but a big
picture of a steamboat on a wall. It said. 'Bath, Gardiner, and
Hallowell,' on the bill; and I knew that was where you meant to go. So
this afternoon I hunts round and finds the steamboat. I thought I
never should have found it; but here I am."
"What are you going to do?"
"Going into the book business," replied Tom, with a smile.
"Where are your books?"
"Down stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, or whatever you call
it."
"Where did you get them?"
"Bought 'em, of course."
"Did you? Where?"
"Well, I don't remember the name of the street now. I could go right
there if I was in the city, though."
"Would they trust you?"
Tom hesitated. The lies he had told that morning had done him no
good--had rather injured his cause; and, though he had no principle
that forbade lying, he questioned its policy in the present instance.
"I paid part down, and they trusted me part."
"How many books you got?"
"Twenty dollars' worth. I paid eight dollars down."
"You did? Where did you get the eight dollars?"
Bobby remembered the money Tom's father had lost several weeks before,
and immediately connected that circumstance with his present ability
to pay so large a sum.
Tom hesitated again, but he was never at a loss for an answer.
"My mother gave it to me."
"Your mother?"
"Yes, _sir_!" replied Tom, boldly, and in that peculiarly bluff
manner which is almost always good evidence that the boy is lying.
"But you ran away from home."
"That's so; but my mother knew I was coming."
"Did she?"
"To be sure she did."
"You didn't say so before."
"I can't tell all I know in a minute."
"If I thought your mother consented to your coming, I wouldn't say
another word."
"Well, she did; you may bet your life on that."
"And your mother gave you ten dollars?"
"Who said she gave me _ten_ dollars?" asked Tom, a little
sharply.
That was just the sum his father had lost, and Bobby had unwittingly
hinted his suspicion.
"You must have had as much as that if you paid eight on your
books. Your fare to Boston and your steamboat fare must be two dollars
more."
"I know that; but look here, Bob;" and Tom took from his pocket five
half dollars and exhibited them to his companion. "She gave me
thirteen dollars."
Notwithstanding this argument, Bobby felt almost sure that the lost
ten dollars was a part of his capital.
"I will tell you my story now, Bob, if you like. You condemned me
without a hearing, as Jim Guthrie said when they sent him to the House
of Correction for getting drunk."
"Go ahead."
The substance of Tom's story was, that his father drank so hard, and
was such a tyrant in the house, that he could endure it no longer.
His father and mother did not agree, as any one might have
suspected. His mother, encouraged by the success of Bobby, thought
that Tom might do something of the kind, and she had provided him the
money to buy his stock of books.
Bobby had not much confidence in this story. He had been deceived
once; besides, it was not consistent with his previous narrative, and
he had not before hinted that he had obtained his mother's
consent. But Tom was eloquent, and protested that he had reformed, and
meant to do well. He declared, by all that was good and great, Bobby
should never have reason to be ashamed of him.
Our little merchant was troubled. He could not now get rid of Tom
without actually quarrelling with him, or running away from him. He
did not wish to do the former, and it was not an easy matter to do the
latter. Besides, there was hope that the runaway would do well; and if
he did, when he carried the profits of his trade home, his father
would forgive him. One thing was certain; if he returned to Riverdale
he would be what he had been before.
For these reasons Bobby finally, but very reluctantly, consented that
Tom should remain with him, resolving, however, that, if he did not
behave himself, he would leave him at once.
Before morning he had another reason. When the steamer got out into
the open bay, Bobby was seasick. He retired to his berth with a
dreadful headache; as he described it afterwards, it seemed just as
though that great walking beam was smashing up and down right in the
midst of his brains. He had never felt so ill before in his life, and
was very sure, in his inexperience, that something worse than mere
seasickness ailed him.
He told Tom, who was not in the least affected, how he felt; whereupon
the runaway blustered round, got the steward and the captain into the
cabin, and was very sure that Bobby would die before morning, if we
may judge by the fuss he made.
The captain was angry at being called from the pilot house for
nothing, and threatened to throw Tom overboard if he didn't stop his
noise. The steward, however, was a kind-hearted man, and assured
Bobby that passengers were often a great deal sicker than he was; but
he promised to do something for his relief, and Tom went with him to
his state room for the desired remedy.
The potion was nothing more nor less than a table spoonful of brandy,
which Bobby, who had conscientious scruples about drinking ardent
spirits, at first refused to take. Then Tom argued the point, and the
sick boy yielded. The dose made him sicker yet, and nature came to his
relief, and in a little while he felt better.
Tom behaved like a good nurse; he staid by his friend till he went to
sleep, and then "turned in" upon a settee beneath his berth. The boat
pitched and tumbled about so in the heavy sea that Bobby did not sleep
long, and when he woke he found Tom ready to assist him. But our hero
felt better, and entreated Tom to go to sleep again. He made the best
of his unpleasant situation. Sleep was not to be wooed, and he tried
to pass away the dreary hours in thinking of Riverdale and the dear
ones there. His mother was asleep, and Annie was asleep; that was
about all the excitement he could get up even on the home question. He
could not build castles in the air, for seasickness and castle
building do not agree. The gold and purple clouds would be black in
spite of him, and the aerial structure he essayed to build would pitch
and tumble about, for all the world, just like a steamboat in a heavy
sea. As often as he got fairly into it, he was violently rolled out,
and in a twinkling found himself in his narrow berth, awfully seasick.
He went to sleep again at last, and the long night passed away. When
he woke in the morning, he felt tolerably well, and was thankful that
he had got out of that scrape. But before he could dress himself, he
heard a terrible racket on deck. The steam whistle was shrieking, the
bell was banging, and he heard the hoarse bellowing of the captain. It
was certain that something had happened, or was about to happen.
Then the boat stopped, rolling heavily in the sea. Tom was not there;
he had gone on deck. Bobby was beginning to consider what a dreadful
thing a wreck was, when Tom appeared.
"What's the matter?" asked Bobby, with some appearance of alarm.
"Fog," replied Tom. "It is so thick you can cut it with a hatchet."
"Is that all?"
"That's enough."
"Where are we?"
"That is just what the pilot would like to know. They can't see ahead
a bit, and don't know where we are."
Bobby went on deck. The ocean rolled beneath them, but there was
nothing but fog to be seen above and around them. The lead was heaved
every few moments, and the steamer crept slowly along till it was
found the water shoaled rapidly, when the captain ordered the men to
let go the anchor.
There they were; the fog was as obstinate as a mule, and would not
"lift." Hour after hour they waited, for the captain was a prudent
man, and would not risk the life of those on board to save a few
hours' time. After breakfast, the passengers began to display their
uneasiness, and some of them called the captain very hard names,
because he would not go on. Almost everybody grumbled, and made
themselves miserable.
"Nothing to do and nothing to read," growled a nicely-dressed
gentleman, as he yawned and stretched himself to manifest his
sensation of _ennui_.
"Nothing to read, eh?" thought Bobby. "We will soon supply that want."
Calling Tom, they went down to the main deck where the baggage had
been placed.
"Now's our time," said he, as he proceeded to unlock one of the trunks
that contained his books. "Now or never."
"I am with you," replied Tom, catching the idea.
The books of the latter were in a box, and he was obliged to get a
hammer to open it; but with Bobby's assistance he soon got at them.
"Buy 'The Wayfarer,'" said Bobby, when he returned to the saloon, and
placed a volume in the hands of the yawning gentleman. "Best book of
the season; only one dollar."
"That I will, and glad of the chance," replied the gentleman. "I would
give five dollars for anything, if it were only the 'Comic Almanac.'"
Others were of the same mind. There was no present prospect that the
fog would lift, and before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty
copies of "The Wayfarer." Tom, whose books were of an inferior
description, and who was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of
twenty, which was more than half of his stock. The fog was a godsend
to both of them, and they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, for
almost all the passengers seemed willing to spend their money freely
for the means of occupying the heavy hours and driving away that
dreadful _ennui_ which reigns supreme in a fog-bound steamer.
About the middle of the afternoon, the fog blew over, and the boat
proceeded on her voyage, and before sunset our young merchants were
safely landed at Bath.