TONY RICHARDSON.
"Anthony, why didn't you do this during school hours?"
The speaker was Mr. Bliss, the principal of one of the St. Louis grammar
schools. He leaned back in his chair and looked at a young fellow about
sixteen years of age, who stood in front of the rostrum with his eyes
fastened upon a dog's-eared algebra he held in his hand. This was Tony
Richardson, of whom we had something to say in the first volume of this
series, and he was the only son of one of the wealthiest steamboat
owners in the city.
"Don't you think this thing is getting to be a little too monotonous?"
continued the principal. "This makes the third time that you have been
kept after school this week for coming to the recitation-seat
unprepared."
"My head is so thick I can't learn figures," replied Tony. "It seems to
run in the family. I have heard my father say that he was the poorest
scholar in his class, so far as mathematics were concerned. No matter
how hard he studied, he couldn't get his lesson."
"But the trouble with you is, you do not study unless you are obliged to
do so," answered Mr. Bliss. "To be candid with you, Anthony, I think you
have fallen into the way of allowing your mind to wander off to the ends
of the earth, when it should be kept right here in the school-room and
concentrated on your books. That is a most ruinous habit, and you would
do well to break it off at once. You have committed this lesson in ten
minutes, simply because you knew that you would be required to do so
before you could go home. You could have mastered it in the same length
of time during school hours, if you had set about it in earnest. Now,
see if you can't give a better account of yourself in future. Try it for
one short week--for your father's sake, if you won't try it for your
own. That will do."
"For my father's sake," said Tony, to himself. "I don't see why I should
exert myself to please him, when he goes out of his way to refuse every
request I make of him."
He walked back to his desk, placed his algebra upon the shelf with the
rest of his books--it would have given him more pleasure if he could
have kindled a fire with it in the stove--bade his teacher good-night
and went out. Most boys would have been too sulky to be courteous, but
Tony Richardson was not that sort. With all his faults he was not
mean-spirited.
"This thing _is_ getting to be a trifle too monotonous," said he, as he
put on his hat and descended the stairs, "and I am not going to stand it
much longer; that's all there is about _that_. I don't see why father
wants me to study algebra, when he hated it so cordially himself. I'll
warrant that there are not two captains in his whole fleet who know the
binomial-theorem from a side of sole-leather, and yet they are all good
commanders. If they can run a boat without knowing anything about
mathematics, I don't see why I can't do the same. I want to go to sea--I
just know I was born to be a sailor--and if father won't let me go, he
must give me a place on one of his boats. I can tell him that much."
While these thoughts, and a good many others like them, were passing
through Tony's mind, he was walking rapidly toward the levee. When he
came within sight of the river he saw there, among the scores of other
vessels with which the levee was lined, one of his father's magnificent
boats, the Telegraph, which was advertised to start for New Orleans on
the following Monday. The engineer had just sounded his gong, and a boy
about his own age was ascending the steps that led into the pilot-house.
The captain had stationed himself near the bell that stood on the
forward part of the hurricane-deck, and the hands, under the charge of
one of the mates, were awaiting the order to haul in the gang-plank and
cast off the lines.
"She must be going up to the coal-fleet," thought Tony, as he ran
swiftly down the levee, swinging his hat over his head. "I shall have
plenty of time to go up with her, and get back to the depot before the
train starts for home."
The captain saw him coming, and knowing who he was, delayed the order to
cast off until Tony had run up the gang-plank. The latter stopped on
the hurricane-deck to exchange a few words of greeting with the "old
man," and then went into the pilot-house, where he found George Ackerman
at the wheel. George had now been on the river for more than six months,
and the reader will have some idea of the progress he had made in his
new vocation when we tell him that he was the only pilot on board the
Telegraph at that moment, that Mr. Black, after being engaged for the
trip, had gone to Webster Groves to take leave of his family, that his
partner, Mr. Kelsey, was somewhere on shore, and that neither of them
had felt the least hesitation in leaving George to take the boat up to
the coal-fleet, and bring her back again.
Our hero did not yet know the river, but he was a fine steersman, and
could make a landing or get the boat under way almost as well as
anybody. He was worth something now, and Mr. Black paid him twenty
dollars a month for his services. Regarding this in the light of a
promotion, George wrote to Texas about it, and was afterwards very sorry
that he had done so, for Uncle John, prompted by Ned, at once shut down
on the monthly allowance which he had thus far sent him regularly. The
amount he received was enough to clothe him as well as he cared to
dress; he was under no expense for board, for when he was not running on
the river, he lived with Mr. Black, in his home at Webster Groves. But
still George did not like that act on the part of Uncle John. It showed
him that his guardian was determined to exercise all the authority he
possessed, and more, too, if he could.
"How are you, Tony?" exclaimed George. "Sit down until I back her out
and straighten her up, and then I'll talk to you."
"And I'll take your place at the wheel, won't I?" said Tony, as he took
a seat on the elevated bench.
"Of course; that's always understood."
The two boys, having often been thrown into each other's society of
late, were well acquainted, and a sort of friendship had sprung up
between them. Mr. Black had been employed on one or another of Mr.
Richardson's boats ever since he left the General Quitman, and of course
George went with him everywhere as his assistant. Tony, who thoroughly
hated school and everything belonging to it, was deeply in love with the
water, and spent all his leisure hours in loitering about the levee; and
whenever any of his father's boats were moved from one wharf-boat to
another, or sent up to the coal-fleet, Tony was generally on hand to do
the steering. He took unbounded delight in a boat, and looked forward
with impatience to the day when he would take his position as captain of
one of the swiftest and most beautiful steamers on the river. What sort
of an apprenticeship he would have to serve before he would be qualified
to fill so responsible a berth, Tony did not know. In fact, it was
something about which he seldom troubled himself. There was one thing he
was certain of, however, and that was, he was not going to begin as deck
hand or watchman, or even as clerk or mate. The deck hands were a low
set, in Tony's estimation. Besides, they were obliged to handle the
freight, and that was not a genteel business. Watchmen were only a grade
higher than the deck hands, clerks had too much to do with figures, and
mates were generally too rough in dress and language to suit the boy. He
had heard of men stepping from the pilot-house into the captain's place,
and if he had to serve in any subordinate capacity before he could take
command of a steamer, he thought he would rather be a pilot than
anything else. These officers and the clerks comprise the aristocracy
among river men. They generally dress in the height of fashion, sport a
good deal of jewelry, and the pilots, if they choose to do so, can wear
kid gloves while they are at work. Their money comes easily, and, as a
rule, goes easier. Where there is one prudent man among them, like Mr.
Black, who puts his earnings into a home, there are a dozen who make all
haste to get rid of them.
We ought to say right here, that the prospect of becoming a riverman,
did not exactly suit Tony. His first love was the sea. He thought about
it during his waking hours, and dreamed of it when he was asleep. He
sang forecastle songs, told sea stories, and tried to talk and walk like
a sailor. When his father emphatically refused to aid him in carrying
out his insane ideas, Tony shed a good many tears in secret; banged his
school-books about more spitefully than ever; and fell back upon the
river as the next best thing to think about. If he went there he would
accept nothing but a high position, and he would hold it only
temporarily; for as soon as he became his own master, he would start as
straight for salt water as he could go.
"How do you like the river by this time?" asked Tony, as the Telegraph
was backed rapidly away from the wharf-boat.
"First rate!" replied George with great enthusiasm. "I like it better
and better every day, and I know I shall never get tired of it. I don't
think I should like to go back to herding cattle again."
"Well, there's no need of it. If I were my own master, as you are, I
should do as I please."
"And you would please to go to sea, I suppose?"
"Of course I would. That is what I am going to do sometime; and I don't
see why my father will not let me go now."
"Perhaps he has something better in view for you," suggested George.
"He can't have anything in view for me that will suit me half so well,"
replied Tony, with the air of one who had made up his mind. "I am old
enough to know what I want, and what I don't want. Let me have her now."
The Telegraph had by this time been backed away from the levee, and
straightened up the river, and George felt safe in resigning the wheel
to his companion. But he did not go far away from it. There were a good
many boats running about, some moving out of their berths and others
going in; and as it required some skill to steer clear of all of them,
George stood close by, so that he could seize the wheel in an instant;
while Tony, who was no mean steersman, managed it with one hand, and
kept up an almost constant signaling with the other.
When two boats meet, one going down and the other up the river, or if a
boat is backing out into the stream while another is coming up, the
upper boat has the right of way, but the lower one always whistles
first. For example, Smith, who is piloting a boat up the river, may
whistle once to notify Brown, who is coming down the river, that he
(Smith) intends to turn his boat to the right, so as to pass by on
Brown's left hand. If the latter is satisfied with the arrangement, he
gives notice of the fact by whistling once in reply; but if he is not
satisfied with it, if he wants to make a landing, or pick up a tow, or
do anything else that required him to make Smith pass by on his _right_
hand instead of the left, he whistles twice; and Smith must reply to the
signal, to show that he understands it; get his boat out of Brown's way,
and go by on the other side. The burden of the responsibility in
avoiding a collision, if one seemed likely to occur, would rest with the
pilot who was going up the river; for the reason, that his vessel could
be handled much more easily and quickly, than the one that was coming
down driven by all the force of a powerful current. George had learned
all these things, as well as a good many others, during the
comparatively short time he had been under Mr. Black's instructions; and
knowing his responsibility, he did not feel willing to trust his boat
entirely in the hands of his friend Tony.
The nearer the Telegraph approached to the coal-fleet, which was
composed of a number of barges moored to the bank two or three miles
above the city, the clearer the river became, and presently George moved
away from the wheel and seated himself on the bench. He kept one eye on
Tony, who was too busy to talk, and the other out ahead to see that
nothing came in their way.
The young pilot had been acquainted with his new friend long enough to
know that he was a very discontented boy, and he could not see why it
was so. He did not then know that the source of happiness is within
ourselves, and that our surroundings have not so much to do with it as
our own dispositions. By Tony's invitation he had once accompanied him
to his home, and he had found there all the aids to happiness that any
reasonable boy could ask for; but still Mr. Richardson was strict, and
Tony was very much of a rebel The more he resisted lawful authority the
tighter the reins were drawn, until Tony finally came to the conclusion
that home was always a dreary place, that fathers found no pleasure in
life except in denying their sons every gratification on which they had
set their hearts, and that no boy of any spirit would put up with such a
state of affairs after he became able to take care of himself. George
was not long in finding out how matters stood, and he wasted all his
eloquence in the effort to make Tony believe that he was then seeing the
happiest years of his life.
"You may some time know by experience, what it is to have no home to go
to," said George. "Stranger things than that have happened, you know,
and then you will wish that you had made the most of these days, which
now seem so gloomy to you, and improved the opportunities you slight
every hour of your life."
"You needn't preach," snapped Tony, in reply. "Haven't you told me more
than once that you left home because you were not happy there?"
"I have told you that I left Texas because I was not safe there,"
answered George.
"Well, it was your home, wasn't it?"
"It used to be."
"You lived in the same house that you lived in while your father was
alive?"
George said he did.
"And your father's only brother was your guardian and had charge of the
house?"
George said that was so, too.
"Then it was your home," said Tony, triumphantly; "and to be consistent,
you ought to have stayed there, whether you wanted to or not."
"But haven't I told you that I couldn't stay?" asked George.
"And haven't I told you that I can't stay here?" retorted Tony. "This is
not a new notion of mine. I have been thinking about it for a long
time--in fact, ever since I went into algebra. It is hard work for me to
go to school."
"It will be harder for you to earn your own living. I know what work is,
and you don't. There is no need of your going to sea, or running on the
river."
"I know what you mean. Of course, I shall be a rich man some day, if I
live, but I don't care for that. I want liberty to do as I please, more
than I want money, and I want it _now_. What's more, I'm going to have
it, either with or without----"
"Your father's consent," added George, when Tony paused.
"That's just it. I don't know that I ought to be so plain with you, but
you will not repeat what I say?"
"I have better business than carrying tales," replied George. "If your
father should ever say anything to me about it, I should tell him the
truth, and some day you would thank me for it. I know what you have in
your mind, and you had better take my advice and give it up."
"More preaching," said Tony, with a laugh. "I give you fair warning that
you will never make a convert of me, for you don't know what you are
talking about. You have led a free and easy life there on the plains,
being under no restraint, but coming and going as you pleased, and what
do you know of the trials and tribulations of a boy who is held with his
nose tight to the grindstone every day? Come, George, give us a rest. If
you do not let my father into my secret before he broaches the subject
to you, you will never say a word to him about it."
There was not the slightest danger that Mr. Richardson would ever speak
to George about Tony, but it was not very long before he took occasion
to speak to Tony about George. The next evening, while they were seated
in the cars waiting for the train to start toward home, Mr. Richardson
suddenly looked up from his paper and said:
"Anthony, who was that fellow you brought home with you yesterday?"
"He's not a fellow," answered the boy. "His name is Ackerman, and he is
Mr. Black's cub. He runs on one of your boats."
"Well, just drop him now; and don't bring him or anybody like him out to
Kirkwood any more. When you have so many nice acquaintances, I can't
imagine why you should be so intimate with those rivermen," said Mr.
Richardson.
"They are the ones who have made your money for you," said Tony.
"I am aware of that; and they have been well paid for serving me. I find
no fault with the men themselves--a braver and more skilful class cannot
be found anywhere--but I do object to the morals of the most of them.
Having passed some of the best years of my life on the river, I ought to
know something about rivermen. This boy you speak of may be all right
now, but he is under bad influences."
George never heard of this conversation between Tony and his father, and
there was nothing in Tony's behavior toward him to indicate that such an
interview had ever taken place. The latter kept track of the different
boats on which Mr. Black was employed, and whenever one of them came
into port, Tony made it a point to visit the cub pilot as soon as he
could get out of school. He liked George, and he had but one fault to
find with him; the latter had been a cattle raiser, and Tony wished he
had been a sailor, so that he could have talked with him about the sea.
The Telegraph reached the coal-fleet in due time, and fortunately for
Tony there was another boat there, the Ida Clifford, which, having
filled her bunkers, was about to return to the city. Being acquainted
with one of the pilots, Tony went aboard of her and steered her down,
thus saving himself a long walk. On arriving at the landing he went
ashore, and started for his father's office on Fourth street. When he
reached it, he saw Mr. Richardson standing in the door drawing on his
gloves.
"Ah!" said he, as Tony came up. "I began to think I should have to start
for home without you. You have been kept after school as usual, I
suppose?
"Yes, sir," replied Tony, "And when I got out, I went up to the
coal-fleet on the Telegraph."
"Well, now that you have come, we will start for the depot. We have
barely time to catch the train."
Mr. Richardson lived in Kirkwood, a beautiful little village located
about thirteen miles from the river. Its society was made up principally
of the families of wealthy men who did business in St. Louis. Living
within easy reach of the city, they were still far enough away from it
to escape all its heat, dust and noise. Tony and his father came in
every morning on the seven o'clock train, and returned together in the
evening after business hours were over.
"I should think you would get tired of being kept after school," said
Mr. Richardson, as they walked toward the depot. "The report you bring
home every week shows you to be anything but a faithful student. What do
you expect to gain by so foolish a waste of time?"
"I don't expect to gain anything by it," replied Tony. "I only want to
get through my school-days with as little trouble and work as I can. I
shall be glad when they are over."
"And you want to get through life in the same way, I suppose?" said his
father.
"No, sir; I am willing to work, and I should like to begin to-morrow. I
want to go to sea."
"Anthony, you might as well give up that idea first as last. You will
never go with my consent. I don't see what put that notion into your
head. You have about as clear an idea of what would be required of you
on shipboard as you have of the duties of a book-keeper."
"Will you let me do the next best thing, then? Will you let me go on the
river?"
"No, indeed. I want to see you something better than a steamboat man."
"I should really like to know what you want me to be, anyhow," said
Tony, with some impatience.
"I want to see you a respected member of society, for one thing," said
his father. "I hope you will not think that your school-days are over
until you have been through college. That was one thing I missed, for I
began life poor; but I don't want you to miss it. I can see now how
advantageous such training would have been to me. Get your education
first, and decide upon your life-work afterwards."
"But I don't want to go to college," said Tony; "and I won't, either,"
he added, in an undertone. "I am not going to study myself to death for
the sake of reading Greek and Latin. I don't want to go to school any
longer," he said, aloud. "I had the best notion in the world to pack up
my books to-night and take them home with me."
"That would have been a useless waste of strength and time on your part,
for on Monday morning you would have had the pleasure of packing them up
again and taking them back with you," said Mr. Richardson, bringing the
iron ferule of his heavy cane down upon the sidewalk with more than his
usual energy. "I believe I shall have something to say in regard to your
conduct for at least five years to come."
"Then I must go to school, whether I want to or not, must I?"
He asked this question in a tone of voice which he intended should make
an impression on his father, and lead him to see that his son had
resolved upon something. But, contrary to his expectations, Mr.
Richardson did not seem to be at all affected by it. He answered very
calmly and decidedly,
"Certainly, you must."
"Well, if you won't let me go to sea, as you know I have long wanted to
do, nor on the river either, can't you find a place for me in your
office?"
"I am going to give him every chance," said Tony, to himself, "and if he
doesn't see fit to improve one of them, he must take the responsibility
for anything that happens."
"I have no place for you," replied his father. "There is nothing in the
office you can do, unless you act as messenger boy, and I certainly
shall not discharge young Bowman to make an opening for you. He needs
the money he earns, for he is the only support of a widowed mother."
"Couldn't I be a clerk of some kind?" asked Tony. "I have given him
another chance."
"No, indeed. My clerks must all understand figures. I do wish you would
wake up and go to work in earnest. Anthony, didn't you tell me last
Christmas that if I would buy you a pony, you would work hard at your
books for a whole year?"
Tony believed he did have a faint recollection of making some such
promise.
"You have got the pony, and how have you kept your word?"
The boy did not reply to this question. The truth of the matter was, he
had learned, as a good many of us have, that there is more pleasure in
looking forward to the possession of a thing, than there is in
possessing it. The pride he at first felt in having a horse of his own,
very soon gave place to an unreasonable hostility toward the animal. It
was not so easy to ride him as it looked to be, and he was so slow of
foot that one of the Kirkwood boys offered to bet a six-bladed,
pearl-handled knife against Tony's "Barlow," that he could find a fellow
who could beat him in a fair race. Tony couldn't afford to study hard
for a whole year to pay for such a pony as that.
"But whether you wake up or not," continued Mr. Richardson, "you can
depend upon one thing: you are going to stay at school until you know
more than you do now."
"We'll see about that," was Tony's mental rejoinder. "I have tried my
best more than a dozen times to induce him to let me leave school--I'd
rather saw wood than pore over these books day after day--but he is
bound to disregard all my wishes, and now I will see how he'll feel when
he finds that I have disregarded his. I never can do anything I want to
do as long as I stay here, and I'm going to make a break. I am going out
into the world to begin life in earnest. I am off for salt water!"
As Tony said this, he closed his lips tightly and looked very
determined, indeed.