'I'm big enough to protect my Mother, and I'll do it.'

NOW OR NEVER

NOW OR NEVER

OR

THE ADVENTURES OF BOBBY BRIGHT

OLIVER OPTIC

NOW OR NEVER.

PREFACE

The story contained in this volume is a record of youthful
struggles, not only in the world without, but in the world within;
and the success of the little hero is not merely a gathering up of
wealth and honors, but a triumph over the temptations that beset
the pilgrim on the plain of life. The attainment of worldly
prosperity is not the truest victory; and the author has endeavored
to make the interest of his story depend more on the hero's
devotion to principles than on his success in business.

Bobby Bright is a smart boy; perhaps the reader will think he is
altogether too smart for one of his years. This is a progressive
age, and anything which young America may do need not surprise any
person. That little gentleman is older than his father, knows more
than his mother, can talk politics, smoke cigars, and drive a 2:40
horse. He orders "one stew" with as much ease as a man of forty,
and can even pronounce correctly the villanous names of sundry
French and German wines and liqueurs. One would suppose, to hear
him talk, that he had been intimate with Socrates and Solon, with
Napoleon and Noah Webster; in short, that whatever he did not know
was not worth knowing.

In the face of these manifestations of exuberant genius, it
would be absurd to accuse the author of making his hero do too
much. All he has done is to give this genius a right direction; and
for politics, cigars, 2:40 horses, and "one stew," he has
substituted the duties of a rational and accountable being,
regarding them as better fitted to develop the young gentleman's
mind, heart, and soul.

Bobby Bright is something more than a smart boy. He is a good
boy, and makes a true man. His daily life is the moral of the
story, and the author hopes that his devotion to principle will
make a stronger impression upon the mind of the young reader, than
even the most exciting incidents of his eventful career.

CONTENTS

I. In which Bobby goes a
fishing, and catches a Horse

II. In which Bobby blushes
several Times, and does a Sum in Arithmetic

III. In which the Little Black
House is bought, but not paid for

IV. In which Bobby gets out of
one Scrape, and into another

V. In which Bobby gives his
Note for Sixty Dollars

VI. In which Bobby sets out on
his Travels

VII. In which Bobby stands up
for certain "Inalienable Rights"

VIII. In which Mr. Timmins is
astonished, and Bobby dines in Chestnut Street

IX. In which Bobby opens
various Accounts, and wins his first Victory

X. In which Bobby is a little
too smart

XI. In which Bobby strikes a
Balance, and returns to Riverdale

XII. In which Bobby astonishes
sundry Persons, and pays Part of his Note

XIII. In which Bobby declines a
Copartnership, and visits B---- again

XIV. In which Bobby's Air
Castle is upset, and Tom Spicer takes to the Woods

XV. In which Bobby gets into a
Scrape, and Tom Spicer turns up again

XVI. In which Bobby finds "it
is an ill wind that blows no one any good"

XVII. In which Tom has a good
Time, and Bobby meets with a terrible Misfortune

XVIII. In which Bobby takes
French Leave, and camps in the Woods

XIX. In which Bobby has a
narrow Escape, and goes to Sea with Sam Ray

XX. In which the Clouds blow
over, and Bobby is himself again

XXI. In which Bobby steps off
the Stage, and the Author must finish "Now or Never"

NOW OR NEVER

OR

THE ADVENTURES OF BOBBY BRIGHT

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH BOBBY GOES A FISHING, AND CATCHES A HORSE

"By jolly! I've got a bite!" exclaimed Tom Spicer, a rough,
hard-looking boy, who sat on a rock by the river's side, anxiously
watching the cork float on his line.

"Catch him, then," quietly responded Bobby Bright, who occupied
another rock near the first speaker, as he pulled up a large pout,
and, without any appearance of exultation, proceeded to unhook and
place him in his basket.

"You are a lucky dog, Bob," added Tom, as he glanced into the
basket of his companion, which now contained six good-sized fishes.
"I haven't caught one yet."

"You don't fish deep enough."

"I fish on the bottom."

"That is too deep."

"It don't make any difference how I fish; it is all luck."

"Not all luck, Tom; there is something in doing it right."

"I shall not catch a fish," continued Tom, in despair.

"You'll catch something else, though, when you go home."

"Will I?"

"I'm afraid you will."

"Who says I will?"

"Didn't you tell me you were 'hooking jack'?"

"Who is going to know anything about it?"

"The master will know you are absent."

"I shall tell him my mother sent me over to the village on an
errand."

"I never knew a fellow to 'hook jack,' yet, without getting
found out."

"I shall not get found out unless you blow on me; and you
wouldn't be mean enough to do that;" and Tom glanced uneasily at
his companion.

"Suppose your mother should ask me if I had seen you."

"You would tell her you have not, of course."

"Of course?"

"Why, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you do as much as that for a
fellow?"

"It would be a lie."

"A lie! Humph!"

"I wouldn't lie for any fellow," replied Bobby, stoutly, as he
pulled in his seventh fish, and placed him in the basket.

"Wouldn't you?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Then let me tell you this; if you peach on me, I'll smash your
head."

Tom Spicer removed one hand from the fish pole and, doubling his
fist, shook it with energy at his companion.

"Smash away," replied Bobby, coolly. "I shall not go out of my
way to tell tales; but if your mother or the master asks me the
question, I shall not lie."

"Won't you?"

"No, I won't."

"I'll bet you will;" and Tom dropped his fish pole, and was on
the point of jumping over to the rock occupied by Bobby, when the
float of the former disappeared beneath the surface of the
water.

"You've got a bite," coolly interposed Bobby, pointing to the
line.

Tom snatched the pole, and with a violent twitch, pulled up a
big pout; but his violence jerked the hook out of the fish's mouth,
and he disappeared beneath the surface of the river.

"Just my luck!" muttered Tom.

"Keep cool, then."

"I will fix you yet."

"All right; but you had better not let go your pole again, or
you will lose another fish."

"I'm bound to smash your head, though."

"No, you won't."

"Won't I?"

"Two can play at that game."

"Do you stump me?"

"No; I don't want to fight; I won't fight if I can help it."

"I'll bet you won't!" sneered Tom.

"But I will defend myself."

"Humph!"

"I am not a liar, and the fear of a flogging shall not make me
tell a lie."

"Go to Sunday school—don't you?"

"I do; and besides that, my mother always taught me never to
tell a lie."

"Come! you needn't preach to me. By and by, you will call me a
liar."

"No, I won't; but just now you told me you meant to lie to your
mother, and to the master."

"What if I did? That is none of your business."

"It is my business when you want me to lie for you,
though; and I shall not do it."

"Blow on me, and see what you will get."

"I don't mean to blow on you."

"Yes, you do."

"I will not lie about it; that's all."

"By jolly! see that horse!" exclaimed Tom, suddenly, as he
pointed to the road leading to Riverdale Centre.

"By gracious!" added Bobby, dropping his fish pole, as he saw
the horse running at a furious rate up the road from the
village.

The mad animal was attached to a chaise, in which was seated a
lady, whose frantic shrieks pierced the soul of our youthful
hero.

The course of the road was by the river's side for nearly half a
mile, and crossed the stream at a wooden bridge but a few rods from
the place where the boys were fishing.

Bobby Bright's impulses were noble and generous; and without
stopping to consider the peril to which the attempt would expose
him, he boldly resolved to stop that horse, or let the animal dash
him to pieces on the bridge.

"Now or never!" shouted he, as he leaped from the rock, and ran
with all his might to the bridge.

The shrieks of the lady rang in his ears, and seemed to command
him, with an authority which he could not resist, to stop the
horse. There was no time for deliberation; and, indeed, Bobby did
not want any deliberation. The lady was in danger; if the horse's
flight was not checked, she would be dashed in pieces; and what
then could excuse him for neglecting his duty? Not the fear of
broken limbs, of mangled flesh, or even of a sudden and violent
death.

It is true Bobby did not think of any of these things; though,
if he had, it would have made no difference with him. He was a boy
who would not fight except in self-defence, but he had the courage
to do a deed which might have made the stoutest heart tremble with
terror.

Grasping a broken rail as he leaped over the fence, he planted
himself in the middle of the bridge, which was not more than half
as wide as the road at each end of it, to await the coming of the
furious animal. On he came, and the piercing shrieks of the
affrighted lady nerved him to the performance of his perilous
duty.

The horse approached him at a mad run, and his feet struck the
loose planks of the bridge. The brave boy then raised his big club,
and brandished it with all his might in the air. Probably the horse
did not mean anything very bad; was only frightened, and had no
wicked intentions towards the lady; so that when a new danger
menaced him in front, he stopped suddenly, and with so much
violence as to throw the lady forward from her seat upon the dasher
of the chaise. He gave a long snort, which was his way of
expressing his fear. He was evidently astonished at the sudden
barrier to his further progress, and commenced running back.

"Save me!" screamed the lady.

"I will, ma'am; don't be scared!" replied Bobby, confidently, as
he dropped his club, and grasped the bridle of the horse, just as
he was on the point of whirling round to escape by the way he had
come.

"Stop him! Do stop him!" cried the lady.

"Whoa!" said Bobby, in gentle tones, as he patted the trembling
horse on his neck. "Whoa, good horse! Be quiet! Whoa!"

The animal, in his terror, kept running backward and forward;
but Bobby persevered in his gentle treatment, and finally soothed
him, so that he stood quiet enough for the lady to get out of the
chaise.

"What a miracle that I am alive!" exclaimed she, when she
realized that she stood once more upon the firm earth.

"Yes, ma'am, it is lucky he didn't break the chaise. Whoa! Good
horse! Stand quiet!"

"What a brave little fellow you are!" said the lady, as soon as
she could recover her breath so as to express her admiration of
Bobby's bold act.

"O, I don't mind it," replied he, blushing like a rose in June.
"Did he run away with you?"

"No; my father left me in the chaise for a moment while he went
into a store in the village, and a teamster who was passing by
snapped his whip, which frightened Kate so that she started off at
the top of her speed. I was so terrified that I screamed with all
my might, which frightened her the more. The more I screamed, the
faster she ran."

"I dare say. Good horse! Whoa, Kate!"

"She is a splendid creature; she never did such a thing before.
My father will think I am killed."

By this time, Kate had become quite reasonable, and seemed very
much obliged to Bobby for preventing her from doing mischief to her
mistress; for she looked at the lady with a glance of satisfaction,
which her deliverer interpreted as a promise to behave better in
future. He relaxed his grasp upon the bridle, patted her upon the
neck, and said sundry pleasant things to encourage her in her
assumed purpose of doing better. Kate appeared to understand
Bobby's kind words, and declared as plainly as a horse could
declare that she would be sober and tractable.

"Now, ma'am, if you will get into the chaise again, I think Kate
will let me drive her down to the village."

"O, dear! I should not dare to do so."

"Then, if you please, I will drive down alone, so as to let your
father know that you are safe."

"Do."

"I am sure he must feel very bad, and I may save him a great
deal of pain, for a man can suffer a great deal in a very short
time."

"You are a little philosopher, as well as a hero, and if you are
not afraid of Kate, you may do as you wish."

"She seems very gentle now;" and Bobby turned her round, and got
into the chaise.

"Be very careful," said the lady.

"I will."

Bobby took the reins, and Kate, true to the promise she had
virtually made, started off at a round pace towards the
village.

He had not gone more than a quarter of a mile of the distance
when he met a wagon containing three men, one of whom was the
lady's father. The gestures which he made assured Bobby he had
found the person whom he sought, and he stopped.

"My daughter! Where is she?" gasped the gentleman, as he leaped
from the wagon.

"She is safe, sir," replied Bobby, with all the enthusiasm of
his warm nature.

"Thank God!" added the gentleman, devoutly, as he placed himself
in the chaise by the side of Bobby.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH BOBBY BLUSHES SEVERAL TIMES, AND DOES A SUM IN
ARITHMETIC

Mr. Bayard, the owner of the horse, and the father of the lady
whom Bobby had saved from impending death, was too much agitated to
say much, even to the bold youth who had rendered him such a signal
service. He could scarcely believe the intelligence which the boy
brought him; it seemed too good to be true. He had assured himself
that Ellen—for that was the young lady's name—was
killed or dreadfully injured.

Kate was driven at the top of her speed, and in a few moments
reached the bridge, where Ellen was awaiting his arrival.

"Here I am, father, alive and unhurt!" cried Ellen, as Mr.
Bayard stopped the horse.

"Thank Heaven, my child!" replied the glad father, embracing his
daughter. "I was sure you were killed."

"No, father; thanks to this bold youth, I am uninjured."

"I am under very great obligations to you, young man," continued
Mr. Bayard, grasping Bobby's hand.

"O, never mind, sir;" and Bobby blushed just as he had blushed
when the young lady spoke to him.

"We shall never forget you—shall we, father?" added
Ellen.

"No, my child; and I shall endeavor to repay, to some slight
extent, our indebtedness to him. But you have not yet told me how
you were saved."

"O, I merely stopped the horse; that's all," answered Bobby,
modestly.

"Yes, father, but he placed himself right before Kate when she
was almost flying over the ground. When I saw him, I was certain
that he would lose his life, or be horribly mangled for his
boldness," interposed Ellen.

"It was a daring deed, young man, to place yourself before an
affrighted horse in that manner," said Mr. Bayard.

"I didn't mind it, sir."

"And then he flourished a big club, almost as big as he is
himself, in the air, which made Kate pause in her mad career, when
my deliverer here grasped her by the bit and held her."

"It was well and bravely done."

"That it was, father; not many men would have been bold enough
to do what he did," added Ellen, with enthusiasm.

"Very true; and I feel that I am indebted to him for your
safety. What is your name, young man?"

"Robert Bright, sir."

Mr. Bayard took from his pocket several pieces of gold, which he
offered to Bobby.

"No, I thank you, sir," replied Bobby, blushing.

"What! as proud as you are bold?"

"I don't like to be paid for doing my duty."

"Bravo! You are a noble little fellow! But you must take this
money, not as a reward for what you have done, but as a testimonial
of my gratitude."

"I would rather not, sir."

"Do take it, Robert," added Ellen.

"I don't like to take it. It looks mean to take money for doing
one's duty."

"Take it, Robert, to please me;" and the young lady smiled so
sweetly that Bobby's resolution began to give way. "Only to please
me, Robert."

"I will, to please you; but I don't feel right about it."

"You must not be too proud, Robert," said Mr. Bayard, as he put
the gold pieces into his hand.

"I am not proud, sir; only I don't like to be paid for doing my
duty."

"Not paid, my young friend. Consider that you have placed me
under an obligation to you for life. This money is only an
expression of my own and my daughter's feelings. It is but a small
sum, but I hope you will permit me to do something more for you,
when you need it. You will regard me as your friend as long as you
live."

"Thank you, sir."

"When you want any assistance of any kind, come to me. I live in
Boston; here is my business card."

Mr. Bayard handed him a card, on which Bobby read, "F. Bayard
& Co., Booksellers and Publishers, No. —, Washington
Street, Boston."

"You are very kind, sir."

"I want you should come to Boston and see us, too," interposed
Ellen. "I should be delighted to show you the city, to take you to
the Athenæum and the Museum."

"Thank you."

Mr. Bayard inquired of Bobby about his parents, where he lived,
and about the circumstances of his family. He then took out his
memorandum book, in which he wrote the boy's name and
residence.

"I am sorry to leave you now, Robert, but I have over twenty
miles to ride to-day. I should be glad to visit your mother, and
next time I come to Riverdale, I shall certainly do so."

"Thank you, sir; my mother is a very poor woman, but she will be
glad to see you."

"Now, good by, Robert."

"Good by," repeated Ellen.

"Good by."

Mr. Bayard drove off, leaving Bobby standing on the bridge with
the gold pieces in his hand.

"Here's luck!" said Bobby, shaking the coin. "Won't mother's
eyes stick out when she sees these shiners? There are no such
shiners in the river as these."

Bobby was astonished, and the more he gazed at the gold pieces,
the more bewildered he became. He had never held so much money in
his hand before. There were three large coins and one smaller one.
He turned them over and over, and finally ascertained that the
large coins were ten dollar pieces, and the smaller one a five
dollar piece. Bobby was not a great scholar, but he knew enough of
arithmetic to calculate the value of his treasure. He was so
excited, however, that he did not arrive at the conclusion half so
quick as most of my young readers would have done.

"Thirty-five dollars!" exclaimed Bobby, when the problem was
solved. "Gracious!"

"Hallo, Bob!" shouted Tom Spicer, who had got tired of fishing;
besides, the village clock was just striking twelve, and it was
time for him to go home.

Bobby made no answer, but hastily tying the gold pieces up in
the corner of his handkerchief, he threw the broken rail he had
used in stopping the horse where it belonged, and started for the
place where he had left his fishing apparatus.

"Hallo, Bob!"

"Well, Tom?"

"Stopped him—didn't you?"

"I did."

"You were a fool; he might have killed you."

"So he might; but I didn't stop to think of that. The lady's
life was in danger."

"What of that?"

"Everything, I should say."

"Did he give you anything?"

"Yes;" and Bobby continued his walk down to the river's
side.

"I say, what did he give you, Bobby?" persisted Tom, following
him.

"O, he gave me a good deal of money."

"How much?"

"I want to get my fish line now; I will tell you all about it
some other time," replied Bobby, who rather suspected the
intentions of his companion.

"Tell me now; how much was it?"

"Never mind it now."

"Humph! Do you think I mean to rob you?"

"No."

"Ain't you going halveses?"

"Why should I?"

"Wasn't I with you?"

"Were you?"

"Wasn't I fishing with you?"

"You did not do anything about stopping the horse."

"I would, if I hadn't been afraid to go up to the road."

"Afraid?"

"Somebody might have seen me, and they would have known that I
was hooking jack."

"Then you ought not to share the money."

"Yes, I had. When a fellow is with you, he ought to have half.
It is mean not to give him half."

"If you had done anything to help stop the horse, I would have
shared with you. But you didn't."

"What of that?"

Bobby was particularly sensitive in regard to the charge of
meanness. His soul was a great deal bigger than his body, and he
was always generous, even to his own injury, among his companions.
It was evident to him that Tom had no claim to any part of the
reward; but he could not endure the thought even of being accused
of meanness.

"I'll tell you what I will do, if you think I ought to share
with you. I will leave it out to Squire Lee; and if he thinks you
ought to have half, or any part of the money, I will give it to
you."

"No, you don't; you want to get me into a scrape for hooking
jack. I see what you are up to."

"I will state the case to him without telling him who the boys
are."

"No, you don't! You want to be mean about it. Come, hand over
half the money."

"I will not," replied Bobby, who, when it became a matter of
compulsion, could stand his ground at any peril.

"How much have you got?"

"Thirty-five dollars."

"By jolly! And you mean to keep it all yourself?"

"I mean to give it to my mother."

"No, you won't! If you are going to be mean about it, I'll smash
your head!"

This was a favorite expression with Tom Spicer, who was a noted
bully among the boys of Riverdale. The young ruffian now placed
himself in front of Bobby, and shook his clenched fist in his
face.

"Hand over."

"No, I won't. You have no claim to any part of the money; at
least, I think you have not. If you have a mind to leave it out to
Squire Lee, I will do what is right about it."

"Not I; hand over, or I'll smash your head!"

"Smash away," replied Bobby, placing himself on the
defensive.

"Do you think you can lick me?" asked Tom, not a little
embarrassed by this exhibition of resolution on the part of his
companion.

"I don't think anything about it; but you don't bully me in that
kind of style."

"Won't I?"

"No."

But Tom did not immediately put his threat in execution, and
Bobby would not be the aggressor; so he stepped one side to pass
his assailant. Tom took this as an evidence of the other's desire
to escape, and struck him a heavy blow on the side of the head. The
next instant the bully was floundering in the soft mud of a ditch;
Bobby's reply was more than Tom had bargained for, and while he was
dragging himself out of the ditch, our hero ran down to the river,
and got his fish pole and basket.

"You'll catch it for that!" growled Tom.

"I'm all ready, whenever it suits your convenience," replied
Bobby.

"Just come out here and take it in fair fight," continued Tom,
who could not help bullying, even in the midst of his
misfortune.

"No, I thank you; I don't want to fight with any fellow. I will
not fight if I can help it."

"What did you hit me for, then?"

"In self-defence."

"Just come out here, and try it fair!"

"No;" and Bobby hurried home, leaving the bully astonished and
discomfited by the winding up of the morning's sport.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH THE LITTLE BLACK HOUSE IS BOUGHT BUT NOT PAID FOR

Probably my young readers have by this time come to the
conclusion that Bobby Bright was a very clever fellow—one
whose acquaintance they would be happy to cultivate. Perhaps by
this time they have become so far interested in him as to desire to
know who his parents were, what they did, and in what kind of a
house he lived.

I hope none of my young friends will think any less of him when
I inform them that Bobby lived in an old black house which had
never been painted, which had no flower garden in front of it, and
which, in a word, was quite far from being a palace. A great many
very nice city folks would not have considered it fit to live in,
would have turned up their noses at it, and wondered that any human
beings could be so degraded as to live in such a miserable house.
But the widow Bright, Bobby's mother, thought it was a very
comfortable house, and considered herself very fortunate in being
able to get so good a dwelling. She had never lived in a fine
house, knew nothing about velvet carpets, mirrors seven feet high,
damask chairs and lounges, or any of the smart things which very
rich and very proud city people consider absolutely necessary for
their comfort. Her father had been a poor man, her husband had died
a poor man, and her own life had been a struggle to keep the demons
of poverty and want from invading her humble abode.

Mr. Bright, her deceased husband, had been a day laborer in
Riverdale. He never got more than a dollar a day, which was then
considered very good wages in the country. He was a very honest,
industrious man, and while he lived, his family did very well. Mrs.
Bright was a careful, prudent woman, and helped him support the
family. They never knew what it was to want for anything.

Poor people, as well as rich, have an ambition to be something
which they are not, or to have something which they have not. Every
person, who has any energy of character, desires to get ahead in
the world. Some merchants, who own big ships and big warehouses by
the dozen, desire to be what they consider rich. But their idea of
wealth is very grand. They wish to count it in millions of dollars,
in whole blocks of warehouses; and they are even more discontented
than the day laborer who has to earn his dinner before he can eat
it.

Bobby's father and mother had just such an ambition, only it was
so modest that the merchant would have laughed at it. They wanted
to own the little black house in which they resided, so that they
could not only be sure of a home while they lived, but have the
satisfaction of living in their own house. This was a very
reasonable ideal, compared with that of the rich merchants I have
mentioned; but it was even more difficult for them to reach it, for
the wages were small, and they had many mouths to feed.

Mr. Bright had saved up fifty dollars; and he thought a great
deal more of this sum than many people do of a thousand dollars. He
had had to work very hard and be very prudent in order to
accumulate this sum, which made him value it all the more
highly.

With this sum of fifty dollars at his command, John Bright felt
rich; and then, more than ever before, he wanted to own the little
black house. He felt as grand as a lord; and as soon as the
forty-nine dollars had become fifty, he waited upon Mr. Hardhand, a
little crusty old man, who owned the little black house, and
proposed to purchase it.

The landlord was a hard man. Everybody in Riverdale said he was
mean and stingy. Any generous-hearted man would have been willing
to make an easy bargain with an honest, industrious, poor man, like
John Bright, who wished to own the house in which he lived; but Mr.
Hardhand, although he was rich, only thought how he could make more
money. He asked the poor man four hundred dollars for the old house
and the little lot of land on which it stood.

It was a matter of great concern to John Bright. Four hundred
dollars was a "mint of money," and he could not see how he should
ever be able to save so much from his daily earnings. So he talked
with Squire Lee about it, who told him that three hundred was all
it was worth. John offered this for it, and after a month's
hesitation Mr. Hardhand accepted the offer, agreeing to take fifty
dollars down, and the rest in semi-annual payments of twenty-five
dollars each until the whole was paid.

I am thus particular in telling my readers about the bargain,
because this debt which his father contracted was the means of
making a man of Bobby, as will be seen in his subsequent
history.

John Bright paid the first fifty dollars; but before the next
instalment became due, the poor man was laid in his cold and silent
grave. A malignant disease carried him off, and the hopes of the
Bright family seemed to be blasted.

Four children were left to the widow. The youngest was only
three years old, and Bobby, the oldest, was nine, when his father
died. Squire Lee, who had always been a good friend of John Bright,
told the widow that she had better go to the poorhouse, and not
attempt to struggle along with such fearful odds against her. But
the widow nobly refused to become a pauper, and to make paupers of
her children, whom she loved quite as much as though she and they
had been born in a ducal palace. She told the squire that she had
two hands, and as long as she had her health, the town need not
trouble itself about her support.

Squire Lee was filled with surprise and admiration at the noble
resolution of the poor woman; and when he returned to his house, he
immediately sent her a cord of wood, ten bushels of potatoes, two
bags of meal, and a firkin of salt pork.

The widow was very grateful for these articles, and no false
pride prevented her from accepting the gift of her rich and
kind-hearted neighbor.

Riverdale Centre was largely engaged in the manufacturing of
boots and shoes, and this business gave employment to a large
number of men and women.

Mrs. Bright had for several years "closed" shoes—which, my
readers who do not live in "shoe towns" may not know, means sewing
or stitching them. To this business she applied herself with
renewed energy. There was a large hotel in Riverdale Centre, where
several families from Boston spent the summer. By the aid of Squire
Lee, she obtained the washing of these families, which was more
profitable than closing shoes.

By these means she not only supported her family very
comfortably, but was able to save a little money towards paying for
the house. Mr. Hardhand, by the persuasions of Squire Lee, had
consented to let the widow keep the house, and pay for it as she
could.

John Bright had been dead four years at the time we introduce
Bobby to the reader. Mrs. Bright had paid another hundred dollars
towards the house, with the interest; so there was now but one
hundred due. Bobby had learned to "close," and helped his mother a
great deal; but the confinement and the stooping posture did not
agree with his health, and his mother was obliged to dispense with
his assistance. But the devoted little fellow found a great many
ways of helping her. He was now thirteen, and was as handy about
the house as a girl. When he was not better occupied, he would
often go to the river and catch a mess of fish, which was so much
clear gain.

The winter which had just passed had brought a great deal of
sickness to the little black house. The children all had the
measles, and two of them the scarlet fever, so that Mrs. Bright
could not work much. Her affairs were not in a very prosperous
condition when the spring opened; but the future was bright, and
the widow, trusting in Providence, believed that all would end
well.

One thing troubled her. She had not been able to save anything
for Mr. Hardhand. She could only pay her interest; but she hoped by
the first of July to give him twenty-five dollars of the principal.
But the first of July came, and she had only five dollars of the
sum she had partly promised her creditor. She could not so easily
recover from the disasters of the hard winter, and she had but just
paid off the little debts she had contracted. She was nervous and
uneasy as the day approached. Mr. Hardhand always abused her when
she told him she could not pay him, and she dreaded his coming.

It was the first of July on which Bobby caught those pouts,
caught the horse, and on which Tom Spicer had "caught a
Tartar."

Bobby hastened home, as we said at the conclusion of the last
chapter. He was as happy as a lord. He had fish enough in his
basket for dinner, and for breakfast the next morning, and money
enough in his pocket to make his mother as happy as a queen, if
queens are always happy.

The widow Bright, though she had worried and fretted night and
day about the money which was to be paid to Mr. Hardhand on the
first of July, had not told her son anything about it. It would
only make him unhappy, she reasoned, and it was needless to make
the dear boy miserable for nothing; so Bobby ran home all
unconscious of the pleasure which was in store for him.

When he reached the front door, as he stopped to scrape his feet
on the sharp stone there, as all considerate boys who love their
mothers do, before they go into the house, he heard the angry tones
of Mr. Hardhand. He was scolding and abusing his mother because she
could not pay him the twenty-five dollars.

Bobby's blood boiled with indignation, and his first impulse was
to serve him as he had served Tom Spicer, only a few moments
before; but Bobby, as we have before intimated, was a peaceful boy,
and not disposed to quarrel with any person; so he contented
himself with muttering a few hard words.

"The wretch! What business has he to talk to my mother in
that style?" said he to himself. "I have a great mind to kick him
out of the house."

But Bobby's better judgment came to his aid; and perhaps he
realized that he and his mother would only get kicked out in
return. He could battle with Mr. Hardhand, but not with the power
which his wealth gave him; so, like a great many older persons in
similar circumstances, he took counsel of prudence rather than
impulse.

"Bear ye one another's burdens," saith the Scripture; but Bobby
was not old enough or astute enough to realize that Mr. Hardhand's
burden was his wealth, his love of money; that it made him little
better than a Hottentot; and he could not feel as charitably
towards him as a Christian should towards his erring, weak
brother.

Setting his pole by the door, he entered the room where Hardhand
was abusing his mother.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH BOBBY GETS OUT OF ONE SCRAPE, AND INTO ANOTHER

Bobby was so indignant at the conduct of Mr. Hardhand, that he
entirely forgot the adventure of the morning; and he did not even
think of the gold he had in his pocket. He loved his mother; he
knew how hard she had worked for him and his brother and sisters;
that she had burned the "midnight oil" at her clamps; and it made
him feel very bad to hear her abused as Mr. Hardhand was abusing
her. It was not her fault that she had not the money to pay him.
She had been obliged to spend a large portion of her time over the
sick beds of her children, so that she could not earn so much money
as usual; while the family expenses were necessarily much
greater.

Bobby knew also that Mr. Hardhand was aware of all the
circumstances of his mother's position, and the more he considered
the case the more brutal and inhuman was his course.

As our hero entered the family room with the basket of fish on
his arm, the little crusty old man fixed the glance of his evil eye
upon him.

"There is that boy, marm, idling away his time by the river, and
eating you out of house and home," said the wretch. "Why don't you
set him to work, and make him earn something?"

"Bobby is a very good boy," meekly responded the widow
Bright.

"Humph! I should think he was. A great lazy lubber like him,
living on his mother!" and Mr. Hardhand looked contemptuously at
Bobby.

"I am not a lazy lubber," interposed the insulted boy with
spirit.

"Yes, you are. Why don't you go to work?"

"I do work."

"No, you don't; you waste your time paddling in the river."

"I don't."

"You had better teach this boy manners too, marm," said the
creditor, who, like all men of small souls, was willing to take
advantage of the power which the widow's indebtedness gave him. "He
is saucy."

"I should like to know who taught you manners, Mr.
Hardhand," replied Bobby, whose indignation was rapidly getting the
better of his discretion.

"What!" growled Mr. Hardhand, aghast at this unwonted
boldness.

"I heard what you said before I came in; and no decent man would
go to the house of a poor woman to insult her."

"Humph! Mighty fine," snarled the little old man, his gray eyes
twinkling with malice.

"Don't, Bobby; don't be saucy to the gentleman," interposed his
mother.

"Saucy, marm? You ought to horsewhip him for it. If you don't, I
will."

"No, you won't!" replied Bobby, shaking his head significantly.
"I can take care of myself."

"Did any one ever hear such impudence!" gasped Mr. Hardhand.

"Don't, Bobby, don't," pleaded the anxious mother.

"I should like to know what right you have to come here and
abuse my mother," continued Bobby, who could not restrain his
anger.

"Your mother owes me money, and she doesn't pay it, you young
scoundrel!" answered Mr. Hardhand, foaming with rage.

"That is no reason why you should insult her. You can call
me what you please, but you shall not insult my mother while
I'm round."

"Your mother is a miserable woman, and——"

"Say that again, and though you are an old man, I'll hit you for
it. I'm big enough to protect my mother, and I'll do it."

Bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to Mr. Hardhand, fully
determined to execute his threat if he repeated the offensive
expression, or any other of a similar import. He was roused to the
highest pitch of anger, and felt as though he had just as lief die
as live in defence of his mother's good name.

I am not sure that I could excuse Bobby's violence under any
other circumstances. He loved his mother—as the novelists
would say, he idolized her; and Mr. Hardhand had certainly applied
some very offensive epithets to her—epithets which no good
son could calmly hear applied to a mother. Besides, Bobby, though
his heart was a large one, and was in the right place, had never
been educated into those nice distinctions of moral right and wrong
which control the judgment of wise and learned men. He had an idea
that violence, resistance with blows, was allowable in certain
extreme cases; and he could conceive of no greater provocation than
an insult to his mother.

"Be calm, Bobby; you are in a passion," said Mrs. Bright.

"I am surprised, marm," began Mr. Hardhand, who prudently
refrained from repeating the offensive language—and I have no
doubt he was surprised; for he looked both astonished and alarmed.
"This boy has a most ungovernable temper."

"Don't you worry about my temper, Mr. Hardhand; I'll take care
of myself. All I want of you is not to insult my mother. You may
say what you like to me; but don't you call her hard names."

Mr. Hardhand, like all mean, little men, was a coward; and he
was effectually intimidated by the bold and manly conduct of the
boy. He changed his tone and manner at once.

"You have no money for me, marm?" said he, edging towards the
door.

"No, sir; I am sorry to say that I have been able to save only
five dollars since I paid you last; but I hope——"

"Never mind, marm, never mind; I shall not trouble myself to
come here again, where I am liable to be kicked by this ill-bred
cub. No, marm, I shall not come again. Let the law take its
course."

"O, mercy! See what you have brought upon us, Bobby," exclaimed
Mrs. Bright, bursting into tears.

"Yes, marm, let the law take its course."

"O, Bobby! Stop a moment, Mr. Hardhand; do stop a moment."

"Not a moment, marm. We'll see;" and Mr. Hardhand placed his
hand upon the latch string.

Bobby felt very uneasy and very unhappy at that moment. His
passion had subsided, and he realized that he had done a great deal
of mischief by his impetuous conduct.

Then the remembrance of his morning adventure on the bridge came
like a flash of sunshine to his mind, and he eagerly drew from his
pocket the handkerchief in which he had deposited the precious
gold,—doubly precious now, because it would enable him to
retrieve the error into which he had fallen, and do something
towards relieving his mother's embarrassment. With a trembling hand
he untied the knot which secured the money.

"Here, mother, here is thirty-five dollars;" and he placed it in
her hand.

"Why, Bobby!" exclaimed Mrs. Bright.

"Pay him, mother, pay him, and I will tell you all about it by
and by."

"Thirty-five dollars! and all in gold! Where did you get
it, Bobby?"

"Never mind it now, mother."

Mr. Hardhand's covetous soul had already grasped the glittering
gold; and removing his hand from the latch string, he approached
the widow.

"I shall be able to pay you forty dollars now," said Mrs.
Bright, taking the five dollars she had saved from her pocket.

"Yes, marm."

Mr. Hardhand took the money, and seating himself at the table,
indorsed the amount on the back of the note.

"You owe me sixty more," said he, maliciously, as he returned
the note to his pocket book. "It must be paid immediately."

"You must not be hard with me now, when I have paid more than
you demanded."

"I don't wish to come here again. That boy's impudence has put
me all out of conceit with you and your family," replied Mr.
Hardhand, assuming the most benevolent look he could command.
"There was a time when I was very willing to help you. I have
waited a great while for my pay for this house; a great deal longer
than I would have waited for anybody else."

"Your interest has always been paid punctually," suggested the
widow, modestly.

"That's true; but very few people would have waited as long as I
have for the principal. I wanted to help you——"

"By gracious!" exclaimed Bobby, interrupting him.

"Don't be saucy, my son, don't," said Mrs. Bright, fearing a
repetition of the former scene.

"He wanted to help us!" ejaculated Bobby.

It was a very absurd and hypocritical expression on the part of
Mr. Hardhand; for he never wanted to help any one but himself; and
during the whole period of his relations with the poor widow, he
had oppressed, insulted, and abused her to the extent of his
capacity, or at least as far as his interest would permit.

He was a malicious and revengeful man. He did not consider the
great provocation he had given Bobby for his violent conduct, but
determined to be revenged, if it could be accomplished without
losing any part of the sixty dollars still due him. He was a wicked
man at heart, and would not scruple to turn the widow and her
family out of house and home.

Mrs. Bright knew this, and Bobby knew it too; and they felt very
uneasy about it. The wretch still had the power to injure them, and
he would use it without compunction.

"Yes, young man, I wanted to help you, and you see what I get
for it—contempt and insults! You will hear from me again in a
day or two. Perhaps you will change your tune, you young
reprobate!"

"Perhaps I shall," replied Bobby, without much discretion.

"And you too, marm; you uphold him in his treatment of me. You
have not done your duty to him. You have been remiss, marm!"
continued Mr. Hardhand, growing bolder again, as he felt the power
he wielded.

"That will do, sir; you can go!" said Bobby, springing from his
chair, and approaching Mr. Hardhand. "Go, and do your worst!"

"Humph! you stump me,—do you?"

"I would rather see my mother kicked out of the house than
insulted by such a dried-up old curmudgeon as you are. Go
along!"

"Now, don't, Bobby," pleaded his mother.

"I am going; and if the money is not paid by twelve o'clock
to-morrow, the law shall take its course;" and Mr. Hardhand rushed
out of the house, slamming the door violently after him.

"O, Bobby, what have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Bright, when the
hard-hearted creditor had departed.

"I could not help it, mother; don't cry. I cannot bear to hear
you insulted and abused; and I thought when I heard him do it a
year ago, that I couldn't stand it again. It is too bad."

"But he will turn us out of the house; and what shall we do
then?"

"Don't cry, mother; it will come round all right. I have friends
who are rich and powerful, and who will help us."

"You don't know what you say, Bobby. Sixty dollars is a great
deal of money, and if we should sell all we have, it would scarcely
bring that."

"Leave it all to me, mother; I feel as though I could do
something now. I am old enough to make money."

"What can you do?"

"Now or never!" replied Bobby, whose mind had wandered from the
scene to the busy world, where fortunes are made and lost every
day. "Now or never!" muttered he again.

"But, Bobby, you have not told me where you got all that
gold."

"Dinner is ready, I see, and I will tell you while we eat."

Bobby had been a fishing, and to be hungry is a part of the
fisherman's luck; so he seated himself at the table, and gave his
mother a full account of all that had occurred at the bridge.

The fond mother trembled when she realized the peril her son had
incurred for the sake of the young lady; but her maternal heart
swelled with admiration in view of the generous deed, and she
thanked God that she was the mother of such a son. She felt more
confidence in him then than she had ever felt before, and she
realized that he would be the stay and the staff of her declining
years.

Bobby finished his dinner, and seated himself on the front door
step. His mind was absorbed by a new and brilliant idea; and for
half an hour he kept up a most tremendous thinking.

"Now or never!" said he, as he rose and walked down the road
towards Riverdale Centre.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH BOBBY GIVES HIS NOTE FOR SIXTY DOLLARS

A great idea was born in Bobby's brain. His mother's weakness
and the insecurity of her position were more apparent to him than
they had ever been before. She was in the power of her creditor,
who might turn her out of the little black house, sell the place at
auction, and thus, perhaps, deprive her of the whole or a large
part of his father's and her own hard earnings.

But this was not the peculiar hardship of her situation, as her
devoted son understood it. It was not the hard work alone which she
was called upon to perform, not the coarseness of the fare upon
which they lived, not the danger even of being turned out of doors,
that distressed Bobby; it was that a wretch like Mr. Hardhand could
insult and trample upon his mother. He had just heard him use
language to her that made his blood boil with indignation, and he
did not, on cool, sober, second thought, regret that he had taken
such a decided stand against it.

He cared not for himself. He could live on a crust of bread and
a cup of water from the spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could
wear coarse and even ragged clothes; but he could not submit to
have his mother insulted, and by such a mean and contemptible
person as Mr. Hardhand.

Yet what could he do? He was but a boy, and the great world
would look with contempt upon his puny form. But he felt that he
was not altogether insignificant. He had performed an act that day,
which the fair young lady, to whom he had rendered the service, had
declared very few men would have undertaken. There was something in
him, something that would come out, if he only put his best foot
forward. It was a tower of strength within him. It told him that he
could do wonders; that he could go out into the world and
accomplish all that would be required to free his mother from debt,
and relieve her from the severe drudgery of her life.

A great many people think they can "do wonders." The vanity of
some very silly people makes them think they can command armies,
govern nations, and teach the world what the world never knew
before and never would know but for them. But Bobby's something
within him was not vanity. It was something more substantial. He
was not thinking of becoming a great man, a great general, a great
ruler, or a great statesman; not even of making a great fortune.
Self was not the idol and the end of his calculations. He was
thinking of his mother, and only of her; and the feeling within him
was as pure, and holy, and beautiful as the dream of an angel. He
wanted to save his mother from insult in the first place, and from
a life of ceaseless drudgery in the second.

A legion of angels seemed to have encamped in his soul to give
him strength for the great purpose in his mind. His was a holy and
a true purpose, and it was this that made him think he could "do
wonders."

What Bobby intended to do the reader shall know in due time. It
is enough now that he meant to do something. The difficulty with a
great many people is, that they never resolve to do something. They
wait for "something to turn up;" and as "things" are often very
obstinate, they utterly refuse to "turn up" at all. Their lives are
spent in waiting for a golden opportunity which never comes.

Now, Bobby Bright repudiated the Micawber philosophy. He would
have nothing to do with it. He did not believe corn would grow
without being planted, or that pouts would bite the bare hook.

I am not going to tell my young readers now how Bobby came out
in the end; but I can confidently say that, if he had waited for
"something to turn up," he would have become a vagabond, a loafer,
out of money, out at the elbows, and out of patience with himself
and all the world.

It was "now or never" with Bobby. He meant to do something; and
after he had made up his mind how and where it was to be done, it
was no use to stand thinking about it, like the pendulum of the
"old clock which had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen,
without giving its owner any cause of complaint."

Bobby walked down the road towards the village with a rapid
step. He was thinking very fast, and probably that made him step
quick. But as he approached Squire Lee's house, his pace slackened,
and he seemed to be very uneasy. When he reached the great gate
that led up to the house, he stopped for an instant, and thrust his
hands down very deep into his trousers pockets. I cannot tell what
the trousers pockets had to do with what he was thinking about; but
if he was searching for anything in them, he did not find it; for
after an instant's hesitation he drew out his hands, struck one of
them against his chest, and in an audible voice
exclaimed,—

"Now or never."

All this pantomime, I suppose, meant that Bobby had some
misgivings as to the ultimate success of his mission at Squire
Lee's, and that when he struck his breast and uttered his favorite
expression, they were conquered and driven out.

Marching with a bold and determined step up to the squire's back
door,—Bobby's ideas of etiquette would not have answered for
the meridian of fashionable society,—he gave three smart
raps.

Bobby's heart beat a little wildly as he awaited a response to
his summons. It seemed that he still had some doubts as to the
practicability of his mission; but they were not permitted to
disturb him long, for the door was opened by the squire's pretty
daughter Annie, a young miss of twelve.

"O, Bobby, is it you? I am so glad you have come!" exclaimed the
little lady.

Bobby blushed—he didn't know why, unless it was that the
young lady desired to see him. He stammered out a reply, and for
the moment forgot the object of his visit.

"I want you to go down to the village for me, and get some books
the expressman was to bring up from Boston for me. Will you
go?"

"Certainly, Miss Annie, I shall be very glad to go for
you," replied Bobby, with an emphasis that made the little
maiden blush in her turn.

"You are real good, Bobby; but I will give you something for
going."

"I don't want anything," said Bobby, stoutly.

"You are too generous! Ah, I heard what you did this forenoon;
and pa says that a great many men would not have dared to do what
you did. I always thought you were as brave as a lion; now I know
it."

"The books are at the express office, I suppose," said Bobby,
turning as red as a blood beet.

"Yes, Bobby; I am so anxious to get them that I can't wait till
pa goes down this evening."

"I will not be gone long."

"O, you needn't run, Bobby; take your time."

"I will go very quick. But, Miss Annie, is your father at
home?"

"Not now; he has gone over to the wood lot; but he will be back
by the time you return."

"Will you please to tell him that I want to see him about
something very particular, when he gets back?"

"I will, Bobby."

"Thank you, Miss Annie;" and Bobby hastened to the village to
execute his commission.

"I wonder what he wants to see pa so very particularly for,"
said the young lady to herself, as she watched his receding form.
"In my opinion, something has happened at the little black house,
for I could see that he looked very sober."

Either Bobby had a very great regard for the young lady, and
wished to relieve her impatience to behold the coveted books, or he
was in a hurry to see Squire Lee; for the squire's old roan horse
could hardly have gone quicker.

"You should not have run, Bobby," said the little maiden, when
he placed the books in her hand; "I would not have asked you to go
if I had thought you would run all the way. You must be very
tired."

"Not at all; I didn't run, only walked very quick," replied he;
but his quick breathing indicated that his words or his walk had
been very much exaggerated. "Has your father returned?"

"He has; he is waiting for you in the sitting room. Come in,
Bobby."

Bobby followed her into the room, and took the chair which Annie
offered him.

"How do you do, Bobby? I am glad to see you," said the squire,
taking him by the hand, and bestowing a benignant smile upon
him—a smile which cheered his heart more than anything else
could at that moment. "I have heard of you before, to-day."

"Have you?"

"I have, Bobby; you are a brave little fellow."

"I came over to see you, sir, about something very particular,"
replied Bobby, whose natural modesty induced him to change the
topic.

"Indeed; well, what can I do for you?"

"A great deal, sir; perhaps you will think I am very bold, sir,
but I can't help it."

"I know you are a very bold little fellow, or you would not have
done what you did this forenoon," laughed the squire.

"I didn't mean that, sir," answered Bobby, blushing up to the
eyes.

"I know you didn't; but go on."

"I only meant that you would think me presuming, or impudent, or
something of that kind."

"O, no, far from it. You cannot be presuming or impudent. Speak
out, Bobby; anything under the heavens that I can do for you, I
shall be glad to do."

"Well, sir, I am going to leave Riverdale."

"Leave Riverdale!"

"Yes, sir; I am going to Boston, where I mean to do something to
help mother."

"Bravo! you are a good lad. What do you mean to do?"

"I was thinking I should go into the book business."

"Indeed!" and Squire Lee was much amused by the matter-of-fact
manner of the young aspirant.

"I was talking with a young fellow who went through the place
last spring, selling books. He told me that some days he made three
or four dollars, and that he averaged twelve dollars a week."

"He did well; perhaps, though, only a few of them make so
much."

"I know I can make twelve dollars a week," replied Bobby,
confidently, for that something within him made him feel capable of
great things.

"I dare say you can. You have energy and perseverance, and
people take a liking to you."

"But I wanted to see you about another matter. To speak out at
once, I want to borrow sixty dollars of you;" and Bobby blushed,
and seemed very much embarrassed by his own boldness.

"Sixty dollars!" exclaimed the squire.

"I knew you would think me impudent," replied our hero, his
heart sinking within him.

"But I don't, Bobby. You want the money to go into business
with—to buy your stock of books?"

"O, no, sir; I am going to apply to Mr. Bayard for that."

"Just so; Mr. Bayard is the gentleman whose daughter you
saved?"

"Yes, sir. I want this money to pay off Mr. Hardhand. We owe him
but sixty dollars now, and he has threatened to turn us out, if it
is not paid by to-morrow noon."

"The old hunks!"

Bobby briefly related to the squire the events of the morning,
much to the indignation and disgust of the honest, kind-hearted
man. The courageous boy detailed more clearly his purpose, and
doubted not he should be able to pay the loan in a few months.

"Very well, Bobby, here is the money;" and the squire took it
from his wallet, and gave it to him.

"Thank you, sir. May Heaven bless you! I shall certainly pay
you."

"Don't worry about it, Bobby. Pay it when you get ready."

"I will give you my note, and——"

The squire laughed heartily at this, and told him that, as he
was a minor, his note was not good for anything.

"You shall see whether it is, or not," returned Bobby. "Let me
give it to you, at least, so that we can tell how much I owe you
from time to time."

"You shall have your own way."

Annie Lee, as much amused as her father at Bobby's big talk, got
the writing materials, and the little merchant in embryo wrote and
signed the note.

"Good, Bobby! Now promise that you will come and see me every
time you come home, and tell me how you are getting along."

"I will, sir, with the greatest pleasure;" and with a light
heart Bobby tripped away home.

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH BOBBY SETS OUT ON HIS TRAVELS

Squire Lee, though only a plain farmer, was the richest man in
Riverdale. He had taken a great fancy to Bobby, and often employed
him to do errands, ride the horse to plough in the cornfields, and
such chores about the place as a boy could do. He liked to talk
with Bobby because there was a great deal of good sense in him, for
one with a small head.

If there was any one thing upon which the squire particularly
prided himself, it was his knowledge of human nature. He declared
that he only wanted to look a man in the face to know what he was;
and as for Bobby Bright, he had summered him and wintered him, and
he was satisfied that he would make something in good time.

He was not much astonished when Bobby opened his ambitious
scheme of going into business for himself. But he had full faith in
his ability to work out a useful and profitable, if not a
brilliant, life. He often said that Bobby was worth his weight in
gold, and that he would trust him with anything he had. Perhaps he
did not suspect that the time was at hand when he would be called
upon to verify his words practically; for it was only that morning,
when one of the neighbors told him about Bobby's stopping the
horse, that he had repeated the expression for the twentieth
time.

It was not an idle remark. Sixty dollars was hardly worth
mentioning with a man of his wealth and liberal views, though so
careful a man as he was would not have been likely to throw away
that amount. But as a matter of investment,—Bobby had made
the note read "with interest,"—he would as readily have let
him have it, as the next richest man in the place, so much
confidence had he in our hero's integrity, and so sure was he that
he would soon have the means of paying him.

Bobby was overjoyed at the fortunate issue of his mission, and
he walked into the room where his mother was closing shoes, with a
dignity worthy a banker or a great merchant. Mrs. Bright was very
sad. Perhaps she felt a little grieved that her son, whom she loved
so much, had so thoughtlessly plunged her into a new
difficulty.

"Come, cheer up, mother; it is all right," said Bobby, in his
usual elastic and gay tones; and at the same time he took the sixty
dollars from his pocket and handed it to her. "There is the money,
and you will be forever quit of Mr. Hardhand to-morrow."

"What, Bobby! Why, where did you get all this money?" asked Mrs.
Bright, utterly astonished.

In a few words the ambitious boy told his story, and then
informed his mother that he was going to Boston the next Monday
morning, to commence business for himself.

"Why, what can you do, Bobby?"

"Do? I can do a great many things;" and he unfolded his scheme
of becoming a little book merchant.

"You are a courageous fellow! Who would have thought of such a
thing?"

"I should, and did."

"But you are not old enough."

"O, yes, I am."

"You had better wait a while."

"Now or never, mother! You see I have given my note, and my
paper will be dishonored, if I am not up and doing."

"Your paper!" said Mrs. Bright, with a smile.

"That is what Mr. Wing, the boot manufacturer, calls it."

"You needn't go away to earn this money; I can pay it
myself."

"This note is my affair, and I mean to pay it myself with my own
earnings. No objections, mother."

Like a sensible woman as she was, she did not make any
objections. She was conscious of Bobby's talents; she knew that he
had a strong mind of his own, and could take care of himself. It is
true, she feared the influence of the great world, and especially
of the great city, upon the tender mind of her son; but if he was
never tempted, he would never be a conqueror over the foes that
beset him.

She determined to do her whole duty towards him; and she
carefully pointed out to him the sins and the moral danger to which
he would be exposed, and warned him always to resist temptation.
She counselled him to think of her when he felt like going
astray.

Bobby declared that he would try to be a good boy. He did not
speak contemptuously of the anticipated perils, as many boys would
have done, because he knew that his mother would not make bug-bears
out of things which she knew had no real existence.

The next day, Mr. Hardhand came; and my young readers can judge
how astonished and chagrined he was, when the widow Bright offered
him the sixty dollars. The Lord was with the widow and the
fatherless, and the wretch was cheated out of his revenge. The note
was given up, and the mortgage cancelled.

Mr. Hardhand insisted that she should pay the interest on the
sixty dollars for one day, as it was then the second day of July;
but when Bobby reckoned it up, and found it was less than one cent,
even the wretched miser seemed ashamed of himself, and changed the
subject of conversation.

He did not dare to say anything saucy to the widow this time. He
had lost his power over her, and there stood Bobby, who had come to
look just like a young lion to him, coward and knave as he was.

The business was all settled now, and Bobby spent the rest of
the week in getting ready for his great enterprise. He visited all
his friends, and went each day to talk with Squire Lee and Annie.
The little maiden promised to buy a great many books of him, if he
would bring his stock to Riverdale, for she was quite as much
interested in him as her father was.

Monday morning came, and Bobby was out of bed with the first
streak of dawn. The excitement of the great event which was about
to happen had not permitted him to sleep for the two hours
preceding; yet when he got up, he could not help feeling sad. He
was going to leave the little black house, going to leave his
mother, going to leave the children, to depart for the great
city.

His mother was up before him. She was even more sad than he was,
for she could see plainer than he the perils that environed him,
and her maternal heart, in spite of the reasonable confidence she
had in his integrity and good principles, trembled for his
safety.

As he ate his breakfast, his mother repeated the warnings and
the good lessons she had before imparted. She particularly
cautioned him to keep out of bad company. If he found that his
companions would lie and swear, he might depend upon it they would
steal, and he had better forsake them at once. This was excellent
advice, and Bobby had occasion at a later period to call it to his
sorrowing heart.

"Here is three dollars, Bobby; it is all the money I have. Your
fare to Boston will be one dollar, and you will have two left to
pay the expenses of your first trip. It is all I have now," said
Mrs. Bright.

"I will not take the whole of it. You will want it yourself. One
dollar is enough. When I find Mr. Bayard, I shall do very
well."

"Yes, Bobby, take the whole of it."

"I will take just one dollar, and no more," replied Bobby,
resolutely, as he handed her the other two dollars.

"Do take it, Bobby."

"No, mother; it will only make me lazy and indifferent."

Taking a clean shirt, a pair of socks, and a handkerchief in his
bundle, he was ready for a start.

"Good by, mother," said he, kissing her and taking her hand. "I
shall try and come home on Saturday, so as to be with you on
Sunday."

Then kissing the children, who had not yet got up, and to whom
he had bidden adieu the night before, he left the house. He had
seen the flood of tears that filled his mother's eyes, as he
crossed the threshold; and he could not help crying a little
himself. It is a sad thing to leave one's home, one's mother,
especially, to go out into the great world; and we need not wonder
that Bobby, who had hardly been out of Riverdale before, should
weep. But he soon restrained the flowing tears.

"Now or never!" said he, and he put his best foot forward.

It was an epoch in his history, and though he was too young to
realize the importance of the event, he seemed to feel that what he
did now was to give character to his whole future life.

It was a bright and beautiful morning—somehow it is always
a bright and beautiful morning when boys leave their homes to
commence the journey of life; it is typical of the season of youth
and hope, and it is meet that the sky should be clear, and the sun
shine brightly, when the little pilgrim sets out upon his tour. He
will see clouds and storms before he has gone far—let him
have a fair start.

He had to walk five miles to the nearest railroad station. His
road lay by the house of his friend, Squire Lee; and as he was
approaching it, he met Annie. She said she had come out to take her
morning walk; but Bobby knew very well that she did not usually
walk till an hour later; which, with the fact that she had asked
him particularly, the day before, what time he was going, made
Bobby believe that she had come out to say good by, and bid him God
speed on his journey. At any rate, he was very glad to see her. He
said a great many pretty things to her, and talked so big about
what he was going to do, that the little maiden could hardly help
laughing in his face.

Then at the house he shook hands with the squire and shook hands
again with Annie, and resumed his journey. His heart felt lighter
for having met them, or at least for having met one of them, if not
both; for Annie's eyes were so full of sunshine that they seemed to
gladden his heart, and make him feel truer and stronger.

After a pleasant walk, for he scarcely heeded the distance, so
full was he of his big thoughts, he reached the railroad station.
The cars had not yet arrived, and would not for half an hour.

"Why should I give them a dollar for carrying me to Boston, when
I can just as well walk? If I get tired, I can sit down and rest
me. If I save the dollar, I shall have to earn only fifty-nine more
to pay my note. So here goes;" and he started down the track.

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH BOBBY STANDS UP FOR "CERTAIN INALIENABLE RIGHTS"

Whether it was wise policy, or "penny wise and pound foolish"
policy for Bobby to undertake such a long walk, is certainly a
debatable question; but as my young readers would probably object
to an argument, we will follow him to the city, and let every one
settle the point to suit himself.

His cheerful heart made the road smooth beneath his feet. He had
always been accustomed to an active, busy life, and had probably
often walked more than twenty miles in a day. About ten o'clock,
though he did not feel much fatigued, he seated himself on a rock
by a brook from which he had just taken a drink, to rest himself.
He had walked slowly so as to husband his strength; and he felt
confident that he should be able to accomplish the journey without
injury to himself.

After resting for half an hour, he resumed his walk. At twelve
o'clock he reached a point from which he obtained his first view of
the city. His heart bounded at the sight, and his first impulse was
to increase his speed so that he should the sooner gratify his
curiosity; but a second thought reminded him that he had eaten
nothing since breakfast; so, finding a shady tree by the road side,
he seated himself on a stone to eat the luncheon which his
considerate mother had placed in his bundle.

Thus refreshed, he felt like a new man, and continued his
journey again till he was on the very outskirts of the city, where
a sign, "No passing over this bridge," interrupted his farther
progress. Unlike many others, Bobby took this sign literally, and
did not venture to cross the bridge. Having some doubts as to the
direct road to the city, he hailed a man in a butcher's cart, who
not only pointed the way, but gave him an invitation to ride with
him, which Bobby was glad to accept.

They crossed the Milldam, and the little pilgrim forgot the long
walk he had taken—forgot Riverdale, his mother, Squire Lee,
and Annie, for the time, in the absorbing interest of the exciting
scene. The Common beat Riverdale Common all hollow; he had never
seen anything like it before. But when the wagon reached Washington
Street, the measure of his surprise was filled up.

"My gracious! how thick the houses are!" exclaimed he, much to
the amusement of the kind-hearted butcher.

"We have high fences here," he replied.

"Where are all these folks going to?"

"You will have to ask them, if you want to know."

But the wonder soon abated, and Bobby began to think of his
great mission in the city. He got tired of gazing and wondering,
and even began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they
sauntered along, and the gayly dressed ladies, that flaunted like
so many idle butterflies, on the sidewalk. It was an exciting
scene; but it did not look real to him. It was more like Herr
Grunderslung's exhibition of the magic lantern, than anything
substantial. The men and women were like so many puppets. They did
not seem to be doing anything, or to be walking for any
purpose.

He got out of the butcher's cart at the Old South. His first
impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of
the puppets. He did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and
for several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the
spot.

"All right!" exclaimed he to himself at last. "I am here. Now's
my time to make a strike. Now or never."

He pulled Mr. Bayard's card from his pocket, and fixed the
number of his store in his mind. Now, numbers were not a Riverdale
institution, and Bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one
indicated. A little study into the matter, however, set him right,
and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller's name
over his store.

"F. Bayard," he read; "this is the place."

"Country!" shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the
street at that moment.

"Just so, my beauty!" said Bobby, a little nettled at this
imputation of verdancy.

"What a greeny!" shouted the little vagabond from the other side
of the street.

"No matter, rag-tag! We'll settle that matter some other
time."

But Bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which
subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop,
he determined to correct it as soon as possible.

A spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a
mischievous glance at him as he entered.

"Mr. Bayard keep here?" asked Bobby.

"Well, I reckon he does. How are all the folks up country?"
replied the spruce clerk, with a rude grin.

"How are they?" repeated Bobby, the color flying to his
cheek.

"Yes, ha-ow do they dew?"

"They behave themselves better than they do here."

"Eh, greeny?"

"Eh, sappy?" repeated Bobby, mimicking the soft, silky tones of
the young city gentleman.

"What do you mean by sappy?" asked the clerk indignantly.

"What do you mean by greeny?"

"I'll let you know what I mean!"

"When you do, I'll let you know what I mean by sappy."

"Good!" exclaimed one of the salesmen, who had heard part of
this spirited conversation. "You will learn better by and by,
Timmins, than to impose upon boys from out of town."

"You seem to be a gentleman, sir," said Bobby, approaching the
salesman. "I wish to see Mr. Bayard."

"You can't see him!" growled Timmins.

"Can't I?"

"Not at this minute; he is engaged just now," added the
salesman, who seemed to have a profound respect for Bobby's
discrimination. "He will be at liberty in a few moments."

"I will wait, then," said Bobby, seating himself on a stool by
the counter.

Pretty soon the civil gentleman left the store to go to dinner,
and Timmins, a little timid about provoking the young lion, cast an
occasional glance of hatred at him. He had evidently found that
"Country" was an embryo American citizen, and that he was a firm
believer in the self-evident truths of the Declaration of
Independence.

Bobby bore no ill will towards the spruce clerk, ready as he had
been to defend his "certain inalienable rights."

"You do a big business here," suggested Bobby, in a conciliatory
tone, and with a smile on his face which ought to have convinced
the uncourteous clerk that he meant well.

"Who told you so?" replied Timmins, gruffly.

"I merely judged from appearances. You have a big store, and an
immense quantity of books."

"Appearances are deceitful," replied Timmins; and perhaps he had
been impressed by the fact from his experience with the lad from
the country.

"That is true," added Bobby, with a good-natured smile, which,
when interpreted, might have meant, "I took you for a civil fellow,
but I have been very much mistaken."

"You will find it out before you are many days older."

"The book business is good just now, isn't it?" continued Bobby,
without clearly comprehending the meaning of the other's last
remark.

"Humph! What's that to you?"

"O, I intend to go into it myself."

"Ha, ha, ha! Good! You do?"

"I do," replied Bobby, seemingly unconcerned at the taunts of
the clerk.

"I suppose you want to get a place here," sneered Timmins,
alarmed at the prospect. "But let me tell you, you can't do it.
Bayard has all the help he wants; and if that is what you come for,
you can move on as fast as you please."

"I guess I will see him," added Bobby, quietly.

"No use."

"No harm in seeing him."

As he spoke he took up a book that lay on the counter, and began
to turn over the leaves.

"Put that book down!" said the amiable Mr. Timmins.

"I won't hurt it," replied Bobby, who had just fixed his eye
upon some very pretty engravings in the volume.

"Put it down!" repeated Mr. Timmins, in a loud, imperative
tone.

"Certainly I will, if you say so," said Bobby, who, though not
much intimidated by the harsh tones of the clerk, did not know the
rules of the store, and deemed it prudent not to meddle.

"I do say so!" added Mr. Timmins, magnificently; "and
what's more, you'd better mind me, too."

Bobby had minded, and probably the stately little clerk would
not have been so bold if he had not. Some people like to threaten
after the danger is over.

Then our visitor from the country espied some little blank books
lying on the counter. He had already made up his mind to have one,
in which to keep his accounts; and he thought, while he was
waiting, that he would purchase one. He meant to do things
methodically; so when he picked up one of the blank books, it was
with the intention of buying it.

"Put that book down!" said Mr. Timmins, encouraged in his
aggressive intentions by the previous docility of our hero.

"I want to buy one."

"No, you don't; put it down."

"What is the price of these?" asked Bobby, resolutely.

"None of your business!"

"Is that the way you treat your customers?" asked Bobby, with a
little sternness in his looks and tones. "I say I want to buy
one."

"Put it down."

"But I will not; I say I want to buy it."

"No, you don't!"

"What is the price of it?"

"Twenty-five cents," growled Timmins, which was just four times
the retail price.

"Twenty-five cents! That's high."

"Put it down, then."

"Is that your lowest price?" asked Bobby, who was as cool as a
cucumber.

"Yes, it is; and if you don't put it down, I'll kick you out of
the store."

"Will you? Then I won't put it down."

Mr. Timmins took this as a "stump;" his ire was up, and he
walked round from behind the counter to execute his threat.

I must say I think Bobby was a little forward, and I would have
my young readers a little more pliant with small men like Timmins.
There are always men enough in the world who are ready and willing
to quarrel on any provocation; and it is always best not to provoke
them, even if they are overbearing and insolent, as Mr. Timmins
certainly was.

"Hold on a minute before you do it," said Bobby, with the same
provoking coolness. "I want to buy this book, and I am willing to
pay a fair price for it. But I happen to know that you can buy them
up in Riverdale, where I came from, for six cents."

"No matter," exclaimed the indignant clerk, seizing Bobby by the
coat collar for the purpose of ejecting him; "you shall find your
way into the street."

Now Bobby, as I have before intimated, was an embryo American
citizen, and the act of Mr. Timmins seemed like an invasion of his
inalienable rights. No time was given him to make a formal
declaration of rights in the premises; so the instinct of
self-preservation was allowed to have free course.

Mr. Timmins pulled and tugged at his coat collar, and Bobby hung
back like a mule; and for an instant there was quite a spirited
scene.

"Hallo! Timmins, what does this mean?" said a voice, at which
the valiant little clerk instantly let go his hold.

CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH MR. TIMMINS IS ASTONISHED, AND BOBBY DINES IN CHESTNUT
STREET

It was Mr. Bayard. He had finished his business with the
gentleman by his side, and hearing the noise of the scuffle, had
come to learn the occasion of it.

"This impudent young puppy wouldn't let the books alone!" began
Mr. Timmins. "I threatened to turn him out if he didn't; and I
meant to make good my threat. I think he meant to steal
something."

Bobby was astonished and shocked at this bold imputation; but he
wished to have his case judged on its own merits; so he turned his
face away, that Mr. Bayard might not recognize him.

"I wanted to buy one of these blank books," added Bobby, picking
up the one he had dropped on the floor in the struggle.

"All stuff!" ejaculated Timmins. "He is an impudent, obstinate
puppy! In my opinion he meant to steal that book."

"I asked him the price, and told him I wanted to buy it," added
Bobby, still averting his face.

"Well, I told him; and he said it was too high."

"He asked me twenty-five cents for it."

"Is this true, Timmins?" asked Mr. Bayard, sternly.

"No, sir! I told him fourpence," replied Timmins,
boldly.

"By gracious! What a whopper!" exclaimed Bobby, startled out of
his propriety by this monstrous lie. "He said twenty-five cents;
and I told him I could buy one up in Riverdale, where I came from,
for six cents. Can you deny that?"

"It's a lie!" protested Timmins.

"Riverdale," said Mr. Bayard. "Are you from Riverdale, boy?"

"Yes, sir, I am; and if you will look on your memorandum book
you will find my name there."

"Bless me! I am sure I have seen that face before," exclaimed
Mr. Bayard, as he grasped the hand of Bobby, much to the
astonishment and consternation of Mr. Timmins. "You
are——"

"Robert Bright, sir."

"My brave little fellow! I am heartily glad to see you;" and the
bookseller shook the hand he held with hearty good will. "I was
thinking of you only a little while ago."

"This fellow calls me a liar," said Bobby, pointing to the
astonished Mr. Timmins, who did not know what to make of the
cordial reception which "Country" was receiving from his
employer.

"Well, Robert, we know that he is a liar; this is not the
first time he has been caught in a lie. Timmins, your time is
out."

The spruce clerk hung his head with shame and mortification.

"I hope, sir, you will——" he began, but pride or
fear stopped him short.

"Don't be hard with him, sir, if you please," said Bobby. "I
suppose I aggravated him."

Mr. Bayard looked at the gentleman who stood by his side, and a
smile of approbation lighted up his face.

"Generous as he is noble! Butler, this is the boy that saved
Ellen."

"Indeed! He is a little giant!" replied Mr. Butler, grasping
Bobby's hand.

Even Timmins glanced with something like admiration in his looks
at the youth whom he had so lately despised. Perhaps, too, he
thought of that Scripture wisdom about entertaining angels
unawares. He was very much abashed, and nothing but his silly pride
prevented him from acknowledging his error and begging Bobby's
forgiveness.

"I can't have a liar about me," said Mr. Bayard.

"There may be some mistake," suggested Mr. Butler.

"I think not. Robert Bright couldn't lie. So brave and noble a
boy is incapable of a falsehood. Besides, I got a letter from my
friend Squire Lee by this morning's mail, in which he informed me
of my young friend's coming."

Mr. Bayard took from his pocket a bundle of letters, and
selected the squire's from among them. Opening it, he read a
passage which had a direct bearing upon the case before him.

"'I do not know what Bobby's faults are,'"—the letter
said,—"'but this I do know: that Bobby would rather be
whipped than tell a lie. He is noted through the place for his love
of truth.'—That is pretty strong testimony; and you see,
Bobby,—that's what the squire calls you,—your
reputation has preceded you."

Bobby blushed, as he always did when he was praised, and Mr.
Timmins was more abashed than ever.

"Did you hear that, Timmins? Who is the liar now?" said Mr.
Bayard, turning to the culprit.

"Forgive me, sir, this time. If you turn me off now, I cannot
get another place, and my mother depends upon my wages."

"You ought to have thought of this before."

"He aggravated me, sir, so that I wanted to pay him off."

"As to that, he commenced upon me the moment I came into the
store. But don't turn him off, if you please, sir," said Bobby, who
even now wished no harm to his discomfited assailant. "He will do
better hereafter: won't you, Timmins?"

Thus appealed to, Timmins, though he did not relish so direct an
inquiry, and from such a source, was compelled to reply in the
affirmative; and Mr. Bayard graciously remitted the sentence he had
passed against the offending clerk.

"Now, Robert, you will come over to my house and dine with me.
Ellen will be delighted to see you."

"Thank you, sir," replied Bobby, bashfully, "I have been to
dinner"—referring to the luncheon he had eaten at
Brighton.

"But you must go to the house with me."

"I should be very glad to do so, sir, but I came on business. I
will stay here with Mr. Timmins till you come back."

The truth is, he had heard something about the fine houses of
the city, and how stylish the people were, and he had some
misgivings about venturing into such a strange and untried scene as
the parlor of a Boston merchant.

"Indeed, you must come with me. Ellen would never forgive you or
me, if you did not come."

"I would rather rest here till you return," replied Bobby, still
willing to escape the fine house and the fine folks. "I walked from
Riverdale, sir, and I am rather tired."

"Walked!" exclaimed Mr. Bayard. "Had you no money?"

"Yes, sir, enough to pay my passage; but Dr. Franklin says that
'a penny saved is a penny earned,' and I thought I would try it. I
shall get rested by the time you return."

"But you must go with me. Timmins, go and get a carriage."

Timmins obeyed, and before Mr. Bayard had finished asking Bobby
how all the people in Riverdale were, the carriage was at the
door.

There was no backing out now, and our hero was obliged to get
into the vehicle, though it seemed altogether too fine for a poor
boy like him. Mr. Bayard and Mr. Butler (whom the former had
invited to dine with him) seated themselves beside him, and the
driver was directed to set them down at No. —, Chestnut
Street, where they soon arrived.

Though my readers would, no doubt, be very much amused to learn
how carefully Bobby trod the velvet carpets, how he stared with
wonder at the drapery curtains, at the tall mirrors, the elegant
chandeliers, and the fantastically shaped chairs and tables that
adorned Mr. Bayard's parlor, the length of our story does not
permit us to pause over these trivial matters.

When Ellen Bayard was informed that her little deliverer was in
the house, she rushed into the parlor like a hoiden school girl,
grasped both his hands, kissed both his rosy cheeks, and behaved
just as though she had never been to a boarding school in her
life.

She had thought a great deal about Bobby since that eventful
day, and the more she thought of him, the more she liked him. Her
admiration of him was not of that silly, sentimental character
which moonstruck young ladies cherish towards those immaculate
young men who have saved them from drowning in a horse pond, pulled
them back just as they were tumbling over a precipice two thousand
five hundred feet high, or rescued them from a house seven stories
high, bearing them down a ladder seventy-five odd feet long. The
fact was, Bobby was a boy of thirteen and there was no chance for
much sentiment; so the young lady's regard was real, earnest, and
lifelike.

Ellen said a great many very handsome things; but I am sure she
never thought of such a thing as that he would run away with her,
in case her papa was unnecessarily obstinate. She was very glad to
see him, and I have no doubt she wished Bobby might be her brother,
it would be so glorious to have such a noble little fellow always
with her.

Bobby managed the dinner much better than he had anticipated;
for Mr. Bayard insisted that he should sit down with them, whether
he ate anything or not. But the Rubicon passed, our hero found that
he had a pretty smart appetite, and did full justice to the viands
set before him. It is true the silver forks, the napkins, the
finger bowls, and other articles of luxury and show, to which he
had been entirely unaccustomed, bothered him not a little; but he
kept perfectly cool, and carefully observed how Mr. Butler, who sat
next to him, handled the "spoon fork," what he did with the napkin
and the finger bowl, so that, I will venture to say, not one in ten
would have suspected he had not spent his life in the parlor of a
millionaire.

Dinner over, the party returned to the parlor, where Bobby
unfolded his plan for the future. To make his story intelligible,
he was obliged to tell them all about Mr. Hardhand.

"The old wretch!" exclaimed Mr. Bayard. "But, Robert, you must
let me advance the sixty dollars, to pay Squire Lee."

"No, sir; you have done enough in that way. I have given my note
for the money."

"Whew!" said Mr. Butler.

"And I shall soon earn enough to pay it."

"No doubt of it. You are a lad of courage and energy, and you
will succeed in everything you undertake."

"I shall want you to trust me for a stock of books, on the
strength of old acquaintance," continued Bobby, who had now grown
quite bold, and felt as much at home in the midst of the costly
furniture, as he did in the "living room" of the old black
house.

"You shall have all the books you want."

"I will pay for them as soon as I return. The truth is, Mr.
Bayard, I mean to be independent. I didn't want to take that
thirty-five dollars, though I don't know what Mr. Hardhand would
have done to us, if I hadn't."

"Ellen said I ought to have given you a hundred, and I think so
myself."

"I am glad you didn't. Too much money makes us fat and
lazy."

Mr. Bayard laughed at the easy self-possession of the
lad—at his big talk; though, big as it was, it meant
something. When he proposed to go to the store, he told Bobby he
had better stay at the house and rest himself.

"No, sir; I want to start out to-morrow, and I must get ready
to-day."

"You had better put it off till the next day; you will feel more
like it then."

"Now or never," replied Bobby. "That is my motto, sir. If we
have anything to do, now is always the best time to do it. Dr.
Franklin says, 'Never put off till to-morrow what you can do
to-day.'"

"Right, Robert! you shall have your own way. I wish my clerks
would adopt some of Dr. Franklin's wise saws. I should be a great
deal better off in the course of a year if they would."

CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH BOBBY OPENS VARIOUS ACCOUNTS, AND WINS HIS FIRST
VICTORY

"Now, Bobby, I understand your plan," said Mr. Bayard, when they
reached the store; "but the details must be settled. Where do you
intend to go?"

"I hardly know, sir. I suppose I can sell books almost
anywhere."

"Very true; but in some places much better than in others."

Mr. Bayard mentioned a large town about eighteen miles from the
city, in which he thought a good trade might be carried on, and
Bobby at once decided to adopt the suggestion.

"You can make this place your headquarters for the week; if
books do not sell well right in the village, why, you can go out a
little way, for the country in the vicinity is peopled by
intelligent farmers, who are well off, and who can afford to buy
books."

"I was thinking of that; but what shall I take with me,
sir?"

"There is a new book just published, called 'The Wayfarer,'
which is going to have a tremendous run. It has been advertised in
advance all over the country, so that you will find a ready sale
for it. You will get it there before any one else, and have the
market all to yourself."

"'The Wayfarer'? I have heard of it myself."

"You shall take fifty copies with you, and if you find that you
shall want more, write, and I will send them."

"But I cannot carry fifty copies."

"You must take the cars to B——, and have a trunk or
box to carry your books in. I have a stout trunk down cellar which
you shall have."

"I will pay for it, sir."

"Never mind that, Bobby; and you will want a small valise or
carpet bag to carry your books from house to house. I will lend you
one."

"You are very kind, sir; I did not mean to ask any favors of you
except to trust me for the books until my return."

"All right, Bobby."

Mr. Bayard called the porter and ordered him to bring up the
trunk, in which he directed Mr. Timmins to pack fifty
"Wayfarers."

"Now, how much will these books cost me apiece?" asked
Bobby.

"The retail price is one dollar; the wholesale price is one
third off; and you shall have them at what they cost me."

"Sixty-seven cents," added Bobby. "That will give me a profit of
thirty-three cents on each book."

"Just so."

"Perhaps Mr. Timmins will sell me one of those blank books now;
for I like to have things down in black and white."

"I will furnish you with something much better than that;" and
Mr. Bayard left the counting room.

In a moment he returned with a handsome pocket memorandum book,
which he presented to the little merchant.

"But I don't like to take it unless you will let me pay for it,"
said Bobby, hesitating.

"Never mind it, my young friend. Now you can sit down at my desk
and open your accounts. I like to see boys methodical, and there is
nothing like keeping accounts to make one accurate. Keep your books
posted up, and you will know where you are at any time."

"I intend to keep an account of all I spend and all I receive,
if it is no more than a cent."

"Right, my little man. Have you ever studied book-keeping?"

"No, sir, I suppose I haven't; but there was a page of accounts
in the back part of the arithmetic I studied, and I got a pretty
good idea of the thing from that. All the money received goes on
one side, and all the money paid out goes on the other."

"Exactly so; in this book you had better open a book account
first. If you wish, I will show you how."

"Thank you, sir; I should be very glad to have you;" and Bobby
opened the memorandum book, and seated himself at the desk.

"Write 'Book Account,' at the top of the pages, one word on
each. Very well. Now write 'To fifty copies of "Wayfarer," at
sixty-seven cents, $33.50,' on the left-hand page, or debit side of
the account."

"I am not much of a writer," said Bobby, apologetically.

"You will improve. Now, each day you will credit the amount of
sales on the right hand page, or credit side of the account; so,
when you have sold out, the balance due your debit side will be the
profit on the lot. Do you understand it?"

Bobby thought a moment before he could see through it; but his
brain was active, and he soon managed the idea.

"Now you want a personal account;" and Mr. Bayard explained to
him how to make this out.

He then instructed him to enter on the debit side all he spent
for travel, board, freight, and other charges. The next was the
"profit and loss" account, which was to show him the net profit of
the business.

Our hero, who had a decided taste for accounts, was very much
pleased with this employment; and when the accounts were all
opened, he regarded them with a great deal of satisfaction. He
longed to commence his operations, if it were only for the pleasure
of making the entries in this book.

"One thing I forgot," said he, as he seized the pen, and under
the cash account entered, "To Cash from mother, $1.00." "Now I am
all right, I believe."

"I think you are. Now, the cars leave at seven in the morning.
Can you be ready for a start as early as that?" asked Mr.
Bayard.

"O, yes, sir, I hope so. I get up at half past four at
home."

"Very well; my small valise is at the house; but I believe
everything else is ready. Now, I have some business to attend to;
and if you will amuse yourself for an hour or two, we will go home
then."

"I shall want a lodging place when I am in the city; perhaps
some of your folks can direct me to one where they won't charge too
much."

"As to that, Bobby, you must go to my house whenever you are in
the city."

"Law, sir! you live so grand, I couldn't think of going to your
house. I am only a poor boy from the country, and I don't know how
to behave myself among such nice folks."

"You will do very well, Bobby. Ellen would never forgive me if I
let you go anywhere else. So that is settled; you will go to my
house. Now, you may sit here, or walk out and see the sights."

"If you please, sir, if Mr. Timmins will let me look at some of
the books, I shouldn't wish for anything better. I should like to
look at 'The Wayfarer,' so that I shall know how to recommend
it."

"Mr. Timmins will let you," replied Mr. Bayard, as he
touched the spring of a bell on his desk.

The dapper clerk came running into the counting room to attend
the summons of his employer.

"Mr. Timmins," continued Mr. Bayard, with a mischievous smile,
"bring Mr. Bright a copy of 'The Wayfarer.'"

Mr. Timmins was astonished to hear "Country" called "Mister,"
astonished to hear his employer call him "Mister," and Bobby was
astonished to hear himself called "Mister." Nevertheless, our hero
enjoyed the joke.

The clerk brought the book; and Bobby proceeded to give it a
thorough, critical examination. He read the preface, the table of
contents, and several chapters of the work, before Mr. Bayard was
ready to go home.

"How do you like it, Bobby?" asked the bookseller.

"First rate."

"You may take that copy in your hand; you will want to finish
it."

"Thank you, sir; I will be careful of it."

"You may keep it. Let that be the beginning of your own private
library."

His own private library! Bobby had not got far enough to dream
of such a thing yet; but he thanked Mr. Bayard, and put the book
under his arm.

After tea, Ellen proposed to her father that they should all go
to the Museum. Mr. Bayard acceded, and our hero was duly amazed at
the drolleries perpetrated there. He had a good time; but it was so
late when he went to bed, that he was a little fearful lest he
should over-sleep himself in the morning.

He did not, however, and was down in the parlor before any of
the rest of the family were stirring. An early breakfast was
prepared for him, at which Mr. Bayard, who intended to see him off,
joined him. Depositing his little bundle and the copy of "The
Wayfarer" in the valise provided for him, they walked to the store.
The porter wheeled the trunk down to the railroad station, though
Bobby insisted upon doing it himself.

The bookseller saw him and his baggage safely aboard of the
cars, gave him a ticket, and then bade him an affectionate adieu.
In a little while Bobby was flying over the rail, and at about
eight o'clock reached B——.

The station master kindly permitted him to deposit his trunk in
the baggage room, and to leave it there for the remainder of the
week.

Taking a dozen of the books from the trunk, and placing them in
his valise, he sallied out upon his mission. It must be confessed
that his heart was filled with a tumult of emotions. The battle of
life was before him. He was on the field, sword in hand, ready to
plunge into the contest. It was victory or defeat.

It was of no use to shrink then, even if he had felt disposed to
do so. He was prepared to be rebuffed, to be insulted, to be turned
away from the doors at which he should seek admission; but he was
determined to conquer.

He had reached a house at which he proposed to offer "The
Wayfarer" for sale. His heart went pit pat, pit pat, and he paused
before the door.

"Now or never!" exclaimed he, as he swung open the garden gate,
and made his way up to the door.

He felt some misgivings. It was so new and strange to him that
he could hardly muster sufficient resolution to proceed farther.
But his irresolution was of only a moment's duration.

"Now or never!" and he gave a vigorous knock at the door.

It was opened by an elderly lady, whose physiognomy did not
promise much.

"Good morning, ma'am. Can I sell you a copy of 'The Wayfarer'
to-day? a new book, just published."

"No; I don't want none of your books. There's more pedlers round
the country now than you could shake a stick at in a month,"
replied the old lady, petulantly.

"It is a very interesting book, ma'am; has an excellent moral."
Bobby had read the preface, as I before remarked. "It will suit
you, ma'am; for you look just like a lady who wants to read
something with a moral."

Bravo, Bobby! The lady concluded that her face had a moral
expression, and she was pleased with the idea.

"Let me see it;" and she asked Bobby to walk in and be seated,
while she went for her spectacles.

As she was looking over the book, our hero went into a more
elaborate recommendation of its merits. He was sure it would
interest the young and the old; it taught a good lesson; it had
elegant engravings; the type was large, which would suit her eyes;
it was well printed and bound; and finally, it was cheap at one
dollar.

"I'll take it," said the old lady.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Bobby's first victory was achieved.

"Have you got a dollar?" asked the lady, as she handed him a
two-dollar bill.

"Yes, ma'am;" and he gave her his only dollar and put the two in
its place, prouder than a king who has conquered an empire. "Thank
you ma'am."

Bidding the lady a polite good morning, he left the house,
encouraged by his success to go forward in his mission with
undiminished hope.

CHAPTER X

IN WHICH BOBBY IS A LITTLE TOO SMART

The clouds were rolled back, and Bobby no longer had a doubt as
to the success of his undertaking. It requires but a little
sunshine to gladden the heart, and the influence of his first
success scattered all the misgivings he had cherished.

Two New England shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of
money; but Bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have
considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left
him a fortune. It gave him confidence in his powers, and as he
walked away from the house, he reviewed the circumstances of his
first sale.

The old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a
book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft
to which he had now the honor to belong. He gave himself the credit
of having conquered the old lady's prejudices. He had sold her a
book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase. In short,
he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he
congratulated himself accordingly.

But it was of no use to waste time in useless
self-glorification, and Bobby turned from the past to the future.
There were forty-nine more books to be sold; so that the future was
forty-nine times as big as the past.

He saw a shoemaker's shop ahead of him, and he was debating with
himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale. It
would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing
anything.

There were three men at work in the shop—one of them a
middle-aged man, the other two young men. They looked like persons
of intelligence, and as soon as Bobby saw them his hopes grew
stronger.

"Can I sell you any books to-day?" asked the little merchant, as
he crossed the threshold.

"Well, I don't know; that depends upon how smart you are,"
replied the eldest of the men. "It takes a pretty smart fellow to
sell anything in this shop."

"Then I hope to sell each of you a book," added Bobby, laughing
at the badinage of the shoemaker.

Opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and
politely handed one to each of the men.

"It isn't every book pedler that comes along who offers you such
a work as that. 'The Wayfarer' is decidedly the book of the
season."

"You don't say so!" said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh.
"Every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely."

"Do they? They steal my thunder then."

"You are an old one."

"Only thirteen. I was born where they don't fasten the door with
a boiled carrot."

"What do they fasten them with?"

"They don't fasten them at all."

"There are no book pedlers round there, then;" and all the
shoemakers laughed heartily at this smart sally.

"No; they are all shoemakers in our town."

"You can take my hat, boy."

"You will want it to put your head in; but I will take one
dollar for that book instead."

The man laughed, took out his wallet, and handed Bobby the
dollar, probably quite as much because he had a high appreciation
of his smartness, as from any desire to possess the book.

"Won't you take one?" asked Bobby, appealing to another of the
men, who was apparently not more than twenty-four years of age.

"No; I can't read," replied he roguishly.

"Let your wife read it to you, then."

"My wife?"

"Certainly; she knows how to read, I will warrant."

"How do you know I have got a wife?"

"O, well, a fellow as good looking and good natured as you are
could not have resisted till this time."

"Has you, Tom," added the oldest shoemaker.

"I cave in;" and he handed over the dollar, and laid the book
upon his bench.

Bobby looked at the third man with some interest. He had said
nothing, and scarcely heeded the fun which was passing between the
little merchant and his companions. He was apparently absorbed in
his examination of the book. He was a different kind of person from
the others, and Bobby's instinctive knowledge of human nature
assured him that he was not to be gained by flattery or by smart
sayings; so he placed himself in front of him, and patiently waited
in silence for him to complete his examination.

"You will find that he is a hard one," put in one of the
others.

Bobby made no reply, and the two men who had bought books
resumed their work. For five minutes our hero stood waiting for the
man to finish his investigation into the merits of "The Wayfarer."
Something told him not to say anything to this person; and he had
some doubts about his purchasing.

"I will take one," said the last shoemaker, as he handed Bobby
the dollar.

"I am much obliged to you, gentlemen," said Bobby, as he closed
his valise. "When I come this way again I shall certainly
call."

"Do; you have done what no other pedler ever did in this
shop."

"I shall take no credit to myself. The fact is, you are men of
intelligence, and you want good books."

Bobby picked up his valise and left the shop, satisfied with
those who occupied it, and satisfied with himself.

"Eight shillings!" exclaimed he, when he got into the road.
"Pretty good hour's work, I should say."

Bobby trudged along till he came to a very large, elegant house,
evidently dwelt in by one of the nabobs of B——.
Inspired by past successes, he walked boldly up to the front door,
and rang the bell.

"Is Mr. Whiting in?" asked Bobby, who had read the name on the
door plate.

"Colonel Whiting is in," replied the servant, who had
opened the door.

"I should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy."

"Walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a
great deal as she admitted him.

She conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where
Bobby proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the
nabob, whom the servant promised to send to the parlor.

In a moment Colonel Whiting entered. He was a large, fat man,
about fifty years old. He looked at the little book merchant with a
frown that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero.
Bobby was not a little inflated by the successes of the morning,
and if Julius Cæsar or Napoleon Bonaparte had stood before
him then, he would not have flinched a hair—much less in the
presence of no greater magnate than the nabob of
B——.

"Good morning, Colonel Whiting. I hope you are well this
beautiful morning." Bobby began.

I must confess I think this was a little too familiar for a boy
of thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before
in his life; but it must be remembered that Bobby had done a great
deal the week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in
Chestnut Street, and that he had just sold four copies of "The
Wayfarer." He was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart
boys.

The nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; but he did not
condescend to make any reply to the smart speech.

"I have taken the liberty to call upon you this morning, to see
if you did not wish to purchase a copy of 'The Wayfarer'—a
new book just issued from the press, which people say is to be the
book of the season."

My young readers need not suppose this was an impromptu speech,
for Bobby had studied upon it all the time he was coming from
Boston in the cars. It would be quite natural for a boy who had
enjoyed no greater educational advantages than our hero to consider
how he should address people into whose presence his calling would
bring him; and he had prepared several little addresses of this
sort, for the several different kinds of people whom he expected to
encounter. The one he had just "got off" was designed for the
"upper crust."

When he had delivered the speech, he approached the indignant,
frowning nabob, and, with a low bow, offered him a copy of "The
Wayfarer."

"Boy," said Colonel Whiting, raising his arm with majestic
dignity, and pointing to the door,—"boy, do you see that
door?"

Bobby looked at the door, and, somewhat astonished, replied that
he did see it, that it was a very handsome door, and he would
inquire whether it was black walnut, or only painted in imitation
thereof.

"Do you see that door?" thundered the nabob, swelling with rage
at the cool impudence of the boy.

"Certainly I do, sir; my eyesight is excellent."

"Then use it!"

"Thank you, sir; I have no use for it. Probably it will be of
more service to you than to me."

"Will you clear out, or shall I kick you out?" gasped the
enraged magnate of B——.

"I will save you that trouble, sir; I will go, sir. I see we
have both made a mistake."

"Mistake? What do you mean by that, you young puppy? You are a
little impudent, thieving scoundrel!"

"That is your mistake, sir. I took you for a gentleman, sir; and
that was my mistake."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed a sweet, musical voice, and at that moment
a beautiful young lady rushed up to the angry colonel, and threw
her arms around his neck.

"The jade!" muttered he.

"I have caught you in a passion again, uncle;" and the lady
kissed the old gentleman's anger-reddened cheek, which seemed to
restore him at once to himself.

"It was enough to make a minister swear," said he, in
apology.

"No, it wasn't, uncle; the boy was a little pert, it is true;
but you ought to have laughed at him, instead of getting angry. I
heard the whole of it."

"Pert?" said Bobby to himself. "What the deuce does she mean by
that?"

"Very well, you little minx; I will pay the penalty."

"Come here, Master Pert," said the lady to Bobby.

Bobby bowed, approached the lady, and began to feel very much
embarrassed.

"My uncle," she continued, "is one of the best-hearted men in
the world—ain't you, uncle?"

"Go on, you jade!"

"I love him, as I would my own father; but he will sometimes get
into a passion. Now, you provoked him."

"Indeed, ma'am, I hadn't the least idea of saying anything
uncivil," pleaded Bobby. "I studied to be as polite as
possible."

"I dare say. You were too important, too pompous, for a boy to
an old gentleman like uncle, who is really one of the best men in
the world. Now, if you hadn't studied to be polite, you
would have done very well."

"Indeed, ma'am, I am a poor boy, trying to make a little money
to help my mother. I am sure I meant no harm."

"I know you didn't. So you are selling books to help your
mother?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She inquired still further into the little merchant's history,
and seemed to be very much interested in him.

In a frolic, a few days before, Bobby learned from her, Colonel
Whiting had agreed to pay any penalty she might name, the next time
he got into a passion.

"Now, young man, what book have you to sell?" asked the
lady.

"'The Wayfarer.'"

"How many have you in your valise?"

"Eight."

"Very well; now, uncle, I decree, as the penalty of your
indiscretion, that you purchase the whole stock."

"I submit."

"'The Wayfarer' promises to be an excellent book; and I can name
at least half a dozen persons who will thank you for a copy,
uncle."

Colonel Whiting paid Bobby eight dollars, who left the contents
of his valise on the centre table, and then departed, astounded at
his good fortune, and fully resolved never to be too smart
again.

CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH BOBBY STRIKES A BALANCE, AND RETURNS TO RIVERDALE

Our hero had learned a lesson which experience alone could teach
him. The consciousness of that "something within him" inclined him
to be a little too familiar with his elders; but then it gave him
confidence in himself, and imparted courage to go forward in the
accomplishment of his mission. His interview with Colonel Whiting
and the gentle but plain rebuke of his niece had set him right, and
he realized that, while he was doing a man's work, he was still a
boy. He had now a clearer perception of what is due to the position
and dignity of those upon whom fortune has smiled.

Bobby wanted to be a man, and it is not strange that he should
sometimes fancy he was a man. He had an idea, too, that "all men
are born free and equal;" and he could not exactly see why a nabob
was entitled to any more respect and consideration than a poor man.
It was a lesson he was compelled to learn, though some folks live
out their lifetimes without ever finding out that.

"'Tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men." Some people think
a rich man is no better than a poor man, except so far as he
behaves himself better. It is strange how stupid some people
are!

Bobby had no notion of cringing to any man, and he felt as
independent as the Declaration of Independence itself. But then the
beautiful lady had told him that he was pert and forward; and when
he thought it over, he was willing to believe she was right.
Colonel Whiting was an old man, compared with himself; and he had
some faith, at least in theory, in the Spartan virtue of respect
for the aged. Probably the nabob of B—— would have
objected to being treated with respect on account of his age; and
Bobby would have been equally unwilling to acknowledge that he
treated him with peculiar respect on account of his wealth or
position.

Perhaps the little merchant had an instinctive perception of
expediency—that he should sell more books by being less
familiar; at any rate he determined never again to use the flowery
speeches he had arranged for the upper crust.

He had sold a dozen books; and possibly this fact made him more
willing to compromise the matter than he would otherwise have been.
This was, after all, the great matter for congratulation, and with
a light heart he hurried back to the railroad station to procure
another supply.

We cannot follow him into every house where his calling led him.
He was not always as fortunate as in the instances we have
mentioned. Sometimes all his arguments were unavailing, and after
he had spent half an hour of valuable time in setting forth the
merits of "The Wayfarer," he was compelled to retire without having
effected a sale. Sometimes, too, he was rudely repulsed; hard
epithets were applied to him; old men and old women, worried out by
the continued calls of pedlers, sneered at him, or shut the door in
his face; but Bobby was not disheartened. He persevered, and did
not allow these little trials to discompose or discourage him.

By one o'clock on the first day of his service he had sold
eighteen books, which far exceeded even his most sanguine
expectations. By this time he began to feel the want of his dinner;
but there was no tavern or eating house at hand, and he could not
think of leaving the harvest to return to the railroad station; so
he bought a sheet of gingerbread and a piece of cheese at a store,
and seating himself near a brook by the side of the road, he bolted
his simple meal, as boys are very apt to do when they are
excited.

When he had finished, he took out his account book, and entered,
"Dinner, 10 cents." Resuming his business, he disposed of the
remaining six books in his valise by the middle of the afternoon,
and was obliged to return for another supply.

About six o'clock he entered the house of a mechanic, just as
the family were sitting down to tea. He recommended his book with
so much energy, that the wife of the mechanic took a fancy to him,
and not only purchased one, but invited him to tea. Bobby accepted
the invitation, and in the course of the meal the good lady drew
from him the details of his history, which he very modestly
related, for though he sometimes fancied himself a man, he was not
the boy to boast of his exploits. His host was so much pleased with
him, that he begged him to spend the night with them. Bobby had
been thinking how and where he should spend the night, and the
matter had given him no little concern. He did not wish to go to
the hotel, for it looked like a very smart house, and he reasoned
that he should have to pay pretty roundly for accommodations there.
These high prices would eat up his profits, and he seriously
deliberated whether it would not be better for him to sleep under a
tree than pay fifty cents for a lodging.

If I had been there I should have told him that a man loses
nothing in the long run by taking good care of himself. He must eat
well and sleep well, in order to do well and be well. But I suppose
Bobby would have told me that it was of no use to pay a quarter
extra for sleeping on a gilded bedstead, since the room would be so
dark he could not see the gilt even if he wished to do so. I could
not have said anything to such a powerful argument, so I am very
glad the mechanic's wife set the matter at rest by offering him a
bed in her house.

He spent a very pleasant evening with the family, who made him
feel entirely at home, they were so kind and so plain spoken.
Before he went to bed, he entered under the book account, "By
twenty-six 'Wayfarers,' sold this day, $26.00."

He had done a big day's work, much bigger than he could hope to
do again. He had sold more than one half of his whole stock, and at
this rate he should be out of books the next day. At first he
thought he would send for another lot; but he could not judge yet
what his average daily sales would be, and finally concluded not to
do so. What he had might last till Friday or Saturday. He intended
to go home on the latter day, and he could bring them with him on
his return without expense. This was considerable of an argument
for a boy to manage; but Bobby was satisfied with it, and went to
sleep, wondering what his mother, Squire Lee, and Annie were
thinking of about that time.

After breakfast the next morning he resumed his travels. He was
as enthusiastic as ever, and pressed "The Wayfarer" with so much
earnestness that he sold a book in nearly every house he visited.
People seemed to be more interested in the little merchant than in
his stock, and taking advantage of this kind feeling towards him,
he appealed to them with so much eloquence that few could resist
it.

The result of the day's sales was fifteen copies, which Bobby
entered in the book account with the most intense satisfaction. He
had outdone the boy who had passed through Riverdale, but he had
little hope that the harvest would always be so abundant.

He often thought of this boy, from whom he had obtained the idea
he was now carrying out. That boy had stopped over night at the
little black house, and slept with him. He had asked for lodging,
and offered to pay for it, as well as for his supper and breakfast.
Why couldn't he do the same? He liked the suggestion, and from that
time, wherever he happened to be, he asked for lodging, or the meal
he required; and he always proposed to pay for what he had, but
very few would take anything.

On Friday noon he had sold out. Returning to the railroad
station, he found that the train would not leave for the city for
an hour; so he improved the time in examining and balancing his
accounts. The book sales amounted to just fifty dollars, and, after
his ticket to Boston was paid for, his expenses would amount to one
dollar and fifty cents, leaving a balance in his favor of fifteen
dollars. He was overjoyed with the result, and pictured the
astonishment with which his mother, Squire Lee, and Annie would
listen to the history of his excursion.

After four o'clock that afternoon he entered the store of Mr.
Bayard, bag and baggage. On his arrival in the city, he was
considerably exercised in mind to know how he should get the trunk
to his destination. He was too economical to pay a cartman a
quarter; but what would have seemed mean in a man was praiseworthy
in a boy laboring for a noble end.

Probably a great many of my young readers in Bobby's position,
thinking that sixteen dollars, which our hero had in his pocket,
was a mint of money, would have been in favor of being a little
magnificent,—of taking a carriage and going up-town in state.
Bobby had not the least desire to "swell;" so he settled the matter
by bargaining with a little ragged fellow to help him carry the
trunk to Mr. Bayard's store for fourpence.

"How do you do, Mr. Timmins?" said Bobby to the spruce clerk, as
he deposited the trunk upon the floor, and handed the ragged boy
the fourpence.

"Ah, Bobby!" exclaimed Mr. Timmins. "Have you sold out?"

"All clean. Is Mr. Bayard in?"

"In the office. But how do you like it?"

"First rate."

"Well, every one to his taste; but I don't see how any one who
has any regard for his dignity can stick himself into everybody's
house. I couldn't do it, I know."

"I don't stand for the dignity."

"Ah, well, there is a difference in folks."

"That's a fact," replied Bobby, as he hurried to the office of
Mr. Bayard, leaving Mr. Timmins to sun himself in his own
dignity.

The bookseller was surprised to see him so soon, but he gave him
a cordial reception.

"I didn't expect you yet," said he. "Why do you come back? Have
you got sick of the business?"

"Sick of it! No, sir."

"What have you come back for, then?"

"Sold out, sir."

"Sold out! You have done well!"

"Better than I expected."

"I had no idea of seeing you till to-morrow night; and I thought
you would have books enough to begin the next week with. You have
done bravely."

"If I had had twenty more, I could have sold them before
to-morrow night. Now, sir, if you please, I will pay you for those
books—thirty-three dollars and fifty cents."

"You had better keep that, Bobby. I will trust you as long as
you wish."

"If you please, sir, I had rather pay it;" and the little
merchant, as proud as a lord, handed over the amount.

"I like your way of doing business, Bobby. Nothing helps a man's
credit so much as paying promptly. Now tell me some of your
adventures—or we will reserve them till this evening, for I
am sure Ellen will be delighted to hear them."

"I think I shall go to Riverdale this afternoon. The cars leave
at half past five."

"Very well; you have an hour to spare."

Bobby related to his kind friend the incidents of his excursion,
including his interview with Colonel Whiting and his niece, which
amused the bookseller very much. He volunteered some good advice,
which Bobby received in the right spirit, and with a determination
to profit by it.

At half past five he took the cars for home, and before dark was
folded in his mother's arms. The little black house seemed doubly
dear to him now that he had been away from it a few days. His
mother and all the children were so glad to see him that it seemed
almost worth his while to go away for the pleasure of meeting them
on his return.

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH BOBBY ASTONISHES SUNDRY PERSONS AND PAYS PART OF HIS
NOTE

"Now tell me, Bobby, how you have made out," said Mrs. Bright,
as the little merchant seated himself at the supper table. "You
cannot have done much, for you have only been gone five days."

"I have done pretty well, mother," replied Bobby, mysteriously;
"pretty well, considering that I am only a boy."

"I didn't expect to see you till to-morrow night."

"I sold out, and had to come home."

"That may be, and still you may not have done much."

"I don't pretend that I have done much."

"How provoking you are! Why don't you tell me, Bobby, what you
have done?"

"Wait a minute, mother, till I have done my supper, and then I
will show you the footings in my ledger."

"Your ledger!"

"Yes, my ledger. I keep a ledger now."

"You are a great man, Mr. Robert Bright," laughed his mother. "I
suppose the people took their hats off when they saw you
coming."

"Not exactly, mother."

"Perhaps the governor came out to meet you when he heard you
were on the road."

"Perhaps he did; I didn't see him, however. This apple pie
tastes natural, mother. It is a great luxury to get home after one
has been travelling."

"Very likely."

"No place like home, after all is done and said. Who was the
fellow that wrote that song, mother?"

"I forget; the paper said he spent a great many years in foreign
parts. My sake! Bobby, one would think by your talk that you had
been away from home for a year."

"It seems like a year," said he, as he transferred another
quarter of the famous apple pie to his plate. "I miss home very
much. I don't more than half like being among strangers so
much."

"It is your own choice; no one wants you to go away from
home."

"I must pay my debts, anyhow. Don't I owe Squire Lee sixty
dollars?"

"But I can pay that."

"It is my affair, you see."

"If it is your affair, then I owe you sixty dollars."

"No, you don't; I calculate to pay my board now. I am old enough
and big enough to do something."

"You have done something ever since you were old enough to
work."

"Not much; I don't wonder that miserable old hunker of a
Hardhand twitted me about it. By the way, have you heard anything
from him?"

"Not a thing."

"He has got enough of us, I reckon."

"You mustn't insult him, Bobby, if you happen to see him."

"Never fear me."

"You know the Bible says we must love our enemies, and pray for
them that despitefully use us and persecute us."

"I should pray that the Old Nick might get him."

"No, Bobby; I hope you haven't forgot all your Sunday school
lessons."

"I was wrong, mother," replied Bobby, a little moved. "I did not
mean so. I shall try to think as well of him as I can; but I can't
help thinking, if all the world was like him, what a desperate hard
time we should have of it."

"We must thank the Lord that he has given us so many good and
true men."

"Such as Squire Lee, for instance," added Bobby, as he rose from
the table and put his chair back against the wall. "The squire is
fit to be a king; and though I believe in the Constitution and the
Declaration of Independence, I wouldn't mind seeing a crown upon
his head."

"He will receive his crown in due time," replied Mrs. Bright,
piously.

"The squire?"

"The crown of rejoicing, I mean."

"Just so; the squire is a nice man; and I know another just like
him."

"Who?"

"Mr. Bayard; they are as near alike as two peas."

"I am dying to know about your journey."

"Wait a minute, mother, till we clear away the supper things;"
and Bobby took hold, as he had been accustomed, to help remove and
wash the dishes.

"You needn't help now, Bobby."

"Yes, I will, mother."

Somehow our hero's visit to the city did not seem to produce the
usual effect upon him; for a great many boys, after they had been
abroad, would have scorned to wash dishes and wipe them. A week in
town has made many a boy so smart that you couldn't touch him with
a ten foot pole. It starches them up so stiff that sometimes they
don't know their own mothers, and deem it a piece of condescension
to speak a word to the patriarch in a blue frock who had the honor
of supporting them in childhood.

Bobby was none of this sort. We lament that he had a habit of
talking big, that is, of talking about business affairs in a style
a little beyond his years. But he was modest to a fault,
paradoxical as it may seem. He was always blushing when anybody
spoke a pretty thing about him. Probably the circumstances of his
position elevated him above the sphere of the mere boy; he had
spent but little time in play, and his attention had been directed
at all times to the wants of his mother. He had thought a great
deal about business, especially since the visit of the boy who sold
books to the little black house.

Some boys are born merchants, and from their earliest youth have
a genius for trade. They think of little else. They "play shop"
before they wear jackets, and drive a barter trade in jackknives,
whistles, tops, and fishing lines long before they get into their
teens. They are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste for commerce
before they are old enough to know the meaning of the word.

We saw a boy in school, not long since, give the value of
eighteen cents for a little stunted quince; boys have a taste for
raw quinces, strange as it may seem. Undoubtedly he had no talent
for trade, and would make a very indifferent tin pedler. Our hero
was shrewd. He always got the best end of the bargain; though, I am
happy to say, his integrity was too unyielding to let him cheat his
fellows.

We have made this digression so that my young readers may know
why Bobby was so much given to big talk. The desire to do something
worthy of a good son turned his attention to matters above his
sphere; and thinking of great things, he had come to talk great
things. It was not a bad fault, after all. Boys need not
necessarily be frivolous. Play is a good thing, an excellent thing,
in its place, and is as much a part of the boy's education as his
grammar and arithmetic. It not only develops his muscles, but
enlarges his mental capacity; it not only fills with excitement the
idle hours of the long day, but it sharpens the judgment, and helps
to fit the boy for the active duties of life.

It need not be supposed, because Bobby had to turn his attention
to serious things, that he was not fond of fun; that he could not
or did not play. At a game of round ball, he was a lucky fellow who
secured him upon his side; for the same energy which made him a
useful son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult game.

When the supper things were all removed, the dishes washed and
put away, Bobby drew out his pocket memorandum book. It was a
beautiful article, and Mrs. Bright was duly astonished at its
gilded leaves and the elegant workmanship. Very likely her first
impulse was to reprove her son for such a piece of reckless
extravagance; but this matter was set right by Bobby's informing
her how it came into his possession.

"Here is my ledger, mother," he said, handing her the book.

Mrs. Bright put on her spectacles, and after bestowing a careful
scrutiny upon the memorandum book, turned to the accounts.

"Fifty books!" she exclaimed, as she read the first entry.

"Yes, mother; and I sold them all."

"Fifty dollars!"

"But I had to pay for the books out of that."

"To be sure you had; but I suppose you made as much as ten cents
apiece on them, and that would be—let me see; ten times
fifty——"

"But I made more than that, I hope."

"How much?"

The proud young merchant referred her to the profit and loss
account, which exhibited a balance of fifteen dollars.

"Gracious! Three dollars a day!"

"Just so, mother. Now I will pay you the dollar I borrowed of
you when I went away."

"You didn't borrow it of me."

"But I shall pay it."

Mrs. Bright was astonished at this unexpected and gratifying
result. If she had discovered a gold mine in the cellar of the
little black house, it could not have afforded her so much
satisfaction; for this money was the reward of her son's talent and
energy. Her own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more than three
or four dollars a week, and Bobby, a boy of thirteen, had come home
with fifteen for five days' work. She could scarcely believe the
evidence of her own senses, and she ceased to wonder that he talked
big.

It was nearly ten o'clock when the widow and her son went to
bed, so deeply were they interested in discussing our hero's
affairs. He had intended to call upon Squire Lee that night, but
the time passed away so rapidly that he was obliged to defer it
till the next day.

After breakfast the following morning, he hastened to pay the
intended visit. There was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom
as he knocked at the squire's door. He was proud of the success he
had achieved, and even then his cheek burned under the anticipated
commendations which his generous friend would bestow upon him.
Besides, Annie would be glad to see him, for she had expressed such
a desire when they parted on the Monday preceding. I don't think
that Bobby cherished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the
little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely upon his warm heart.
In coming from the house he had placed his copy of "The Wayfarer"
under his arm, for Annie was fond of reading; and on the way over,
he had pictured to himself the pleasure she would derive from
reading his book.

Of course he received a warm welcome from the squire and his
daughter. Each of them had bestowed more than a thought upon the
little wanderer as he went from house to house, and more than once
they had conversed together about him.

"Well, Bobby, how is trade in the book line?" asked the squire,
after the young pilgrim had been cordially greeted.

"Pretty fair," replied Bobby, with as much indifference as he
could command, though it was hard even to seem indifferent then and
there.

"Where have you been travelling?"

"In B——."

"Fine place. Books sell well there?"

"Very well; in fact, I sold out all my stock by noon
yesterday."

"How many books did you carry?"

"Fifty."

"You did well."

"I should think you did!" added Annie, with an enthusiasm which
quite upset all Bobby's assumed indifference. "Fifty books!"

"Yes, Miss Annie; and I have brought you a copy of the book I
have been selling; I thought you would like to read it. It is a
splendid work, and will be the book of the season."

"I shall be delighted to read it," replied Annie, taking the
proffered volume. "It looks real good," she continued, as she
turned over the leaves.

"It is first rate; I have read it through."

"It was very kind of you to think of me when you have so much
business on your mind," added she, with a roguish smile.

"I shall never have so much business on my mind that I cannot
think of my friends," replied Bobby, so gallantly and so smartly
that it astonished himself.

"I was just thinking what I should read next; I am so
glad you have come."

"Never mind her, Bobby; all she wanted was the book," interposed
Squire Lee, laughing.

"Now, pa!"

"Then I shall bring her one very often."

"You are too bad, pa," said Annie, who, like most young ladies
just entering their teens, resented any imputation upon the
immaculateness of human love, or human friendship.

"I have got a little money for you, Squire Lee," continued
Bobby, thinking it time the subject was changed.

He took out his gilded memorandum book, whose elegant appearance
rather startled the squire, and from its "treasury department"
extracted the little roll of bills, representing an aggregate of
ten dollars, which he had carefully reserved for his creditor.

"Never mind that, Bobby," replied the squire. "You will want all
your capital to do business with."

"I must pay my debts before I think of anything else."

"A very good plan, Bobby, but this is an exception to the
general rule."

"No, sir, I think not. If you please, I insist upon paying you
ten dollars on my note."

"O, well, if you insist, I suppose I can't help myself."

"I would rather pay it, I shall feel so much better."

"You want to indorse it on the note, I suppose."

That was just what Bobby wanted. Indorsed on the note was the
idea, and our hero had often passed that expression through his
mind. There was something gratifying in the act to a man of
business integrity like himself; it was discharging a sacred
obligation,—he had already come to deem it a sacred duty to
pay one's debts,—and as the squire wrote the indorsement
across the back of the note, he felt more like a hero than ever
before.

"'Pay as you go' is an excellent idea; John Randolph called it
the philosopher's stone," added Squire Lee, as he returned the note
to his pocket book.

"That is what I mean to do just as soon as I can."

"You will do, Bobby."

The young merchant spent nearly the whole forenoon at the
squire's, and declined an invitation to dinner only on the plea
that his mother would wait for him.

CHAPTER XIII

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.

CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH BOBBY'S AIR CASTLE IS UPSET AND TOM SPICER TAKES TO
THE WOODS

During the next four weeks Bobby visited various places in the
vicinity of Boston; and at the end of that time he had paid the
whole of the debt he owed Squire Lee. He had the note in his
memorandum book, and the fact that he had achieved his first great
purpose afforded him much satisfaction. Now he owed no man
anything, and he felt as though he could hold up his head among the
best people in the world.

The little black house was paid for, and Bobby was proud that
his own exertions had released his mother from her obligation to
her hard creditor. Mr. Hardhand could no longer insult and abuse
her.

The apparent results which Bobby had accomplished, however, were
as nothing compared with the real results. He had developed those
energies of character which were to make him, not only a great
business man, but a useful member of society. Besides, there was a
moral grandeur in his humble achievements which was more worthy of
consideration than the mere worldly success he had obtained.
Motives determine the character of deeds. That a boy of thirteen
should display so much enterprise and energy was a great thing; but
that it should be displayed from pure, unselfish devotion to his
mother was a vastly greater thing. Many great achievements are
morally insignificant, while many of which the world never hears
mark the true hero.

Our hero was not satisfied with what he had done, and far from
relinquishing his interesting and profitable employment, his
ambition suggested new and wider fields of success. As one ideal,
brilliant and glorious in its time, was reached, another more
brilliant and more glorious presented itself, and demanded to be
achieved. The little black house began to appear rusty and
inconvenient; a coat of white paint would marvellously improve its
appearance; a set of nice Paris-green blinds would make a palace of
it; and a neat fence around it would positively transform the place
into a paradise. Yet Bobby was audacious enough to think of these
things, and even to promise himself that they should be
obtained.

In conversation with Mr. Bayard a few days before, that
gentleman had suggested a new field of labor; and it had been
arranged that Bobby should visit the State of Maine the following
week. On the banks of the Kennebec were many wealthy and important
towns, where the intelligence of the people created a demand for
books. This time the little merchant was to take two hundred books,
and be absent until they were all sold.

On Monday morning he started bright and early for the railroad
station. As usual, he called upon Squire Lee, and informed Annie
that he should probably be absent three or four weeks. She hoped no
accident would happen to him, and that his journey would be crowned
with success. Without being sentimental, she was a little sad, for
Bobby was a great friend of hers. That elegant copy of Moore's
Poems had been gratefully received, and she was so fond of the
bard's beautiful and touching melodies that she could never read
any of them without thinking of the brave little fellow who had
given her the volume; which no one will consider very remarkable,
even in a little miss of twelve.

After he had bidden her and her father adieu, he resumed his
journey. Of course he was thinking with all his might; but no one
need suppose he was wondering how wide the Kennebec River was, or
how many books he should sell in the towns upon its banks. Nothing
of the kind; though it is enough even for the inquisitive to know
that he was thinking of something, and that his thoughts were very
interesting, not to say romantic.

"Hallo, Bob!" shouted some one from the road side.

Bobby was provoked; for it is sometimes very uncomfortable to
have a pleasant train of thought interrupted. The imagination is
buoyant, ethereal, and elevates poor mortals up to the stars
sometimes. It was so with Bobby. He was building up some kind of an
air castle, and had got up in the clouds amidst the fog and
moonshine, and that aggravating voice brought him down,
slap, upon terra firma.

He looked up and saw Tom Spicer seated upon the fence. In his
hand he held a bundle, and had evidently been waiting some time for
Bobby's coming.

He had recovered from the illness caused by his broken arm, and
people said it had been a good lesson for him, as the squire hoped
it would be. Bobby had called upon him two or three times during
his confinement to the house; and Tom, either truly repentant for
his past errors, or lacking the opportunity at that time to
manifest his evil propensities, had stoutly protested that he had
"turned over a new leaf," and meant to keep out of the woods on
Sunday, stop lying and swearing, and become a good boy.

Bobby commended his good resolutions, and told him he would
never want friends while he was true to himself. The right side, he
declared, was always the best side. He quoted several instances of
men, whose lives he had read in his Sunday school books, to show
how happy a good man may be in prison, or when all the world seemed
to forsake him.

Tom assured him that he meant to reform and be a good boy; and
Bobby told him that when any one meant to turn over a new leaf, it
was "now or never." If he put it off, he would only grow worse, and
the longer the good work was delayed, the more difficult it would
be to do it. Tom agreed to all this, and was sure he had
reformed.

For these reasons Bobby had come to regard Tom with a feeling of
deep interest. He considered him as, in some measure, his disciple,
and he felt a personal responsibility in encouraging him to
persevere in his good work. Nevertheless Bobby was not exactly
pleased to have his fine air castle upset, and to be tipped out of
the clouds upon the cold, uncompromising earth again; so the first
greeting he gave Tom was not as cordial as it might have been.

"Hallo, Tom!" he replied, rather coolly.

"Been waiting for you this half hour."

"Have you?"

"Yes; ain't you rather late?"

"No; I have plenty of time, though none to spare," answered
Bobby; and this was a hint that he must not detain him too
long.

"Come along then."

"Where are you going, Tom?" asked Bobby, a little surprised at
these words.

"To Boston."

"Are you?"

"I am; that's a fact. You know I spoke to you about going into
the book business."

"Not lately."

"But I have been thinking about it all the time."

"What do your father and mother say?"

"O, they are all right."

"Have you asked them?"

"Certainly I have; they are willing I should go with
you."

"Why didn't you speak of it then?"

"I thought I wouldn't say anything till the time came. You know
you fought shy when I spoke about it before."

And Bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his
companion, was a little disposed to "fight shy" now. Tom had
reformed, or had pretended to do so; but he was still a raw
recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful that he would run at the
first fire.

To the good and true man life is a constant battle. Temptation
assails him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at
every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called
upon to gird on his armor and fight the good fight.

Bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day
strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. It was
a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the
similitude of a battle. There was to be resistance, and he could
comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of
the suggestion. He was to fight; and that was an idea that stood
him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtilties.

Judging Tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would
run—that he wouldn't "stand fire." He had not been drilled.
Heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even
a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun. To go out
into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit. He
lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than
numbers on the field of battle.

Tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. He
had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might.

Bobby had great hopes of him. He felt that he could not well get
rid of him, and he saw that it was policy for him to make the best
of it.

"Well, Tom, where are you going?" asked Bobby, after he had made
up his mind not to object to the companionship of the other.

"I don't know. You have been a good friend to me lately, and I
had an idea that you would give me a lift in this business."

"I should be very willing to do so; but what can I do for
you?"

"Just show me how the business is done; that's all I want."

"Your father and mother were willing you should come—were
they not?"

Bobby had some doubts about this point, and with good reason
too. He had called at Tom's house the day before, and they had gone
to church together; but neither he nor his parents had said a word
about his going to Boston.

"When did they agree to it?"

"Last night," replied Tom, after a moment's hesitation.

"All right then; but I cannot promise you that Mr. Bayard will
let you have the books."

"I can fix that, I reckon," replied Tom, confidently.

"I will speak a good word for you, at any rate."

"That's right, Bob."

"I am going down into the State of Maine this time, and shall be
gone three or four weeks."

"So much the better; I always wanted to go down that way."

Tom asked a great many questions about the business and the
method of travelling, which Bobby's superior intelligence and more
extensive experience enabled him to answer to the entire
satisfaction of the other.

When they were within half a mile of the railroad station, they
heard a carriage driven at a rapid rate approaching them from the
direction of Riverdale.

Tom seemed to be uneasy, and cast frequent glances behind him.
In a moment the vehicle was within a short distance of them, and he
stopped short in the road to scrutinize the persons in it.

"By jolly!" exclaimed Tom; "my father!"

"What of it?" asked Bobby, surprised by the strange behavior of
his companion.

Tom did not wait to reply, but springing over the fence fled
like a deer towards some woods a short distance from the road.

Was it possible? Tom had run away from home. His father had not
consented to his going to Boston, and Bobby was mortified to find
that his hopeful disciple had been lying to him ever since they
left Riverdale. But he was glad the cheat had been exposed.

"That was Tom with you—wasn't it?" asked Mr. Spicer, as he
stopped the foaming horse.

"Yes, sir; but he told me you had consented that he should go
with me," replied Bobby, a little disturbed by the angry glance of
Mr. Spicer's fiery eyes.

"He lied! the young villain! He will catch it for this."

"I would not have let him come with me only for that. I asked
him twice over if you were willing, and he said you were."

"You ought to have known better than to believe him," interposed
the man who was with Mr. Spicer.

Bobby had some reason for believing him. The fact that Tom had
reformed ought to have entitled him to some consideration, and our
hero gave him the full benefit of the declaration. To have
explained this would have taken more time than he could spare;
besides, it was "a great moral question," whose importance Mr.
Spicer and his companion would not be likely to apprehend; so he
made a short story of it, and resumed his walk, thankful that he
had got rid of Tom.

Mr. Spicer and his friend, after fastening the horse to the
fence, went to the woods in search of Tom.

Bobby reached the station just in time to take the cars, and in
a moment was on his way to the city.

CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH BOBBY GETS INTO A SCRAPE, AND TOM SPICER TURNS UP
AGAIN

Bobby had a poorer opinion of human nature than ever before. It
seemed almost incredible to him that words so fairly spoken as
those of Tom Spicer could be false. He had just risen from a sick
bed, where he had had an opportunity for long and serious
reflection. Tom had promised fairly, and Bobby had every reason to
suppose he intended to be a good boy. But his promises had been
lies. He had never intended to reform, at least not since he had
got off his bed of pain. He was mortified and disheartened at the
failure of this attempt to restore him to himself.

Like a great many older and wiser persons than himself, he was
prone to judge the whole human family by a single individual. He
did not come to believe that every man was a rascal, but, in more
general terms, that there is a great deal more rascality in this
world than one would be willing to believe.

With this sage reflection, he dismissed Tom from his mind, which
very naturally turned again to the air castle which had been so
ruthlessly upset. Then his opinion of "the rest of mankind" was
reversed; and he reflected that if the world were only peopled by
angels like Annie Lee, what a pleasant place it would be to live
in. She could not tell a lie, she could not use bad language, she
could not steal, or do anything else that was bad; and the prospect
was decidedly pleasant. It was very agreeable to turn from Tom to
Annie, and in a moment his air castle was built again, and throned
on clouds of gold and purple. I do not know what impossible things
he imagined, or how far up in the clouds he would have gone, if the
arrival of the train at the city had not interrupted his thoughts,
and pitched him down upon the earth again.

Bobby was not one of that impracticable class of persons who do
nothing but dream; for he felt that he had a mission to perform
which dreaming could not accomplish. However pleasant it may be to
think of the great and brilliant things which one will do,
to one of Bobby's practical character it was even more pleasant to
perform them. We all dream great things, imagine great things; but
he who stops there does not amount to much, and the world can well
spare him, for he is nothing but a drone in the hive. Bobby's fine
imaginings were pretty sure to bring out a "now or never," which
was the pledge of action, and the work was as good as done when he
had said it.

Therefore, when the train arrived, Bobby did not stop to dream
any longer. He forgot his beautiful air castle, and even let Annie
Lee slip from his mind for the time being. Those towns upon the
Kennebec, the two hundred books he was to sell, loomed up before
him, for it was with them he had to do.

Grasping the little valise he carried with him, he was hastening
out of the station house when a hand was placed upon his
shoulder.

"Got off slick—didn't I?" said Tom Spicer, placing himself
by Bobby's side.

"You here, Tom!" exclaimed our hero, gazing with astonishment at
his late companion.

It was not an agreeable encounter, and from the bottom of his
heart Bobby wished him anywhere but where he was. He foresaw that
he could not easily get rid of him.

"I am here," replied Tom. "I ran through the woods to the depot,
and got aboard the cars just as they were starting. The old man
couldn't come it over me quite so slick as that."

"But you ran away from home."

"Well, what of it?"

"A good deal, I should say."

"If you had been in my place, you would have done the same."

"I don't know about that; obedience to parents is one of our
first duties."

"I know that; and if I had had any sort of fair play, I wouldn't
have run away."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Bobby, somewhat surprised,
though he had a faint idea of the meaning of the other.

"I will tell you all about it by and by. I give you my word of
honor that I will make everything satisfactory to you."

"But you lied to me on the road this morning."

Tom winced; under ordinary circumstances he would have resented
such a remark by "clearing away" for a fight. But he had a purpose
to accomplish, and he knew the character of him with whom he had to
deal.

"I'm sorry I did, now," answered Tom, with every manifestation
of penitence for his fault. "I didn't want to lie to you; and it
went against my conscience to do so. But I was afraid, if I told
you my father refused, up and down, to let me go, that you wouldn't
be willing I should come with you."

"I shall not be any more willing now I know all about it," added
Bobby, in an uncompromising tone.

"Wait till you have heard my story, and then you won't blame
me."

"Of course you can go where you please; it is none of my
business; but let me tell you, Tom, in the beginning, that I won't
go with a fellow who has run away from his father and mother."

"Pooh! What's the use of talking in that way?"

Tom was evidently disconcerted by this decided stand of his
companion. He knew that his bump of firmness was well developed,
and whatever he said he meant.

"You had better return home, Tom. Boys that run away from home
don't often amount to much. Take my advice, and go home," added
Bobby.

"To such a home as mine!" said Tom, gloomily. "If I had such a
home as yours, I would not have left it."

Bobby got a further idea from this remark of the true state of
the case, and the consideration moved him. Tom's father was a
notoriously intemperate man, and the boy had nothing to hope for
from his precept or his example. He was the child of a drunkard,
and as much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. His home was not
pleasant. He who presided over it, and who should have made a
paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who
blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed.

Tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since
his recovery. His one great desire now was to get away from home,
for home to him was a place of torment. Bobby suspected all this,
and in his great heart he pitied his companion. He did not know
what to do.

"I am sorry for you, Tom," said he, after he had considered the
matter in this new light; "but I don't see what I can do for you. I
doubt whether it would be right for me to help you run away from
your parents."

"I don't want you to help me run away. I have done that
already."

"But if I let you go with me, it will be just the same thing.
Besides, since you told me those lies this morning, I haven't much
confidence in you."

"I couldn't help that."

"Yes, you could. Couldn't help lying?"

"What could I do? You would have gone right back and told my
father."

"Well, we will go up to Mr. Bayard's store, and then we will see
what can be done."

"I couldn't stay at home, sure," continued Tom, as they walked
along together. "My father even talked of binding me out to a
trade."

"Did he?"

Bobby stopped short in the street; for it was evident that, as
this would remove him from his unhappy home, and thus effect all he
professed to desire, he had some other purpose in view.

"What are you stopping for, Bob?"

"I think you had better go back, Tom."

"Not I; I won't do that, whatever happens."

"If your father will put you to a trade, what more do you
want?"

"I won't go to a trade, anyhow."

Bobby said no more, but determined to consult with Mr. Bayard
about the matter; and Tom was soon too busily engaged in observing
the strange sights and sounds of the city to think of anything
else.

When they reached the store, Bobby went into Mr. Bayard's
private office and told him all about the affair. The bookseller
decided that Tom had run away more to avoid being bound to a trade
than because his home was unpleasant; and this decision seemed to
Bobby all the more just because he knew that Tom's mother, though a
drunkard's wife, was a very good woman. Mr. Bayard further decided
that Bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be the companion of
his journey. He also considered it his duty to write to Mr. Spicer,
informing him of his son's arrival in the city, and clearing Bobby
from any agency in his escape.

While Mr. Bayard was writing the letter, Bobby went out to give
Tom the result of the consultation. The runaway received it with a
great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded to have the decision
reversed. But Bobby, though he would gladly have done anything for
him which was consistent with his duty, was firm as a rock, and
positively refused to have anything to do with him until he
obtained his father's consent; or, if there was any such trouble as
he asserted, his mother's consent.

Tom left the store, apparently "more in sorrow than in anger."
His bullying nature seemed to be cast out, and Bobby could not but
feel sorry for him. Duty was imperative, as it always is, and it
must be done "now or never."

During the day the little merchant attended to the packing of
his stock, and to such other preparations as were required for his
journey. He must take the steamer that evening for Bath, and when
the time for his departure arrived, he was attended to the wharf by
Mr. Bayard and Ellen, with whom he had passed the afternoon. The
bookseller assisted him in procuring his ticket and berth, and gave
him such instructions as his inexperience demanded.

The last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, and the great
wheels of the steamer began to turn. Our hero, who had never been
on the water in a steamboat, or indeed anything bigger than a punt
on the river at home, was much interested and excited by his novel
position. He seated himself on the promenade deck, and watched with
wonder the boiling, surging waters astern of the steamer.

How powerful is man, the author of that mighty machine that bore
him so swiftly over the deep blue waters! Bobby was a little
philosopher, as we have before had occasion to remark, and he was
decidedly of the opinion that the steamboat was a great
institution. When he had in some measure conquered his amazement,
and the first ideas of sublimity which the steamer and the sea were
calculated to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked forward
to take a closer survey of the machinery. After all, there was
something rather comical in the affair. The steam hissed and
sputtered, and the great walking beam kept flying up and down; and
the sum total of Bobby's philosophy was, that it was funny these
things should make the boat go so like a race horse over the
water.

Then he took a look into the pilot house, and it seemed more
funny that turning that big wheel should steer the boat. But the
wind blew rather fresh at the forward part of the boat, and as
Bobby's philosophy was not proof against it, he returned to the
promenade deck, which was sheltered from the severity of the blast.
He had got reconciled to the whole thing, and ceased to bother his
head about the big wheel, the sputtering steam, and the walking
beam; so he seated himself, and began to wonder what all the people
in Riverdale were about.

"All them as hasn't paid their fare, please walk up to the
cap'n's office and s-e-t-t-l-e!" shouted a colored boy, presenting
himself just then, and furiously ringing a large hand bell.

"I have just settled," said Bobby, alluding to his comfortable
seat.

But the allusion was so indefinite to the colored boy that he
thought himself insulted. He did not appear to be a very amiable
boy, for his fist was doubled up, and with sundry big oaths, he
threatened to annihilate the little merchant for his insolence.

"I didn't say anything that need offend you," replied Bobby. "I
meant nothing."

"You lie! You did!"

He was on the point of administering a blow with his fist, when
a third party appeared on the ground, and without waiting to hear
the merits of the case, struck the negro a blow which had nearly
floored him.

Some of the passengers now interfered, and the colored boy was
prevented from executing vengeance on the assailant.

"Strike that fellow and you strike me!" said he who had struck
the blow.

"Tom Spicer!" exclaimed Bobby, astonished and chagrined at the
presence of the runaway.

CHAPTER XVI

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.

CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH TOM HAS A GOOD TIME, AND BOBBY MEETS WITH A TERRIBLE
MISFORTUNE

Bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their
wares, and they remained there the rest of the week. They then
proceeded to Brunswick, where their success was equally
flattering.

Thus far Tom had done very well, though Bobby had frequent
occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct
himself in a proper manner. He would swear now and then, from the
force of habit; but invariably, when Bobby checked him, he promised
to do better.

At Brunswick Tom sold the last of his books, and was in
possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the
publisher who had furnished his stock. This money seemed to burn in
his pocket. He had the means of having a good time, and it went
hard with him to plod along as Bobby did, careful to save every
penny he could.

"Come, Bob, let's get a horse and chaise and have a
ride—what do you say?" proposed Tom, on the day he finished
selling his books.

"I can't spare the time or the money," replied Bobby,
decidedly.

"What is the use of having money if we can't spend it? It is a
first rate day, and we should have a good time."

"I can't afford it. I have a great many books to sell."

"About a hundred; you can sell them fast enough."

"I don't spend my money foolishly."

"It wouldn't be foolishly. I have sold out, and I am bound to
have a little fun now."

"You never will succeed if you do business in that way."

"Why not?"

"You will spend your money as fast as you get it."

"Pooh! we can get a horse and chaise for the afternoon for two
dollars. That is not much."

"Considerable, I should say. But if you begin, there is no
knowing where to leave off. I make it a rule not to spend a single
cent foolishly, and if I don't begin, I shall never do it."

"I don't mean to spend all I get; only a little now and then,"
persisted Tom.

"Don't spend the first dollar for nonsense, and then you won't
spend the second. Besides, when I have any money to spare, I mean
to buy books with it for my library."

"Humbug! Your library!"

"Yes, my library; I mean to have a library one of these
days."

"I don't want any library, and I mean to spend some of my money
in having a good time; and if you won't go with me, I shall go
alone—that's all."

"You can do as you please, of course; but I advise you to keep
your money. You will want it to buy another stock of books."

"I shall have enough for that. What do you say? will you go with
me or not?"

"No, I will not."

"Enough said; then I shall go alone, or get some fellow to go
with me."

"Consider well before you go," pleaded Bobby, who had sense
enough to see that Tom's proposed "good time" would put back, if
not entirely prevent, the reform he was working out.

He then proceeded to reason with him in a very earnest and
feeling manner, telling him he would not only spend all his money,
but completely unfit himself for business. What he proposed to do
was nothing more nor less than extravagance, and it would lead him
to dissipation and ruin.

"To-day I am going to send one hundred dollars to Mr. Bayard,"
continued Bobby; "for I am afraid to have so much money with me. I
advise you to send your money to your employer."

"Humph! Catch me doing that! I am bound to have a good time,
anyhow."

"At least, send the money you owe him."

"I'll bet I won't."

"Well, do as you please; I have said all I have to say."

"You are a fool, Bob!" exclaimed Tom, who had evidently used
Bobby as much as he wished, and no longer cared to speak soft words
to him.

"Perhaps I am; but I know better than to spend my money upon
fast horses. If you will go, I can't help it. I am sorry you are
going astray."

"What do you mean by that, you young monkey?" said Tom,
angrily.

This was Tom Spicer, the bully. It sounded like him; and with a
feeling of sorrow Bobby resigned the hopes he had cherished of
making a good boy of him.

"We had better part now," added our hero, sadly.

"I'm willing."

"I shall leave Brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the
river. I hope no harm will befall you. Good by, Tom."

"Go it! I have heard your preaching about long enough, and I am
more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me."

Bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk
containing his books, while Tom made his way towards a livery
stable. The boys had been in the place for several days, and had
made some acquaintances; so Tom had no difficulty in procuring a
companion for his proposed ride.

Our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to Mr. Bayard, in which
he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with
Tom Spicer, and the success that had attended his labors. At the
bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and
enclosed it in the letter.

He felt sad about Tom. The runaway had done so well, had been so
industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been
very much encouraged about him. But if he meant to be wild
again,—for it was plain that the ride was only "the beginning
of sorrows,"—it was well that they should part.

By the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to Gardiner, passing
through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very
abundant harvest. His usual success attended him; for wherever he
went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as Squire Lee had
declared they would be. His pleasant, honest face was a capital
recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the
result which eloquence has ever achieved from Demosthenes down to
the present day.

Our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his
peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we
pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him
at Augusta. He had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day
remitted eighty dollars more to Mr. Bayard. It was Wednesday, and
he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for
Boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day.

He had heard nothing from Tom since their parting, and had given
up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim
proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the
streets of Augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him—and
this time it was indeed a misfortune.

"Hallo, Bobby!" shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though
nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations.

"Ah, Tom, I didn't expect to see you again," replied Bobby, not
very much rejoiced to meet his late companion.

"I suppose not; but here I am, as good as new. Have you sold
out?"

"No, not quite."

"How many have you left?"

"About twenty; but I thought, Tom, you would have returned to
Boston before this time."

"No;" and Tom did not seem to be in very good spirits.

"Where are you going now?"

"I don't know. I ought to have taken your advice, Bobby."

This was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy
for his companion—as who does not when the erring confess
their faults?

"I am sorry you did not."

"I got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to
Brunswick," continued Tom, rather sheepishly.

"And spent all your money," added Bobby, who could readily
understand the reason why Tom had put on his humility again.

"Not all."

"How much have you left?"

"Not much," replied he, evasively. "I don't know what I shall
do. I am in a strange place, and have no friends."

Bobby's sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he
promised to be a friend in his extremity.

"I will stick by you this time, Bob, come what will. I will do
just as you say, now."

Our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display
of confidence. He did not give weight enough to the fact that it
was adversity alone which made Tom so humble. He was in trouble,
and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good
behavior. He could not desert him now he was in difficulty.

"You shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to
Boston together. Have you money enough left to pay your
employer?"

Tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his
mind.

"I don't know how it will be after I have paid my expenses to
Boston," he replied, averting his face.

Bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as Tom seemed so
reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more
convenient season.

"Now, Tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and I
will take those upon this side. You shall have the profits on all
you sell."

"You are a first rate fellow, Bob; and I only wish I had done as
you wanted me to do."

"Can't be helped now, and we will do the next best thing,"
replied Bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house.

Tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had
sold all the books but four. "The Wayfarer" had been liberally
advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand.
Bobby's heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his
valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would
ensue upon his return to the little black house. How glad his
mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy Annie
would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the State
of Maine! Wouldn't she be astonished when he told her about the
steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of
the beautiful Kennebec!

Poor Bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a
greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in
store for him.

As he walked along, thinking of Riverdale and its loved ones,
Tom came out of a grocery store where he had just sold a book.

"Here, Bob, is a ten dollar bill. I believe I have sold ten
books for you," said Tom, after they had walked some distance. "You
had better keep the money now; and while I think of it, you had
better take what I have left of my former sales;" and Tom handed
him another ten dollar bill.

Bobby noticed that Tom seemed very much confused and
embarrassed; but he did not observe that the two bills he had
handed him were on the same bank.

"Then you had ten dollars left after your frolic," he remarked,
as he took the last bill.

"About that;" and Tom glanced uneasily behind him.

"What is the matter with you, Tom?" asked Bobby, who did not
know what to make of his companion's embarrassment.

"Nothing, Bob; let us walk a little faster. We had better turn
up this street," continued Tom, as, with a quick pace, he took the
direction indicated.

Bobby began to fear that Tom had been doing something wrong; and
the suspicion was confirmed by seeing two men running with all
their might towards them. Tom perceived them at the same
moment.

"Run!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he took
to his heels, and fled up the street into which he had proposed to
turn.

Bobby did not run, but stopped short where he was till the men
came up to him.

"Grab him," said one of them, "and I will catch the other."

The man collared Bobby, and in spite of all the resistance he
could make, dragged him down the street to the grocery store in
which Tom had sold his last book.

"What do you mean by this?" asked Bobby, his blood boiling with
indignation at the harsh treatment to which he had been
subjected.

"We have got you, my hearty," replied the man, releasing his
hold.

No sooner was the grasp of the man removed, than Bobby, who
determined on this as on former occasions to stand upon his
inalienable rights, bolted for the door, and ran away with all his
speed. But his captor was too fleet for him, and he was immediately
retaken. To make him sure this time, his arms were tied behind him,
and he was secured to the counter of the shop.

In a few moments the other man returned, dragging Tom in triumph
after him. By this time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly
filled the store.

Bobby was confounded at the sudden change that had come over his
fortunes; but seeing that resistance would be vain, he resolved to
submit with the best grace he could.

"I should like to know what all this means?" he inquired,
indignantly.

The crowd laughed in derision.

"This is the chap that stole the wallet, I will be bound," said
one, pointing to Tom, who stood in surly silence awaiting his
fate.

"He is the one who came into the store," replied the
shopkeeper.

"I haven't stole any wallet," protested Bobby, who now
understood the whole affair.

The names of the two boys were taken, and warrants procured for
their detention. They were searched, and upon Tom was found the
lost wallet, and upon Bobby two ten dollar bills, which the loser
was willing to swear had been in the wallet. The evidence therefore
was conclusive, and they were both sent to jail.

Poor Bobby! the inmate of a prison!

The law took its course, and in due time both of them were
sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the State Reform School.
Bobby was innocent, but he could not make his innocence appear. He
had been the companion of Tom, the real thief, and part of the
money had been found upon his person. Tom was too mean to exonerate
him, and even had the hardihood to exult over his misfortune.

At the end of three days they reached the town in which the
Reform School is located, and were duly committed for their long
term.

Poor Bobby!

CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH BOBBY TAKES FRENCH LEAVE, AND CAMPS IN THE WOODS

The intelligence of Bobby's misfortune reached Mr. Bayard, in
Boston, by means of the newspapers. To the country press an item is
a matter of considerable importance, and the alleged offence
against the peace and dignity of the State of Maine was duly
heralded to the inquiring public as a "daring robbery." The
reporter who furnished the facts in the case for publication was
not entirely devoid of that essential qualification of the country
item writer, a lively imagination, and was obliged to dress up the
particulars a little, in order to produce the necessary amount of
wonder and indignation. It was stated that one of the two young men
had been prowling about the place for several days, ostensibly for
the purpose of selling books, but really with the intention of
stealing whatever he could lay his hands upon. It was suggested
that the boys were in league with an organized band of robbers,
whose nefarious purposes would be defeated by the timely arrest of
these young villains. The paper hinted that further depredations
would probably be discovered, and warned people to beware of
ruffians strolling about the country in the guise of pedlers.

The writer of this thrilling paragraph must have had reason to
believe that he had discharged his whole duty to the public, and
that our hero was duly branded as a desperate fellow. No doubt he
believed Bobby was an awful monster; for at the conclusion of his
remarks he introduced some severe strictures on the lenity of the
magistrate, because he had made the sentence two years, instead of
five, which the writer thought the atrocious crime deserved. But,
then, the justice differed from him in politics, which may account
for the severity of the article.

Mr. Bayard read this precious paragraph with mingled grief and
indignation. He understood the case at a glance. Tom Spicer had
joined him, and the little merchant had been involved in his crime.
He was sure that Bobby had had no part in stealing the money. One
so noble and true as he had been could not steal, he reasoned. It
was contrary to experience, contrary to common sense.

He was very much disturbed. This intelligence would be a severe
blow to the poor boy's mother, and he had not the courage to
destroy all her bright hopes by writing her the terrible truth. He
was confident that Bobby was innocent, and that his being in the
company of Tom Spicer had brought the imputation upon him; so he
could not let the matter take its course. He was determined to do
something to procure his liberty and restore his reputation.

Squire Lee was in the city that day, and had left his store only
half an hour before he discovered the paragraph. He immediately
sent to his hotel for him, and together they devised means to
effect Bobby's liberation. The squire was even more confident than
Mr. Bayard that our hero was innocent of the crime charged upon
him. They agreed to proceed immediately to the State of Maine, and
use their influence in obtaining his pardon. The bookseller was a
man of influence in the community, and was as well known in Maine
as in Massachusetts; but to make their application the surer, he
procured letters of introduction from some of the most
distinguished men in Boston to the governor and other official
persons in Maine.

We will leave them now to do the work they had so generously
undertaken, and return to the Reform School, where Bobby and Tom
were confined. The latter took the matter very coolly. He seemed to
feel that he deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious delight
in seeing Bobby the companion of his captivity. He even had the
hardihood to remind him of the blow he had struck him more than two
months before, telling him that he had vowed vengeance then, and
now the time had come. He was satisfied.

"You know I didn't steal the money, or have anything to do with
it," said Bobby.

"Some of it was found upon you, though," sneered Tom,
maliciously.

"You know how it came there, if no one else does."

"Of course I do; but I like your company too well to get rid of
you so easy."

"The Lord is with the innocent," replied Bobby; "and something
tells me that I shall not stay in this place a great while."

"Going to run away?" asked Tom, with interest, and suddenly
dropping his malicious look.

"I know I am innocent of any crime; and I know that the Lord
will not let me stay here a great while."

"What do you mean to do, Bob?"

Bobby made no reply; he felt that he had had more confidence in
Tom than he deserved, and he determined to keep his own counsel in
future. He had a purpose in view. His innocence gave him courage;
and perhaps he did not feel that sense of necessity for submission
to the laws of the land which age and experience give. He prayed
earnestly for deliverance from the place in which he was confined.
He felt that he did not deserve to be there; and though it was a
very comfortable place, and the boys fared as well as he wished to
fare, still it seemed to him like a prison. He was unjustly
detained; and he not only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved
to work out his own deliverance at the first opportunity.

Knowing that whatever he had would be taken from him, he
resolved by some means to keep possession of the twenty dollars he
had about him. He had always kept his money in a secret place in
his jacket to guard against accident, and the officers who had
searched him had not discovered it. But now his clothes would be
changed. He thought of these things before his arrival; so, when he
reached the entrance, and got out of the wagon, to open the gate,
by order of the officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a hole
in the wall.

It so happened that there was not a suit of clothes in the store
room of the institution which would fit him; and he was permitted
to wear his own dress till another should be made. After his name
and description had been entered, and the superintendent had read
him a lecture upon his future duties, he was permitted to join the
other boys, who were at work on the farm. He was sent with half a
dozen others to pick up stones in a neighboring field. No officer
was with them, and Bobby was struck with the apparent freedom of
the institution, and he so expressed himself to his companions.

"Not so much freedom as you think for," said one, in reply.

"I should think the fellows would clear out."

"Not so easy a matter. There is a standing reward of five
dollars to any one who brings back a runaway."

"They must catch him first."

"No fellow ever got away yet. They always caught him before he
got ten miles from the place."

This was an important suggestion to Bobby, who already had a
definite purpose in his mind. Like a skilful general, he had
surveyed the ground on his arrival, and was at once prepared to
execute his design.

In his conversation with the boys, he obtained the history of
several who had attempted to escape, and found that even those who
got a fair start were taken on some public road. He perceived that
they were not good generals, and he determined to profit by their
mistake.

A short distance from the institution was what appeared to be a
very extensive wood. Beyond this, many miles distant, he could see
the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under the setting sun.

He carefully observed the hills, and obtained the bearings of
various prominent objects in the vicinity which would aid him in
his flight. The boys gave him all the information in their power
about the localities of the country. They seemed to feel that he
was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he would not long
remain among them; but, whatever they thought, they kept their own
counsel.

Bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent and prompt that he
obtained the confidence of the superintendent, who began to employ
him about the house, and in his own family. He was sent of errands
in the neighborhood, and conducted himself so much to the
satisfaction of his guardians that he was not required to work in
the field after the second day of his residence on the farm.

One afternoon he was told that his clothes were ready, and that
he might put them on the next morning. This was a disagreeable
announcement; for Bobby saw that, with the uniform of the
institution upon his back, his chance of escape would be very
slight. But about sunset, he was sent by the superintendent's lady
to deliver a note at a house in the vicinity.

"Now or never!" said Bobby to himself, after he had left the
house. "Now's my time."

As he passed the gate, he secured his money, and placed it in
the secret receptacle of his jacket. After he had delivered the
letter, he took the road and hastened off in the direction of the
wood. His heart beat wildly at the prospect of once more meeting
his mother, after nearly four weeks' absence. Annie Lee would
welcome him; she would not believe that he was a thief.

He had been four days an inmate of the Reform School, and
nothing but the hope of soon attaining his liberty had kept his
spirits from drooping. He had not for a moment despaired of getting
away.

He reached the entrance to the wood, and taking a cart path,
began to penetrate its hidden depths. The night darkened upon him;
he heard the owl screech his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will
chant his cheery song. A certain sense of security now pervaded his
mind, for the darkness concealed him from the world, and he had
placed six good miles between him and the prison, as he considered
it.

He walked on, however, till he came to what seemed to be the end
of the wood, and he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen in
the distance before morning. Leaving the forest, he emerged into
the open country. There was here and there a house before him; but
the aspect of the country seemed strangely familiar to him. He
could not understand it. He had never been in this part of the
country before; yet there was a great house with two barns by the
side of it, which he was positive he had seen before.

He walked across the field a little farther, when, to his
astonishment and dismay, he beheld the lofty turrets of the State
Reform School. He had been walking in a circle, and had come out of
the forest near the place where he had entered it.

Bobby, as the reader has found out by this time, was a
philosopher as well as a hero; and instead of despairing or wasting
his precious time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed a
little to himself at the blunder, and turned back into the woods
again.

"Now or never!" muttered he. "It will never do to give it up
so."

For an hour he walked on, with his eyes fixed on a great bright
star in the sky. Then he found that the cart path crooked round,
and he discovered where he had made his blunder. Leaving the road,
he made his way in a straight line, still guided by the star, till
he came to a large sheet of water.

The sheet of water was an effectual barrier to his farther
progress; indeed, he was so tired he did not feel able to walk any
more. He deemed himself safe from immediate pursuit in this
secluded place. He needed rest, and he foresaw that the next few
days would be burdened with fatigue and hardship which he must be
prepared to meet.

Bobby was not nice about trifles, and his habits were such that
he had no fear of taking cold. His comfortable bed in the little
black house was preferable to the cold ground, even with the
primeval forest for a chamber; but circumstances alter cases, and
he did not waste any vain regrets about the necessity of his
position. After finding a secluded spot in the wood, he raked the
dry leaves together for a bed, and offering his simple but fervent
prayer to the Great Guardian above, he lay down to rest. The owl
screamed his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will still repeated his
monotonous song; but they were good company in the solitude of the
dark forest.

He could not go to sleep for a time, so strange and exciting
were the circumstances of his position. He thought of a thousand
things, but he could not think himself to sleep, as he was
wont to do. At last nature, worn out by fatigue and anxiety,
conquered the circumstances, and he slept.

CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH BOBBY HAS A NARROW ESCAPE, AND GOES TO SEA WITH SAM
RAY

Nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept
his senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their
matin song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens.

Bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. For a moment he
did not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of
the previous evening. He felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and
came out of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at
home. Rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose
foliage canopied his bed, and his identity was soon restored to
him. He was Bobby Bright—but Bobby Bright in trouble. He was
not the little merchant, but the little fugitive fleeing from the
prison to which he had been doomed.

It did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only
advantage of his primitive style of lodging. His first object was
to examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should
continue his flight. He could not go ahead, as he had intended, for
the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. Leaving the dense
forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had
seen in the night. It was salt water, and he reasoned that it could
not extend a great way inland. His only course was to follow it
till he found means of crossing it.

Following the direction of the creek he kept near the margin of
the wood till he came to a public road. He had some doubts about
trusting himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he
seated himself upon a rock to argue the point. If any one should
happen to come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to
his future movements, if not of being immediately captured.

This was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one
upon the other side. He had eaten nothing since dinner on the
preceding day, and he began to feel faint for the want of food. On
the other side of the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though
it might afford him a few berries; and he was on the point of
taking to the road, when he heard the rumbling of a wagon in the
distance.

His heart beat with apprehension. Perhaps it was some officer of
the institution in search of him. At any rate it was some one who
had come from the vicinity of the Reform School, and who had
probably heard of his escape. As it came nearer, he heard the
jingling of bells; it was the baker. How he longed for a loaf of
his bread, or some of the precious gingerbread he carried in his
cart! Hunger tempted him to run the risk of exposure. He had money;
he could buy cakes and bread; and perhaps the baker had a kind
heart, and would befriend him in his distress. The wagon was close
at hand.

"Now or never," thought he; but this time it was not now.
The risk was too great. If he failed now, two years of captivity
were before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it
for a while.

"Now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he
permitted the baker to pass without hailing him.

He waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road
till he had crossed the creek. The danger was great, but the pangs
of hunger urged him on. He was sure there were berries in the
pasture, and with a timid step, carefully watching before and
behind to insure himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge.
But then a new difficulty presented itself. There was a house
within ten rods of the bridge, which he must pass, and to do so
would expose him to the most imminent peril. He was on the point of
retreating, when a man came out of the house, and approached him.
What should he do? It was a trying moment. If he ran, the act would
expose him to suspicion. If he went forward, the man might have
already received a description of him, and arrest him.

He chose the latter course. The instinct of his being was to do
everything in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted
his decision.

"Good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man.

"Good morning. Where are you travelling?"

This was a hard question. He did not know where he was
travelling; besides, even in his present difficult position, he
could not readily resort to a lie.

"Down here a piece," he replied.

"Travelled far to-day?"

"Not far. Good morning, sir;" and Bobby resumed his walk.

"I say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the
man came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to
foot.

"I can hardly tell you," replied Bobby, summoning courage for
the occasion.

"Well, I suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile.

Bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was
suspected of being a runaway from the Reform School. That smile on
the man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a
flood of misery roll over his soul. But the natural elasticity of
his spirits soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up
the ship, even if he had to fight for it.

"I am in a hurry, so I shall have to leave you."

"Not just yet, young man. Perhaps, as you don't know where you
are going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man,
good naturedly.

There was a temptation to give a false name; but as it was so
strongly beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a
falsehood, he held his peace.

"Excuse me, sir, but I can't stop to talk now."

"In a hurry? Well, I dare say you are. I suppose there is no
doubt but you are Master Robert Bright."

"Not the least, sir; I haven't denied it yet, and I am not
ashamed of my name," replied Bobby, with a good deal of spirit.

"That's honest; I like that."

"'Honesty is the best policy,'" added Bobby.

"That's cool for a rogue, anyhow. You ought to thought of that
afore."

"I did."

"And stole the money?"

"I didn't. I never stole a penny in my life."

"Come, I like that."

"It is the truth."

"But they won't believe it over to the Reform School," laughed
the man.

"They will one of these days, perhaps."

"You are a smart youngster; but I don't know as I can make five
dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come
from."

"Yes, you can," replied Bobby, promptly.

"Can I?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"By letting me go."

"Eh; you talk flush. I suppose you mean to give me your note,
payable when the Kennebec dries up."

"Cash on the nail," replied Bobby. "You look like a man with a
heart in your bosom,"—Bobby stole this passage from "The
Wayfarer."

"I reckon I have. The time hasn't come yet when Sam Ray could
see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. But to help
a thief off——"

"We will argue that matter," interposed Bobby. "I can prove to
you beyond a doubt that I am innocent of the crime charged upon
me."

"You don't look like a bad boy, I must say."

"But, Mr. Ray, I'm hungry; I haven't eaten a mouthful since
yesterday noon."

"Thunder! You don't say so!" exclaimed Sam Ray. "I never could
bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my
house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other
matter afterwards."

Sam Ray took Bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt;
and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the
little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast
upon the table. Our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had
finished he felt like a new creature.

"Now, Mr. Ray, let me tell you my story," said Bobby.

"I don't know as it's any use. Now you have eat my bread and
butter, I don't feel like being mean to you. If anybody else wants
to carry you back, they may; I won't."

"But you shall hear me;" and Bobby proceeded to deliver his
"plain, unvarnished tale."

When he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the
noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. Sam looked out of the
window, as almost everybody does in the country when a carriage
passes.

"By thunder! It's the Reform School wagon!" exclaimed he. "This
way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber,
bidding him get under the bed.

The carriage stopped at the house; but Sam evaded a direct
reply, and the superintendent—for it was he—proceeded
on his search.

"Heaven bless you, Mr. Ray!" exclaimed Bobby, when he came out
of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his
cheeks.

"O, you will find Sam Ray all right," said he, warmly pressing
Bobby's proffered hand. "I ain't quite a heathen, though some folks
around here think so."

"You are an angel!"

"Not exactly," laughed Sam.

Our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his
account book and some other papers which he had retained. Sam Ray
was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw Tom Spicer he would
certainly "lick" him for his sake.

"Now, sonny, I like you; I will be sworn you are a good fellow;
and I mean to help you off. So just come along with me. I make my
living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing
an odd job now and then. You see, I have got a good boat down the
creek, and I shall just put you aboard and take you anywhere you
have a mind to go."

"May Heaven reward you!" cried Bobby, almost overcome by this
sudden and unexpected kindness.

"O, I don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great
man—and I am dead sure you will be a great man—just
think now and then of Sam Ray, and it's all right."

"I shall remember you with gratitude as long as I live."

Sam Ray took his gun on his shoulder, and Bobby the box of
provisions which Mrs. Ray had put up, and they left the house. At
the bridge they got into a little skiff, and Sam took the oars.
After they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from
the road, Bobby felt secure from further molestation.

Sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into
a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small
schooner.

"Now, my hearty, nothing short of Uncle Sam's whole navy can get
you away from me," said Sam, as he pulled alongside the
schooner.

"You have been very kind to me."

"All right, sonny. Now tumble aboard."

Bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and Sam followed
him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings.

In a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay
with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." Bobby, who had never been
in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms
expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little
craft.

"Now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked Sam, as they emerged from
the bay into the broad ocean.

"I don't know," replied Bobby. "I want to get back to
Boston."

"Perhaps I can put you aboard of some coaster bound there."

"That will do nicely."

"I will head towards Boston, and if I don't overhaul anything, I
will take you there myself."

"Is this boat big enough to go so far?"

"She'll stand anything short of a West India hurricane. You
ain't afeard, are you?"

"O, no; I like it."

The big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a
feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck
with floods of water. Bobby had unlimited confidence in Sam Ray,
and felt as much at home as though he had been "cradled upon the
briny deep." There was an excitement in the scene which accorded
with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured
on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys.

They ate their dinners from the provision box; Sam lighted his
pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. Bobby
felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough
but good-hearted friend. They were now far out at sea, and the
night was coming on.

"Now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you
didn't rest much last night."

"I am not sleepy; but there is one thing I will do;" and Bobby
drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills.

"Put them up, sonny," said Sam.

"I want to make you a present of ten dollars."

"You can't do it."

"Nay, but to please me."

"No, sir!"

"Well, then, let me send it to your good wife."

"You can't do that, nuther," replied Sam, gazing earnestly at a
lumber-laden schooner ahead of him.

"You must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and I
insist upon making it up to you."

"You can't do it."

"I shall feel bad if you don't take it. You see I have twenty
dollars here, and I would like to give you the whole of it."

"Not a cent, sonny. I ain't a heathen. That schooner ahead is
bound for Boston, I reckon."

"I shall be sorry to part with you, Mr. Ray."

"Just my sentiment. I hain't seen a youngster afore for many a
day that I took a fancy to, and I hate to let you go."

"We shall meet again."

"I hope so."

"Please to take this money."

"No;" and Sam shook his head so resolutely that Bobby gave up
the point.

As Sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to Boston.
Her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly
bade adieu to his kind friend.

"Good by, Mr. Ray," said Bobby, as the schooner filled away.
"Take this to remember me by."

It was his jackknife; but Sam did not discover the ten dollar
bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to
return it.

Bobby did not cease to wave his hat to Sam till his little craft
disappeared in the darkness.

CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH THE CLOUDS BLOW OVER, AND BOBBY IS HIMSELF AGAIN

Fortunately for Bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon
after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain
was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions.
He was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor
he made himself useful to the best of his ability. Though the wind
was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning
after his parting with Sam Ray that the schooner arrived off Boston
Light. The captain then informed him that, as the tide did not
favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours;
and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat
which he saw standing up the channel.

"Thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a
great deal of trouble," said Bobby.

"None at all. We must wait here till the tide turns; so we have
nothing better to do."

"I should be very glad to get up this morning."

"You shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out
the jolly boat.

"I will pay my passage now, if you please."

"That is paid."

"Paid?"

"I should say you had worked your passage. You have done very
well, and I shall not charge you anything."

"I expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think I have
done enough to pay it, why I have nothing to say, only that I am
very much obliged to you."

"You ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for
one."

"I like the sea, though I never saw it till a few weeks since.
But I suppose my mother would not let me go to sea."

"I suppose not; mothers are always afraid of salt water."

By this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the
captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the
pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail.
Bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed
at the wharf in Boston.

With a beating heart he made his way up into Washington Street.
He felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware
that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. He could
not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the
city, and perhaps gone to his friends in Riverdale. How his poor
mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! No; she never
could have thought that. She knew he would not steal, if no
one else did. And Annie Lee—would she ever smile upon him
again? Would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she
had done in the past? He could bring nothing to establish his
innocence but his previous character. Would not Mr. Bayard frown
upon him? Would not even Ellen be tempted to forget the service he
had rendered her?

Bobby had thought of all these things before—on his cold,
damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night on
board the schooner. But now, when he was almost in the presence of
those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly
overwhelmed him.

"I am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need I fear?
My good Father in heaven will not let me be wronged."

Yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the
store of Mr. Bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who
had been so kind to him. He could not bear even to be suspected of
a crime by him.

"Now or never," said he, as he turned round.

"I will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it."

Mustering all his courage, he entered the store. Mr. Timmins was
not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured
remark from him.

"Hallo, Bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose
acquaintance he had made on his first visit.

"Good morning, Mr. Bigelow," replied Bobby with as much boldness
as he could command.

"I didn't know as I should ever see you again. You have been
gone a long while."

"Longer than usual," answered Bobby, with a blush; for he
considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his
imprisonment. "Is Mr. Bayard in?"

"He is—in his office."

Bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with
a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. Mr.
Bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did
not observe his entrance. With his heart up in his throat, and
almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the
threshold. He almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown
with which he expected to be received. Suspense, however, was more
painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the
point.

"Mr. Bayard," said he, in faltering tones.

"Bobby!" exclaimed the bookseller, dropping his paper upon the
floor, and jumping upon his feet as though an electric current had
passed through his frame.

Grasping our hero's hand, he shook it with so much energy that,
under any other circumstances, Bobby would have thought it hurt
him. He did not think so now.

"My poor Bobby! I am delighted to see you!" continued Mr.
Bayard.

Bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a child, as he was. The
unexpected kindness of this reception completely overwhelmed
him.

"Don't cry, Bobby; I know all about it;" and the tender-hearted
bookseller wiped away his tears. "It was a stroke of misfortune;
but it is all right now."

But Bobby could not help crying, and the more Mr. Bayard
attempted to console him, the more he wept.

"I am innocent, Mr. Bayard," he sobbed.

"I know you are, Bobby; and all the world knows you are."

"I am ruined now; I shall never dare to hold my head up
again."

"Nonsense, Bobby; you will hold your head the higher. You have
behaved like a hero."

"I ran away from the State Reform School, sir. I was innocent,
and I would rather have died than stayed there."

"I know all about it, my young friend. Now dry your tears, and
we will talk it all over."

Bobby blew and sputtered a little more; but finally he composed
himself, and took a chair by Mr. Bayard's side. The bookseller then
drew from his pocket a ponderous document, with a big official seal
upon it, and exhibited it to our hero.

"Do you see this, Bobby? It is your free and unconditional
pardon."

"Sir! Why——"

"It will all end well, you may depend."

Bobby was amazed. His pardon? But it would not restore his
former good name. He felt that he was branded as a felon. It was
not mercy, but justice, that he wanted.

"Truth is mighty, and will prevail," continued Mr. Bayard; "and
this document restores your reputation."

"I can hardly believe that."

"Can't you? Hear my story then. When I read in one of the Maine
papers the account of your misfortune, I felt that you had been
grossly wronged. You were coupled with that Tom Spicer, who is the
most consummate little villain I ever saw, and I understood your
situation. Ah, Bobby, your only mistake was in having anything to
do with that fellow."

"I left him at Brunswick because he began to behave badly; but
he joined me again at Augusta. He had spent nearly all his money,
and did not know what to do. I pitied him, and meant to do
something to help him out of the scrape."

"Generous as ever! I have heard all about this before."

"Indeed; who told you?"

"Tom Spicer himself."

"Tom?" asked Bobby, completely mystified.

"Yes, Tom; you see, when I heard about your trouble, Squire Lee
and myself——"

"Squire Lee? Does he know about it?"

"He does; and you may depend upon it, he thinks more highly of
you than ever before. He and I immediately went down to Augusta to
inquire into the matter. We called upon the governor of the state,
who said that he had seen you, and bought a book of you."

"Of me!" exclaimed Bobby, startled to think he had sold a book
to a governor.

"Yes; you called at his house; probably you did not know that he
was the chief magistrate of the state. At any rate, he was very
much pleased with you, and sorry to hear of your misfortune. Well,
we followed your route to Brunswick, where we ascertained how Tom
had conducted. In a week he established a very bad reputation
there; but nothing could be found to implicate you. The squire
testified to your uniform good behavior, and especially to your
devotion to your mother. In short, we procured your pardon, and
hastened with it to the State Reform School.

"On our arrival, we learned, to our surprise and regret, that
you had escaped from the institution on the preceding evening.
Every effort was made to retake you, but without success. Ah,
Bobby, you managed that well."

"They didn't look in the right place," replied Bobby, with a
smile, for he began to feel happy again.

"By the permission of the superintendent, Squire Lee and myself
examined Tom Spicer. He is a great rascal. Perhaps he thought we
would get him out; so he made a clean breast of it, and confessed
that you had no hand in the robbery, and that you knew nothing
about it. He gave you the two bills on purpose to implicate you in
the crime. We wrote down his statement, and had it sworn to before
a justice of the peace. You shall read it by and by."

"May Heaven reward you for your kindness to a poor boy!"
exclaimed Bobby, the tears flowing down his cheeks again. "I did
not deserve so much from you, Mr. Bayard."

"Yes, you did, and a thousand times more. I was very sorry you
had left the institution, and I waited in the vicinity till they
said there was no probability that you would be captured. The most
extraordinary efforts were used to find you; but there was not a
person to be found who had seen or heard of you. I was very much
alarmed about you, and offered a hundred dollars for any
information concerning you."

"I am sorry you had so much trouble. I wish I had known you were
there."

"How did you get off?"

Bobby briefly related the story of his escape, and Mr. Bayard
pronounced his skill worthy of his genius.

"Sam Ray is a good fellow; we will remember him," added the
bookseller, when he had finished.

"I shall remember him; and only that I shall be afraid to go
into the State of Maine after what has happened, I should pay him a
visit one of these days."

"There you are wrong. Those who know your story would sooner
think of giving you a public reception, than of saying or doing
anything to injure your feelings. Those who have suffered unjustly
are always lionized."

"But no one will know my story, only that I was sent to prison
for stealing."

"There you are mistaken again. We put articles in all the
principal papers, stating the facts in the case, and establishing
your innocence beyond a peradventure. Go to Augusta now, Bobby, and
you will be a lion."

"I am sure I had no idea of getting out of the scrape so easily
as this."

"Innocence shall triumph, my young friend."

"What does mother say?" asked Bobby, his countenance growing
sad.

"I do not know. We returned from Maine only yesterday; but
Squire Lee will satisfy her. All that can worry her, as it has
worried me, will be her fears for your safety when she hears of
your escape."

"I will soon set her mind at ease upon that point. I will take
the noon train home."

"A word about business before you go. I discharged Timmins about
a week ago, and I have kept his place for you."

"By gracious!" exclaimed Bobby, thrown completely out of his
propriety by this announcement.

"I think you will do better, in the long run, than you would to
travel about the country. I was talking with Ellen about it, and
she says it shall be so. Timmins's salary was five hundred dollars
a year, and you shall have the same."

"Five hundred dollars a year!" ejaculated Bobby, amazed at the
vastness of the sum.

"Very well for a boy of thirteen, Bobby."

"I was fourteen last Sunday, sir."

"I would not give any other boy so much; but you are worth it,
and you shall have it."

Probably Mr. Bayard's gratitude had something to do with this
munificent offer; but he knew that our hero possessed abilities and
energy far beyond his years. He further informed Bobby that he
should have a room at his house, and that Ellen was delighted with
the arrangement he proposed.

The gloomy, threatening clouds were all rolled back, and floods
of sunshine streamed in upon the soul of the little merchant; but
in the midst of his rejoicing he remembered that his own integrity
had carried him safely through the night of sorrow and doubt. He
had been true to himself, and now, in the hour of his great
triumph, he realized that, if he had been faithless to the light
within him, his laurel would have been a crown of thorns.

He was happy—very happy. What made him so? Not his dawning
prosperity; not the favor of Mr. Bayard; not the handsome salary he
was to receive; for all these things would have been but dross if
he had sacrificed his integrity, his love of truth and uprightness.
He had been true to himself, and unseen angels had held him up. He
had been faithful, and the consciousness of his fidelity to
principle made a heaven within his heart.

It was arranged that he should enter upon the duties of his new
situation on the following week. After settling with Mr. Bayard, he
found he had nearly seventy dollars in his possession; so that in a
pecuniary point of view, if in no other, his eastern excursion was
perfectly satisfactory.

By the noon train he departed for Riverdale, and in two hours
more he was folded to his mother's heart. Mrs. Bright wept for joy
now, as she had before wept in misery when she heard of her son's
misfortune. It took him all the afternoon to tell his exciting
story to her, and she was almost beside herself when Bobby told her
about his new situation.

After tea he hastened over to Squire Lee's; and my young readers
can imagine what a warm reception he had from father and daughter.
For the third time that day he narrated his adventures in the east;
and Annie declared they were better than any novel she had ever
read. Perhaps it was because Bobby was the hero. It was nearly ten
o'clock before he finished his story; and when he left, the squire
made him promise to come over the next day.

CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH BOBBY STEPS OFF THE STAGE, AND THE AUTHOR MUST FINISH
"NOW OR NEVER"

The few days which Bobby remained at home before entering upon
the duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling
upon his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the
woods and by the river, which years of association had rendered
dear to him. His plans for the future, too, occupied some of his
time, though, inasmuch as his path of duty was already marked out,
these plans were but little more than a series of fond imaginings;
in short, little more than day dreams. I have before hinted that
Bobby was addicted to castle building, and I should pity the man or
boy who was not—who had no bright dream of future
achievements, of future usefulness. "As a man thinketh, so is he,"
the Psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspiration which
wrote it. What a man pictures as his ideal of that which is
desirable in this world and the world to come, he will endeavor to
attain. Even if it be no higher aim than the possession of wealth
or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. It fires his
brain, it nerves his arm. It stimulates him to action, and action
is the soul of progress. We must all work; and this world were cold
and dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. What Napoleon
dreamed, he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of Europe
trembled before him. What Howard wished to be, he labored to be;
his ideal was beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will
endure through eternity.

Bobby dreamed great things. That bright picture of the little
black house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds,
and surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and
before Mrs. Bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters
and the painters were upon the spot.

"Now or never," replied Bobby to his mother's remonstrance.
"This is your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon
earth, if I can make it so."

Then he had to dream about his business in Boston and I am not
sure but that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like Mr. Bayard,
living in an elegant house in Chestnut Street, and having clerks
and porters to do as he bade them. A great many young men dream
such things, and though they seem a little silly when spoken out
loud, they are what wood and water are to the steam
engine—they are the mainspring of action. Some are stupid
enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in
idleness and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." It
will never come to them. They are more likely to die in the
almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for
constant exertion is the price of success.

Bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these
few days of respite from labor. He spent a liberal share of his
time at Squire Lee's, where he was almost as much at home as in his
mother's house. Annie read Moore's Poems to him, till he began to
have quite a taste for poetry himself.

In connection with Tom Spicer's continued absence, which had to
be explained, Bobby's trials in the eastern country leaked out, and
the consequence was, that he became a lion in Riverdale. The
minister invited him to tea, as well as other prominent persons,
for the sake of hearing his story; but Bobby declined the polite
invitations from sheer bashfulness. He had not brass enough to make
himself a hero; besides, the remembrance of his journey was
anything but pleasant to him.

On Monday morning he took the early train for Boston, and
assumed the duties of his situation in Mr. Bayard's store. But as I
have carried my hero through the eventful period of his life, I
cannot dwell upon his subsequent career. He applied himself with
all the energy of his nature to the discharge of his duties. Early
in the morning and late in the evening he was at his post. Mr.
Bigelow was his friend from the first, and gave him all the
instruction he required. His intelligence and quick perception soon
enabled him to master the details of the business, and by the time
he was fifteen, he was competent to perform any service required of
him.

By the advice of Mr. Bayard, he attended an evening school for
six months in the year, to acquire a knowledge of book keeping, and
to compensate for the opportunities of which he had been
necessarily deprived in his earlier youth. He took Dr. Franklin for
his model, and used all his spare time in reading good books, and
in obtaining such information and such mental culture as would fit
him to be, not only a good merchant, but a good and true man.

Every Saturday night he went home to Riverdale to spend the
Sabbath with his mother. The little black house no longer existed,
for it had become the little paradise of which he had dreamed, only
that the house seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the fence
more attractive than his fancy had pictured them. His mother, after
a couple of years, at Bobby's earnest pleadings, ceased to close
shoes and take in washing; but she had enough and to spare, for her
son's salary was now six hundred dollars. His kind employer boarded
him for nothing (much against Bobby's will, I must say), so that
every month he carried to his mother thirty dollars, which more
than paid her expenses.

Eight years have passed by since Bobby—we beg his pardon,
he is now Mr. Robert Bright—entered the store of Mr. Bayard.
He has passed from the boy to the man. Over the street door a new
sign has taken the place of the old one, and the passer-by
reads,—

The senior partner resorts to his counting room every morning
from the force of habit; but he takes no active part in the
business. Mr. Bright has frequent occasion to ask his advice,
though everything is directly managed by him; and the junior is
accounted one of the ablest, but at the same time one of the most
honest, business men in the city. His integrity has never been
sacrificed, even to the emergencies of trade. The man is what the
boy was; and we can best sum up the results of his life by saying
that he has been true to himself, true to his friends, and true to
his God.

Mrs. Bright is still living at the little white cottage, happy
in herself and happy in her children. Bobby—we mean Mr.
Bright—has hardly missed going to Riverdale on a Saturday
night since he left home, eight years before. He has the same
partiality for those famous apple pies, and his mother would as
soon think of being without bread as being without apple pies when
he comes home.

Of course Squire Lee and Annie were always glad to see him when
he came to Riverdale; and for two years it had been common talk in
Riverdale that our hero did not go home on Sunday evening when the
clock struck nine. But as this is a forbidden topic, we will ask
the reader to go with us to Mr. Bayard's house in Chestnut
Street.

What! Annie Lee here?

No; but as you are here, allow me to introduce Mrs. Robert
Bright.

They were married a few months before, and Mr. Bayard insisted
that the happy couple should make their home at his house.

But where is Ellen Bayard?

O, she is Mrs. Bigelow now, and her husband is at the head of a
large book establishment in New York.

Bobby's dream had been realized, and he was the happiest man in
the world—at least he thought so, which is just the same
thing. He had been successful in business; his wife—the
friend and companion of his youth, the brightest filament of the
bright vision his fancy had woven—had been won, and the
future glowed with brilliant promises.

He had been successful; but neither nor all of the things we
have mentioned constituted his highest and truest success—not
his business prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in store
for him, not his good name among men, not even the beautiful and
loving wife who had cast her lot with his to the end of time. These
were successes, great and worthy, but not the highest success.

He had made himself a man,—this was his real
success,—a true, a Christian man. He had lived a noble life.
He had reared the lofty structure of his manhood upon a solid
foundation—principle. It is the rock which the winds of
temptation and the rains of selfishness cannot move.

Robert Bright is happy because he is good. Tom Spicer, now in
the state prison, is unhappy,—not because he is in the
state prison, but because the evil passions of his nature are at
war with the peace of his soul. He has fed the good that was within
him upon straw and husks, and starved it out. He is a body only;
the soul is dead in trespasses and sin. He loves no one, and no one
loves him.

During the past summer, Mr. Bright and his lady took a journey
"down east." Annie insisted upon visiting the State Reform School;
and her husband drove through the forest by which he had made his
escape on that eventful night. Afterwards they called upon Sam Ray,
who had been "dead sure that Bobby would one day be a great man."
He was about the same person, and was astonished and delighted when
our hero introduced himself.

They spent a couple of hours in talking over the past, and at
his departure, Mr. Bright made him a handsome present in such a
delicate manner that he could not help accepting it.

Squire Lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, and is never so
happy as when Annie and her husband come to Riverdale to spend the
Sabbath. He is fully of the opinion that Mr. Bright is the greatest
man on the western continent, and he would not be in the least
surprised if he should be elected President of the United States
one of these days.

The little merchant is a great merchant now. But more than this,
he is a good man. He has formed his character, and he will probably
die as he has lived.

Reader, if you have any good work to do, do it now; for with you
it may be "Now or Never."

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1. Abbé Constantin. Ludovic Halévy.

2. Æsop's Fables.

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4. Bracebridge Hall. Irving.

5. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Byron.

6. Coming Race. Bulwer.

7. Cranford. Mrs. Gaskell.

8. Crown of Wild Olive. Ruskin.

9. Discourses of Epictetus.

10. Dreams. Olive Schreiner.

11. Dream Life. Ik Marvel.

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14. Ethics of the Dust. Ruskin.

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18. Lalla Rookh. Thomas Moore.

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20. Lamb's Last Essays of Elia.

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22. Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, II.

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27. Lowell's Poems.

28. Mornings in Florence. Ruskin.

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30. Paul and Virginia. B. St. Pierre.

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32. Poe's Poems.

33. Princess. Tennyson.

34. Queen of the Air. Ruskin.

35. Rab and His Friends. Dr. J. Brown.

36. Rasselas. Johnson.

37. Reveries of a Bachelor. Ik Marvel.

38. Representative Men. Emerson.

39. Sartor Resartus. Carlyle.

40. Scarlet Letter. Hawthorne.

41. Sesame and Lilies. Ruskin.

42. Ships that Pass in the Night. Beatrice
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43. St. Mark's Rest. Ruskin.

44. Thoughts from Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.

45. Tillyloss Scandal. J. M. Barrie.

46. Twice-Told Tales, I. Hawthorne.

47. Twice-Told Tales, II. Hawthorne.

48. In Memoriam. Tennyson.

49. Vicar of Wakefield. Goldsmith.

50. Whittier's Poems.

51. Autocrat of Breakfast Table. Holmes.

52. Heroes and Hero Worship. Carlyle.

53. Mosses from an Old Manse, I. Hawthorne.

54. Mosses from an Old Manse, II. Hawthorne.

55. Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.

56. Song of Hiawatha. Longfellow.

57. Evangeline, and Poems. Longfellow.

58. Sketch Book. Irving.

59. Stickit Minister. S. R. Crockett.

60. House of the Seven Gables. Hawthorne.

61. Poetical Works of Robt. Browning.

62. Paradise Lost. Milton.

63. Hamlet. Shakespeare.

64. Julius Cæsar. Shakespeare.

65. Book of Golden Deeds. Yonge.

66. Child's History of England. Dickens.

67. Confessions of an Opium Eater. De Quincey.

68. Ten Nights in a Barroom. Arthur.

69. Treasure Island. Stevenson.

70. Tanglewood Tales. Hawthorne.

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[Transcriber's note: The spelling of "engigineer" in the
advertising pages has been retained.]