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.
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