Tom Newcombe; Or, the Boy of Bad Habits

THE wind being favorable, the little vessel, with all her sails set, glided rapidly away from the shore; and Bob, in obedience to the order of his employer, shaped her course toward a point about five miles distant, where Tom, in one of his sailing excursions, had seen a thrifty farm-house, at which he hoped to be able to purchase his cargo. Captain Newcombe remained standing on his quarter-deck, now and then looking up at the sails, as he had seen the skipper of the Savannah do, until the Mystery was fairly under way; then he seated himself in the stern-sheets, and began to talk with Bob; giving him some insight into his new plan of operations. From some cause or another, he always felt well satisfied with himself whenever he had any new project in view; and the present expedition seemed more to his liking than any thing he had ever before undertaken. As was invariably the case with him, he confidently expected unbounded success to attend his efforts, and he determined that, from that day forward, he would make regular trips up the bay. This resolution he communicated to Bob, and also began to explain to him the manner in which he intended to dispose of his profits.

“I shall make at least ten dollars to-day,” said he; “and, if I make three trips each week, and clear ten dollars each trip, that will be—that will be—let me see, how much?” (Tom never could calculate his expenses or profits by the day; he always wanted to know how much they would amount to in a week.)

“That would be thirty dollars a week,” said Bob, who was rather surprised at the magnitude of the young trader’s imaginary profits.

“So it would! And that would amount to—to—how much a year? Five hundred dollars, at least, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered the fisher-boy, who did not know how much it was best to assist Tom in his calculations. “It would make more than that.”

“Well, now, the Swallow cost about a hundred and fifty dollars,” said Captain Newcombe. “That’s lots of money; but if I made thirty dollars a week, I could pay for her in—in—a few months, couldn’t I?”

“Yes,” answered Bob, again. “It wouldn’t take long to pay for her at that rate.”

“Then,” said Tom, settling back on his elbow, “I have decided that I shall follow trading for a business. It’s easy work, and I know I shall be certain to succeed. Now, Bob,” and here he straightened himself up again, “when we get into port, I want you to call me captain. I am master of this vessel, you know; and if you intend to be a sailor, you might as well learn one time as another how to address your officers. I will call you Mr. Jennings, because you are my first mate.”

Bob thought this rather a droll proposition; but, as he could not well afford to offend his employer, who was paying him much more money for a day’s work than he could have earned by fishing, he promised obedience, and Captain Newcombe again returned to the subject of his profits. The amounts, according to Bob’s reckoning, greatly exceeded his expectations, and he did not wish to talk about any thing else. Once, the fisher-boy, who thought the young trader was placing his mark rather high—in fact, altogether too high—ventured to remark that “perhaps he wouldn’t make quite thirty dollars a week;” and Tom’s reply was:

“Mr. Jennings, I am the captain of this vessel, and if I don’t know my own business, it is time I was discharged, and some better man put in my place. Don’t you suppose I can calculate figures? If I make three trips each week—and there is nothing to prevent it—and clear ten dollars each trip—and there’s nothing in the world to prevent that, either—won’t that amount to thirty dollars a week?” and thus Bob was silenced.

Captain Newcombe thoroughly discussed the subject in all its bearings, and he invariably arrived at the same conclusion—namely, that in a few weeks, he would be the owner of the Swallow, or of a sloop exactly like her. This made him more firm than ever in his belief that he was right in his calculations; “for,” said he, “if I was wrong, I wouldn’t get the same result every time, would I? Of course I wouldn’t.”

“Now, then, Bob,” he continued, “it’s a settled thing that I am to be a trader, and that I am to own a sloop exactly like the Swallow. I’ll need a crew, then, won’t I? How much will you take to go as my first mate? You and I can manage her.”

“Would I have regular work?” asked Bob.

“Yes; all you can do. When we are not off on a voyage, you’ll have to watch the vessel, keep her in order, and see that the tides, or a storm, don’t wash her ashore.”

“Well,” said the fisher-boy, after thinking a moment, “I’ll do it for fifty cents a day.”

“Fifty cents a day!” repeated Captain Newcombe, slowly. “That would be—let me see—how much a week?”

“Three dollars,” said Bob.

“That’s cheaper than I expected,” continued Tom. “That’s too cheap. I’ll give you seventy-five cents a day. Is that enough?”

Bob was so amazed at this novel way of making a bargain that he did not answer immediately; and the young trader, thinking that perhaps he was not satisfied with his offer, exclaimed:

“Isn’t that enough? Well, then, I’ll give you a dollar a day. Does that suit you?”

If Bob had still hesitated, Captain Newcombe might have made him an offer of still higher wages, but he honestly replied:

“A dollar a day is a man’s pay, and that is more than I can earn. But if you think you can afford to give it to me, I am willing to work hard for it!”

“Of course I can give it to you,” said Tom. “We’ll put it down in writing.”

So saying, he produced his memorandum-book, and settling himself into a comfortable position, began to study up a contract.

The fisher-boy was not accustomed to this way of doing business, neither was he at all pleased with it. He entertained very serious misgivings as to Tom’s ability to carry out his grand ideas, and he did not like to be promised such high wages unless he could positively rely on receiving them. He did not wish to offend his employer, but still he thought it prudent to suggest a delay in the signing of the contract until they had made at least one trial of Tom’s scheme. They would then be better able to judge whether or not such an arrangement could be made. Captain Newcombe listened very patiently, and, when Bob had ceased speaking, he straightened himself up and answered:

“Mr. Jennings, what kind of a trader would I be if I couldn’t make my own calculations? Why, I would be swindled out of the last cent I had. (Tom hesitated a little as he said this, for he remembered his experience of the previous day.) But if a man does his own figuring, no one can cheat him. Now I am just as certain that I shall make ten dollars to-day as I am that I am now sitting in this boat. So, you see, I can afford to pay you good wages. A dollar a day! that would be—let me think a moment—how much a week!”

“Six dollars,” said Bob.

“Well, is it a bargain?”

The fisher-boy, although far from being convinced, replied that he would be more than satisfied with the wages offered, provided the business could be carried on according to those calculations; and Tom, thinking that he had made the matter perfectly clear to Bob’s comprehension, again turned his attention to his contract and shipping articles. The Mystery rocked considerably as she glided over the little waves, and this had the effect of making Tom’s writing look worse than ever. But he studied hard and worked perseveringly to draw up the important document (and that was more than he would have done had it been his arithmetic lesson), and when it was finished he handed it to Bob, who, after a good deal of trouble, made out the following:

“Now,” said Tom, when the fisher-boy had finished reading the document, “that is plain enough, isn’t it? Well, then, let me sign it first, because I am the captain, you know.”

After they had both affixed their signatures to the contract, Tom put it carefully away in his pocket, and here the subject was dropped. Even Captain Newcombe had grown weary of counting his imaginary profits, and he began to wish they were at their journey’s end. As usual with him, he became very uneasy. He grew tired of sitting still, and first he wished that a sloop about the size of the Mystery would come along, so that they could have a race. Then he wished there was “some boy on board learning to be a sailor;” wouldn’t he make him “sup sorrow with a big spoon,” in revenge for the manner in which the second mate of the Savannah had treated him? Then he almost wished that a storm would come up; and, turning to the fisher-boy, he asked:

“Do you believe that if a fellow whistles while on board a vessel, it will get up a hurricane?”

“Father used to say it would,” answered Bob. “But I never tried it, and I don’t want to.”

“I wish I could start up a little more breeze. I wouldn’t want a hard one, for the Mystery couldn’t weather it. But I’ll run the risk;” and, as Captain Newcombe ceased speaking, he began to whistle, at the same time casting his eyes rather suspiciously around the horizon, to see if the storm was coming. But there was not a single cloud to obscure the sun, which beat mercilessly down upon them; and Tom finally gave up his attempt in disgust, and again stretched himself out in the stern-sheets, under the shade of the mainsail.

Although the Mystery was making remarkably quick time, she did not sail fast enough to suit her impatient captain, who, every few minutes, raised himself on his elbow, and looked toward the point, which still seemed as far off as when they left the wharf. But, nevertheless, they were gradually drawing nearer to it, and, at the end of an hour, Bob rounded-to and landed on the beach, a short distance from the farm-house.

As soon as the fisher-boy had hauled down the sails, Tom sprang ashore, drew his memorandum-book from his pocket, thrust his pencil behind his ear, and walked toward the house. Presently a man appeared at the door, and, as soon as Tom arrived within speaking distance, he inquired:

“Have you any eggs, butter, or chickens to sell?”

“Wal, yes,” replied the farmer, slowly surveying the young trader from head to foot. “We’ve got some. Be you a buyin’?”

“Yes,” answered Tom. “I am paying the highest market prices—the very highest.”

“Wal, yes! But how much?” asked the man.

“That depends upon the quality of your goods,” replied Tom promptly, assuming a very knowing look, as if he understood what he was talking about. “Let me see what you have to sell, and then I’ll tell you what I’ll give for it.”

“Wal, sartin; step this way.”

Captain Newcombe and his mate followed the farmer, who conducted them around the building, and into a room, which he called the “milk-house;” where he showed them a large basket of eggs, beside which stood a tub that contained several rolls of fine fresh butter.

“How many dozen have you?” asked Tom, after he had held one of the eggs toward the sun to see if it was fresh, though, the fact was, he knew as much about the matter before he made his examination as he did afterward.

“O, they are all right,” said the farmer. “If you can find a bad one among ’em, I’ll give ’em all to you. Now, let me see how many there are. There’s just twenty dozen an’ two over,” he continued, after he had counted them—“call it even twenty dozen. Now, how much be you payin’?”

“Well,” answered Tom slowly, as if he was thinking the matter over, “eggs are high now, and I’ll give you twenty cents a dozen for them.”

“Twenty cents!” repeated the farmer, in surprise. “Wal, I should say that eggs was high. Things must have riz up like mighty in Newport lately. Mebbe I can find some more for you;” and going to the door of the kitchen, he called out: “Betsy! Betsy! can’t you rake up a few more eggs somewhere? There’s a chap out here payin’ a good price for ’em.”

“Tom—I mean captain,” whispered Bob, pulling the young trader by his coat-sleeve, “you can’t afford to give so much for those eggs. You’ll certainly—”

“Now, Mr. Jennings,” interrupted Tom, “you hold your tongue. I guess I know what I am about.”

“But, captain,” persisted the fisher-boy, “you can’t make a cent on—”

“Now, look here,” said the young trader, angrily, “once for all, will you keep still? What do you know about speculating? Those eggs are worth as much to me as they are to him; and, if I had owned them in the first place, I wouldn’t have sold them for less than twenty cents. I don’t want to swindle the man. Now you go to the boat and get some baskets and pails.”

Bob reluctantly started off to obey the order, and, just at that moment, the farmer returned, rubbing his hands with delight when he thought of the bargain he had made.

“Now, then,” said he, “the old woman says there’s ten pounds of butter in that ar’ kag. What’s it wuth? You can see that it is fresh an’ nice. Betsy always gets a higher price for her butter and eggs than any one else in the country.”

“Does she?” inquired Tom. “Then I’ll give you twenty-two cents a pound for it.”

“Wal, I declare to goodness!” ejaculated the farmer, “how things have riz up! A feller can live easy when he can get such prices as them for what he has to sell.”

As the man spoke, he took down a pair of scales from a nail over the door, and, having carefully tied the butter in a cloth, he said, as he held the scales up so that Tom could see the weight:

“A trifle over ten pounds; but we’ll call it even ten, ’cause the cloth weighs something, you know.”

“That’s all right,” said Tom. “So far, so good. Now, have you any chickens to sell?”

“Wal, no,” was the reply. “If eggs is worth that much, Betsy won’t want to sell the chickens.”

At this moment, Tom happened to look out at the door, and discovered three very fine fowls walking about the yard. They were as white as snow, and considerably larger than any the young trader had ever seen before; and, from their great size, he at once put them down as game chickens. He once heard of a man who had made a fortune by dealing in property of that kind, and here was an opportunity too good to be lost. Pointing to the chickens, he asked:

“Can that rooster fight?”

“Wal, yes,” answered the farmer; “he’s like four-cent sugar—all grit. He beats all the other chickens on the place like two hundred.”

“I thought so,” said Tom. “Do you want to sell him?”

“Wal, no; I don’t care about it.”

“I’ll give you three dollars for him and those two hens.”

“Wal, I declare to gracious!” said the farmer, “has chickens riz up, too? I’ll take that for ’em; but you’ll have to help me drive ’em into the barn afore we can ketch ’em.”

While this conversation was going on, Bob returned from the boat, loaded with baskets and pails. The butter was first packed away in one of the pails, and covered with a clean, white cloth, which the farmer furnished them, and the fisher-boy then turned his attention to the eggs.

“Captain,” said he, “we ought to pack them in something. We’ll be certain to break more than half of them if we carry them loose in these baskets.”

“Can’t you give us some oats or bran?” asked Tom, turning to the farmer.

“Wal, no,” answered the man.

“Straw or hay would answer our purpose just as well,” said Bob; “and, besides, it wouldn’t cost any thing.”

“O, no; I can’t have my eggs packed in straw or hay,” drawled Tom. “It wouldn’t look well. Did you ever see eggs come into Newport packed in any thing besides oats or bran? Haven’t you any oats?” he asked, again turning to the farmer.

“Wal, yes; I’ve got some in the bundle. I’ll thrash out some for you for half a dollar.”

“Go and do it, then,” said Tom.

As the man turned to leave the house, his wife entered, having succeeded in finding another dozen of eggs. She also expressed her astonishment that “things had riz up so fast;” to which Tom replied that the articles were worth, to him, every cent he had paid for them. The extra dozen were placed with the others; and then Tom, seeing that the farmer was endeavoring to drive his game chickens toward the barn, sent Bob out to assist him. The fowls were finally secured, and, after the fisher-boy had taken them to the boat, he returned to the place where he had left Tom, and showed him two or three wounds on his hands, which he had received while capturing the rooster. The young trader was delighted; and the thought then occurred to him that he had done a very sensible thing when he bought those chickens, for the rooster’s attack on Bob was conclusive evidence that he was “grit to the backbone.”

“That farmer don’t know much about chickens,” said he to Bob, “or he would not have sold that rooster for a dollar. I’ll get more than that for him. I knew I would be certain to succeed this time. Now,” he continued, as he again produced his memorandum book, “I’ve got every thing I want except the oats. Sit down here.”

The fisher-boy seated himself beside his employer, who began to “make out a bill” of the articles he had purchased. Tom did the writing and Bob the calculating; and finally the book showed the following:

“There,” said Tom, gazing admiringly at his work, “that’s the first bill I ever made out. I’ll show it to father when I get home. Now I’ll have left just—just—let me see—”

“Ten cents,” suggested Bob.

“So I will. I’ll get some apples with that.”

The fisher-boy thought that if the money had belonged to him, he would have saved it; but he knew that it would do no good to offer such advice to Tom; and, besides, his thoughts were turned into another channel, by the arrival of the farmer with the oats. While Bob busied himself in packing away the eggs, Tom went into the house with the farmer, to settle his bill; and after this was done, the man conducted him to the orchard, where he filled his pockets with apples. He then walked about the yard with the farmer, until Bob had carried all the articles he had purchased to the boat, when he took his leave; and, promising to return in a day or two for another load, he stepped on board the sloop, which filled away for home.