THE fisher-boy had not performed a very heroic nor yet very difficult task in taking the Mystery safely into port; and Tom, when he had straightened up and looked about him, began to feel ashamed of himself. His pride, however, would not permit him to acknowledge that he had acted cowardly; so, as soon as he saw that the vessel and cargo were safe, he exclaimed:
“Well, we did bring her in all right, didn’t we, Bob? I knew we could do it.”
Had the Mystery been a few minutes later in reaching her shelter, it is probable that not even Bob could have saved her from being dashed upon the shore; for, no sooner had they reached the cove, than the storm burst forth in all its fury. The wind blew a perfect gale; the waves broke upon the beach with deafening roars; the clouds were lighted up with almost incessant flashes of lightning, which were accompanied by terrific peals of thunder, that had the effect of convincing Tom that, perhaps, they were not yet altogether safe.
The fisher-boy made no reply to Captain Newcombe’s remark; but, after making the sloop’s painter fast to a tree on the shore, he hauled down the mainsail and proceeded to spread it over the boat, to protect the cargo, and also to afford them a shelter from the rain, which soon began to fall in torrents. Captain Newcombe and his mate then crawled under the sail; and, as was invariably the case with Tom, when every thing did not go off smoothly, he began to grumble. He was the most unlucky boy in the whole world, he said. Every one else got along easily, and without the least trouble, but whenever he attempted any thing, something always happened to bother him. He knew he couldn’t be a trader before he commenced, and that would be his last attempt at speculating. If Bob would give him fifteen dollars, he might have the whole cargo, game chickens and all. He would sell it for five dollars less than he had intended to ask for it, for the sake of disposing of it then and there, as he was fully resolved to retire from business. But fifteen dollars was a much larger amount than the fisher-boy ever had in his possession at one time, and, besides, (although he did not say so,) he was rather inclined to believe that the cargo was not worth so much money.
At the end of two hours the storm was over, and the waves had abated sufficiently to allow the Mystery to continue her voyage. Tom, although he retained the name of captain, allowed the fisher-boy to have things all his own way; and, when he found himself sailing toward the village once more, he began to recover his usual spirits. He again thought of his profits; how grand he would feel when he should inform his father that he had made just ten dollars that day; how all the boys of his acquaintance would envy him, and he finally concluded that a traders life was not so bad after all.
Half an hour’s sail brought them to the village, and the fisher-boy, in obedience to Captain Newcombe’s orders, landed on the beach at his own home. As soon as the boat had been made fast to the shore, Bob’s wagon, with its shrieking wooden wheels, was again brought into requisition, and the fisher-boy began the work of discharging the cargo. As the articles, one after another, were brought out on the beach, Tom was astonished to discover that there was another incident in the life of a trader of which he had never dreamed. It had never occurred to him to think what he would do in case his cargo should be damaged; but now the question was presented to him in such a manner that it could not be avoided. He found that a great many of his eggs were broken. No doubt the damage had been done, either while they were going into the cove or coming out of it. The butter, also, was not in as good condition as it was when they left the farm-house. The rolls were broken, the cloth soiled, and the pail in which it was packed, having, by some means become uncovered during the storm, was half-filled with water. In fact, the only part of the cargo which did not seem to be injured, was the rooster, which crowed loudly, as Bob picked up the box and carried it to the shore. The fisher-boy was dismayed, when he came to examine into the condition of things; but Tom, who stood on the beach with his hands in his pockets, had suddenly discovered a way out of his difficulty.
“Never mind, Bob,” said he; “I’ll charge more for the eggs that are left than I intended to in the first place, and then I’ll sell those game chickens if I can get three dollars apiece for them. That would be—let me see—how much for the lot?”
“Nine dollars,” answered Bob.
“Well, I gave three dollars for them,” continued the young trader, “and I shall make by the operation, just—just—let me think a moment.”
“Six dollars,” said the fisher-boy.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Tom. “Then it will take (and here the young trader, being deeply interested in his calculations, forgot himself, and began to count his fingers) seven—eight—nine—ten. It will take just four dollars more to make up the ten dollars. I shall certainly clear that off the butter and eggs. Now, don’t you see where my ten dollars profit is to come from?”
Although the fisher-boy answered in the affirmative, he did not quite agree with Tom, for the thought occurred to him that, perhaps, he might not be able to sell his chickens at such a high price. However, he made no remark, and as soon as he had loaded his wagon with the eggs, he started off for Mr. Henry’s store. Tom waited until he was out of sight, and then went around by the wharf as before; and, when he arrived at the grocery, Bob had already been there, unloaded his wagon, and gone back to the boat after the rest of the cargo. The grocer met the young trader as he entered the store, and, after inquiring how he had weathered the storm, called one of the clerks to count the eggs. Tom stood by, looking on, and relating his adventures to the merchant—being very careful, however, not to say one word about the disgraceful manner in which he had deserted his vessel and crew in time of danger—and, when the eggs had all been counted, he found that he had just fifteen dozen whole ones left; six dozen had been broken during the storm. As the young trader stood looking intently at the floor, trying his best to determine how much he ought to ask for the eggs that were left, in order to make good what he would lose on the broken ones, the fisher-boy returned, bringing the game chickens and the butter.
“Those are fine looking chickens, Tom,” said the grocer. “How much do you ask for them?”
“Three dollars apiece!” was the answer.
“Three dollars apiece!” repeated the merchant, in surprise. “You mean three dollars for the lot.”
“No I don’t,” replied Tom. “I mean just what I said—three dollars apiece—nine dollars for the lot.”
“That’s too much! You surely did not give that price for them?”
“Of course not!” replied Tom. “If I had, I wouldn’t sell them for that. I want to make something, don’t I?”
“Certainly! But you want to make too much. I’ll give you fifty cents apiece for them.”
“No, sir!” said Tom, emphatically. “I can’t sell them for a cent less than three dollars each.”
“What makes them so valuable?” asked the grocer.
“Why, they’re first-class game chickens,” replied Tom. “Don’t you want them?”
“Not at your price. I am not speculating in game chickens now.”
“Well, I am,” said the young trader. “They are worth three dollars apiece to me, and I’ll keep them before I’ll sell them for a cent less.”
While this conversation was going on, one of the clerks had weighed the butter, and, when Mr. Henry had been informed of the number of pounds, he leaned his elbows on the counter and said:
“Now, then, Tom, you have fifteen dozen eggs and ten pounds of butter. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s correct; but I’d like to have you take those game chickens.”
“I can’t give your price for them,” repeated the grocer. “Now, how much are the eggs and butter worth?”
The young trader did not know what reply to make to this question, for the breaking of six dozen of his eggs, and Mr. Henry’s refusal to take his chickens at three dollars each, had completely upset all his calculations. He wanted to make ten dollars by his day’s work, but he did not know how much to ask for the eggs and butter to clear that amount. He would have been very much relieved could he have had a few moment’s conversation with the fisher-boy; but, by such a proceeding, he would certainly show his ignorance, and that was something he did not wish to do. He could see but one way to act; so, after looking about the store for a moment, and putting on a serious face, as if busily engaged in making calculations, he turned to the grocer and asked:
“What do you think my cargo is worth?”
“Well,” was the answer, “although that butter is rather mussed up, I will give you full price for it—thirteen cents a pound.”
Down came all the bright hopes of the young trader, who started back from the counter in astonishment, and looked at the grocer as if he could hardly believe that he had heard aright.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mr. Henry.
“Thirteen—did—did you say thirteen cents a pound for that butter?” Tom almost gasped.
“Exactly! Butter is very plenty now, and that is all it is worth—thirteen cents.”
Tom was now convinced that the merchant was in earnest; and so astounded and vexed was he to discover that his grand attempt at speculating had failed, that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could refrain from crying.
“Did you pay more than that?” asked Mr. Henry, who plainly saw what was the matter.
“O, yes,” drawled Tom, “I paid more than that. I paid too much.”
“Prices have fallen lately, you know,” said the grocer.
“Then I’ll keep that butter until they rise again,” said Tom, in desperation. “How much do you pay for eggs?”
“Ten cents,” was the answer.
“O, no,” drawled Tom. “I can’t sell for that.”
The store was full of customers; and at this moment the grocer left Tom, to attend to the wants of a gentleman, who appeared to be in a great hurry to transact his business, and the young trader determined to seize the opportunity to do a little calculating. He knew that if he accepted the price offered by the merchant, he would be a heavy loser, and he was anxious to know the full extent of his losses. Beckoning to the fisher-boy to follow him toward the office, he whispered:
“I am afraid I can’t make quite ten dollars, aint you? Now ten pounds of butter, at thirteen cents a pound, that makes—let me see.”
“A dollar and thirty cents,” said the fisher-boy.
“O, I can’t sell that good butter for such a small price as that,” whined Tom. “That farmer swindled me, didn’t he? He said that butter was the best in the country. And now, fifteen dozen eggs, at ten cents a dozen, that makes—just—”
“A dollar and a half,” said Bob.
“And that makes the butter and eggs worth—worth—”
“Two dollars and eighty cents,” said the fisher-boy, who knew that he was expected to do all the calculating; “and you paid six dollars and ninety cents for your cargo, taking out the price of your game chickens. So you lose just four dollars and ten cents.”
“O, that’s too much!” said Tom. “If I was to lose that every day, that would be—let me see—how much a week?”
“Almost twenty-five dollars,” said Bob.
“That’s too much!” exclaimed Tom, again. “I can’t afford to lose that. I’ll keep my things until prices rise again. Bob, put the cargo into your wagon, and take it up to the house. I knew I couldn’t be a speculator. I’m the most unlucky boy in the whole world, and something’s always happening to bother me.”
Tom was now thoroughly disgusted with trading, and he resolved that, as long as he lived, he never would attempt it again. As he started to leave the store, the grocer inquired:
“Well, what do you say?”
“I say I can’t sell at your prices,” was the answer; and, in a moment more, Tom was taking long steps toward his home. He did not stop to speak to any of his numerous acquaintances he met on the streets, for fear they might ask him how he was succeeding in business; and not until he reached home, and closed the gate behind him, did he feel safe. As he walked slowly toward the house, he glanced in at the door, and saw his father, seated in the library, reading his paper, and Tom knew that he still had a most difficult task to perform. Mr. Newcombe, of course, would want to know all the particulars of the voyage; and, at that moment, the young trader would have given even his game chickens to be able to avoid the interview. But that was impossible, for his father discovered him as he came up the lawn, and called him into the house. Tom obeyed, and the moment he entered the room, Mr. Newcombe saw at a glance that he had made another failure.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “I suppose you have cleared a small fortune to-day?”
“O, no, I haven’t, either,” whined the discouraged young trader. “I’m afraid I shall lose lots of money. Didn’t I tell you I couldn’t be a speculator?”
“Did you allow somebody to cheat you?” asked the merchant.
Tom saw that his father was determined to know all about the matter, and thinking that the sooner it was over with the better, he drew his memorandum-book from his pocket, and turned to the bill he had made out. His feelings, as he presented it, were very different from what he had that morning imagined they would be. Then, he was confident that he should be able to tell his father he had made money by his day’s work; instead of that he had been a heavy loser.
Mr. Newcombe took the book, and as he glanced over the list of articles that had comprised Tom’s cargo, he saw in an instant where his son had made his mistake.
“What’s this!” he exclaimed, “twenty-one dozen eggs, at—why, Tom, twenty cents for eggs!”
The unpleasant interview was over much sooner than the young trader had expected. His father did not read all the bill, but, closing the book, returned it to Tom, and resumed his reading. He saw that his son was in no humor to talk about what he had done, nor to listen to advice regarding his future operations.
Tom, who had expected a long lecture, was glad, indeed, to escape so easily, and, putting the book into his pocket, he walked out of the house, and started toward the barn, where he sat down to think over his day’s experience, and to await the arrival of the fisher-boy. The latter came at length, with his wagon loaded with eggs. A place was cleared for them in one end of the oat-bin, and there they were packed away to remain until the market prices should rise. Bob then returned to the store, and, in due time, came back with the butter and the game chickens. The butter was also packed away in the oat-bin, the cover of which was closed and fastened.
“There!” exclaimed Tom, “that’s all right. I haven’t lost my money yet. Eggs and butter will be higher next winter, and then I’ll show you a trick or two in speculating. Now, the next thing is to drive all father’s chickens into the hen-house, and shut them up. I want to let my game rooster out.”
But driving the chickens into the hen-house was a much harder task than the boys had anticipated. Having no desire to be shut up before night, they found secure retreats under the barn; and, after half an hour’s chase, during which only one solitary hen was captured, Tom’s patience was exhausted.
“Never mind them, Bob!” he exclaimed, panting hard after his long run. “We have tried to put them out of harm’s way, and now they must look out for themselves. If they knew what they were about, they would get into that hen-house as soon as possible. Now, Bob,” he continued, as he stood with a hammer in his hand ready to knock the bars off the box in which the rooster was confined, “we must name this fellow before we let him out. What shall we call him?”
Bob proposed several names which he thought would be appropriated, but they did not suit Tom, who finally said he wanted to call his chicken after some great general.
“Name him Washington, then,” said the fisher-boy.
“That’s the name!” exclaimed Tom. “Come out here, General Washington,” and, with a few blows of the hammer, he knocked off the bars, when out walked the rooster and the two hens.
They seemed to be well satisfied with their new quarters; and the rooster, as if to carry out the designs of his master, flapped his wings and crowed, to announce to all the fowls within hearing that he had come there to take possession.
He had a pair of good lungs, and Tom fully expected that his crowing would be sufficient to frighten every thing in the yard into submission, and that the General would be permitted to assume the honors of champion without a single battle. But the old residents of the barn-yard had no intention of allowing the new-comer to lord it over them, for scarcely had Washington ceased his crowing, when an answer came from under the barn, and, the next moment, out popped a very small specimen of a bantam, bristling all over with rage and excitement.
“Drive him back, Bob!” shouted Tom; “drive him back! He’s too small! He’ll certainly get hurt!”
But the bantam had not come out there to be driven back. Dodging the cap which Tom threw at him, he spread his wings, thrust out his neck, and made at the intruder as if he meant to annihilate him on the spot. Washington was evidently astonished. He stood perfectly still, looking at his diminutive antagonist first with one eye, then with the other, and, just as Tom was expecting to see him assume the offensive, and drive the bantam from the field, the General uttered one long, deep cackle, and turned and took to his heels.
This was the last feather on the camel’s back. Every thing had gone wrong with Tom that day. He had been offered ten cents a dozen for eggs for which he had paid twenty cents, and had been assured that the butter for which he had given twenty-two cents was worth only thirteen, and he had, as he imagined, borne up bravely under it all. But to stand there and see his game rooster—one for which he had paid a dollar, and of which he had hoped such great things—to see him disgracefully leave the field when faced by an antagonist that he could almost swallow—that was too much; and Tom, filled with disappointment and vexation, seated himself on the ground and cried aloud.