Tom Newcombe; Or, the Boy of Bad Habits

NEVER before had Tom’s home appeared so pleasant or inviting. His short experience on ship-board had fully convinced him that there were much worse places in the world, and that his grand idea of being his “own master” was not exactly what he had imagined it to be. In regard to the future, he had not determined upon any course of action. He had often heard his father say that he “couldn’t have an idler about his house,” and Tom knew that he must do one of two things—either attend school or go to work—a most disagreeable alternative. In spite of all he could do to prevent it, the warning of the second mate, that he would be a “foremast hand the longest day he lived,” would occasionally ring in his ears; and once Tom almost came to the sensible conclusion that, in order to prevent such a calamity, he ought to go to school and try hard to make up his deficiencies. But this resolution, like all the good ones Tom ever made, was short lived. There were too many difficulties in his way. He would have arithmetic and geography lessons to learn, and would be obliged to remain a close prisoner six long hours during each day. So this resolution was reconsidered, and Tom settled down, as he had done a hundred times before, in the hope that something would soon “turn up,” and that he would then be able to see his way clearly.

That evening, after supper, in obedience to his father’s request, Tom proceeded to give an account of all that had transpired on board the Savannah during the voyage. He had a very retentive memory, if he chose to exert it, and not even the smallest incident was omitted. He told how he had been compelled to act the part of a servant in sawing wood, blacking the captain’s boots, and making the beds; how he had been thrust into the forecastle, when he had expected to sleep in the cabin and mess with the officers; how all the sailors had tormented him; and how the second mate had frequently threatened to beat him with a rope’s end; and when he concluded, he settled back in his chair, confident that he had made out a very black case against the officers and crew of the Savannah, and fully expecting to hear his father announce his intention of discharging them, one and all. Mr. Newcombe sat for several minutes, looking down at the carpet, as if revolving the subject in his mind, and finally inquired:

“Did the mate ever use a rope’s end on you?”

“No, sir,” answered Tom; and at that moment he almost wished the officer had punished him, in order to make the evidence against him complete.

“Well,” said Mr. Newcombe, “that mate isn’t half the man I thought he was.”

“He’s no gentleman, or he would not have treated me that way,” chimed in Tom, who thought his father was debating upon the punishment the mate ought to receive.

“He’s not a good officer, either,” said Mr. Newcombe, looking at his son.

“No, sir; he’s not. He’s not fit to be second mate.”

“If he was a good officer,” continued the merchant, “he would have taken a rope’s end to you every hour in the day.”

Tom was thunderstruck! He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright. All through his trials, which he regarded as much greater than had ever before been endured by a boy of his age, he had been, to a certain extent, sustained and encouraged by the thought that his father would certainly sympathize with him; but could it be possible that he was upholding the mate? It certainly looked like it.

“O, now, father,” whined Tom, at length, “you don’t mean to say that I ought to have been whipped?”

“I mean to say that you ought to have been made to do your duty,” answered Mr. Newcombe. “I have heard how you behaved yourself, and my only wonder is, that you escaped as easily as you did.”

“But, father,” said Tom, “when you made your first voyage, you didn’t have to saw wood and black boots, did you?”

“Certainly I did,” replied Mr. Newcombe. “What else could a green boy do on board a ship? But what are you going to do now? Are you willing to go to school?”

“O, no,” drawled Tom, “I can’t.”

“Well, then, do you want to go into the office?”

“What will my duties be if I go there, and how much money can I earn?” asked Tom.

“Why, of course you will have to begin at the lowest round of the ladder, and work your way up,” answered the merchant. “You must be on hand at six o’clock in the morning, to sweep out the office, and make the fires, if the weather is cold; and, during the day, you will have to do errands about the village.”

If there was any thing Tom had a horror of, it was running on errands. The idea of going about the streets with a bundle under his arm was intolerable to him; and the thought of building fires and sweeping out the office was no less distasteful. What would his aristocratic young friends say when they found that he was an errand boy?

“O, no,” answered Tom, at length, “I can’t do that. I can’t sweep, or make fires, or run on errands. It wouldn’t look well, and I wouldn’t do it for a hundred dollars a month. But I’ll do any thing else.”

“What else can you do?” asked Mr. Newcombe. “Now, Tom, if you could have any position in the office you wanted, what would you ask for?”

Tom looked at his father, then out of the window, and rapidly called to mind the occupations of the different clerks employed in his father’s office. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to him, and Tom was certain that he had at last discovered the very thing he wanted.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said he. “I’ll be a book-keeper.”

“Why, Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Newcombe, astonished at his son’s ignorance, “how could you be a book-keeper? Here you are, fourteen years old, and can’t tell how much six and eight are without counting your fingers. You can’t fill a position of that kind until you pay more attention to your arithmetic.”

This was another piece of news to Tom. He was a good deal disappointed, for he had suddenly taken it into his head that he would like to be a book-keeper, but again that useful, but (as far as Tom was concerned) much despised branch of education, arithmetic, stood in his way. He looked at his father a moment, then down at the carpet, and finally said:

“I didn’t know that book-keepers had any thing to do with figures. I can’t do that kind of work, either!”

“I didn’t suppose you could,” said the merchant. “But of one thing you may rest assured; if you don’t go to school you must go to work at something. I can’t have idlers about me. To-morrow morning I want to hear your decision.”

As Mr. Newcombe ceased speaking, he picked up a newspaper and began to read, thus intimating that the interview was at an end. Tom lingered about the room for a few moments, but finding that his father took no more notice of him, he sauntered out of the house and threw himself under one of the trees in the yard, heartily disgusted with himself and every one else in the world.

The conversation he had with his father will serve to illustrate some of his ideas. He wanted to fill some position in life where he could be at his ease; but he was unwilling to make the least exertion to accomplish the desired end. He had often noticed the book-keepers in his father’s office; he imagined they must be happy fellows, and he had suddenly taken it into his head that he would like the same position. But when he learned that the book-keepers had something to do with figures, he had no desire to become better acquainted with their duties. He did not believe in what he had so often heard of, “beginning at the foot of the ladder.” He wanted to reach the top at a single leap; but, turn which way he would, he found that some preparation was necessary to enable him to fill any position in life. He was fairly at his wit’s end. He had his choice between going to school and going to work, and the question was, which of these two evils was the least? This point, however, was soon decided against the school; and then, for fully an hour, Tom rolled and tumbled about on the grass, trying to think of some business in which he could engage that would enable him to make money without labor; and, at last, an idea occurred to him that seemed to fill all the requirements of the occasion. Without stopping to think the matter over, for fear of discovering some defects in it that had not appeared at first sight, Tom sprang to his feet, and running into the house, burst into the room where his father sat, exclaiming:

“I’ve got it now! I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

“Well,” said Mr. Newcombe, looking up from his paper.

“You know,” began Tom, drawing a chair close to his father’s side, “you know that I have forty-eight dollars due me, that I earned on the Savannah, and if you will give it to me, I’ll speculate with it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Newcombe, again, “what will you speculate in?”

Tom’s bright hopes fell instantly. He had not thought of that.

“I’ll tell you what you might do,” at length, said his father, who saw that Tom’s new idea could be made profitable to him in more ways than one, “you might contract with Bob Jennings to take all the fish he can catch, at a certain price; but before you enter into an agreement with him, go to some store—Mr. Henry’s, for instance—ask what he is paying for fish per pound, and then you will know how much to offer Bob. If Mr. Henry is paying four cents, you might agree to give Bob two and a half, or three cents a pound.”

“I understand,” said Tom.

“Then there is another way you might make something,” continued Mr. Newcombe. “Butter, eggs, potatoes, and chickens are cheaper up the coast a few miles than they are here in the village, and you might take a sail up there some day, purchase a cargo, and bring it down here and sell it.”

“I’ll do it!” exclaimed Tom, joyfully. “That’s just the very business I always wanted to go into. I’ll be certain to make lots of money; and it’s easy work, too.”

Mr. Newcombe resumed his paper, without making any reply; and Tom, being again left to his own resources, walked about the house so uneasy that he hardly knew what to do with himself—for, having determined upon his course, he was impatient to begin operations at once. It was then about nine o’clock, and, of course, too late to make arrangements for carrying out his new scheme that night; and after loitering about the house for half an hour, he went to bed, full of his glorious ideas for the future, and so restless that it was almost midnight before he fell asleep.

It may not be improper to remark, that the last plan suggested by Mr. Newcombe, was one which, if properly managed, Tom might have made profitable. Bob Jennings had often thought of it; and many a time, as he rowed by the merchant’s house, had he wished that he was the owner of a sail-boat like Tom’s, for then he would have turned trader; and two months’ work, he was confident, would have enabled him to lay by a sufficient sum to support his mother while he was gone on his first voyage. But, as it was, he was powerless. His old, leaky scow could not be trusted very far from shore, and thus Bob was obliged to lose one source of income—one that, under his control, would have yielded him more in one week than his fishing did in a month. Mr. Newcombe had consented to his son’s scheme, for the reason that he was in hopes that Tom, by being brought in contact with business men, might be made to see his deficiencies so plainly that he would be ashamed of them. He resolved to assist him, but, at the same time, to allow him full control of his business, so that when he failed (for the merchant fully expected that his scheme would result in failure) he could have no one to blame but himself.

The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Newcombe started for his office, and on the way, he stopped at a store, where he had a long conversation with the proprietor, after which he resumed his walk. A few moments afterward, Tom entered the store, and after the grocer had concluded his inquiries concerning his voyage, (a matter about which Tom said as little as possible,) he asked:

“Mr. Henry, what do you pay for fish?”

“What do I pay for them?” repeated the grocer. “Have you any to sell? Are you going into that business?”

“Yes,” answered Tom, with the air of one who was doing an immense trade; “I am a speculator.”

“Well, I hope you will succeed,” said Mr. Henry. “Fish are in good demand now, and I’ll give you five cents a pound for all you will bring me—large and small.”

Tom was satisfied with the price offered, and after holding a short conversation with the grocer concerning the business in hand, he left the store, and hurried toward the home of the fisher-boy. He found Bob just getting into his boat to begin his day’s work. In a few words, Tom stated the object of his visit, and concluded by offering Bob three cents a pound for all the fish he could catch. The latter at once accepted the proposition. Heretofore he had only received two cents a pound; and as he was not the only fisherman about the village, he not unfrequently found it impossible to dispose of his day’s work at any price.

“Well, then!” said Tom, after they had talked the matter over. “It’s a bargain. You are to bring me all the fish you can catch, and I am to give you three cents a pound for them, here at your house. Now, Bob, we ought to have that in writing. It will look more business-like.”

As Tom spoke, he drew from his pocket a memorandum-book and pencil. He had often noticed that his father carried these articles, and, not wishing to omit any thing that would make him appear like a business man, he had taken care to provide himself with every thing necessary before leaving home. He seated himself on the ground, and, after considerable study, drew up the following:

This he signed with a flourish, and handed to Bob, who was astonished at the bad spelling and worse writing. But Tom evidently thought it just right, for he tore another leaf out of his book, saying, as he did so: “Bob, that’s yours to keep. Now I must have one too;” and he proceeded to write a second contract, which ran thus:

“Now, Bob,” he exclaimed, when he had finished the document, “sign that, if you are an honest man.”

The fisher-boy, after considerable trouble, deciphered the bad writing and spelling; and, although he thought the contract might have been better worded, he made no remark, for fear of offending his customer, but took the pencil and signed his name so plainly that even Tom could read it without stopping to spell it over.

“Now,” said the young trader, as he carefully folded up his contract, “we’re all right. Father says that whenever one man goes into business with another, he ought to make him sign an agreement; then both know just what is required of them. That’s the way I intend to conduct my business. What time will you be back, Bob?”

The fisher-boy answered that he would return at five o’clock; and, after Tom had promised to be on hand, he put his memorandum-book into his pocket, thrust his pencil behind his ear, and started toward his father’s office. Mr. Newcombe, as usual, was very busy, but he managed to obtain a few moments in which to attend to Tom, who, delighted with the success that had attended him thus far, asked for two dollars, with which to carry on his day’s business. The money was counted out, and Tom was requested to write a receipt, in order, as his father said, that he might learn “how to do business properly.” Tom seated himself at his father’s desk, and tried hard to think how a receipt ought to be written. He twisted about in his chair, bit his pen, and, at the end of a quarter of an hour, handed his father a slip of paper, on which was written the following:

Mr. Newcombe put the receipt into his pocket, and then proceeded to give Tom advice in regard to the manner in which his business ought to be conducted. But the young trader shook his head in a very knowing manner, as if to say: “I understand all about that;” and presently he left the office, and walked about the wharf with his hands in his pockets, and his pencil behind his ear.

Tom was very well satisfied with himself that morning; he had an object to accomplish, something to live for. He was a man of business, and he took no little pride in the thought that he had earned, with his own hands, the two dollars he carried in his pocket. Besides that, he had forty-six dollars more, all his own money, which would be counted out to him whenever he saw fit to call for it. His immediate success he regarded as a thing beyond a doubt; and, giving full sway to his fancy, he began to wonder what he should do with his profits.

He had often seen a neat little trading sloop, named the Swallow, sailing in and out of the harbor, and, on the morning in question, she was moored at his father’s wharf. As Tom stood looking at her, admiring the graceful manner in which she rode the little swells that came rolling into the harbor, he resolved that the first money he made should be devoted to buying a sloop exactly like that. Then the object of his ambition would be realized, for he would be the master of his own vessel. Tom was elated with the idea, and to enable him to think the matter over to the best advantage, he went into a store close by, and invested twenty cents in candy. He then returned to the wharf, where he sat watching the sloop, until he saw his father leave his office at noon.

The day was a long one to Tom, for he was impatient for five o’clock to come, that he might transact his business with Bob Jennings. In order that he might make the time pass more quickly, he employed himself in eating candy, apples, and nuts, and in this way he managed to spend a dollar and a quarter. During the afternoon he met several boys of his acquaintance on the streets, and to them he explained his business in the most glowing language, and even conducted them to the wharf, to show them the sloop which was to serve as a model for the one he intended to build. All his playmates looked upon him as a “lucky boy;” and even Tom began to think that the object he had in view was really worth working for.