"Robert, have you seen anything of your uncle?"
"No, aunt."
"I suppose he's over at the tavern as usual," said the woman despondently. "He drinks up about all he earns, and there's little enough left for us. I hope you won't follow in his steps, Robert."
"You may be sure I won't, Aunt Jane," said the boy, nodding emphatically. "I wouldn't drink a glass of rum for a hundred dollars."
"God keep you in that resolution, my dear boy! I don't want my sister's son to go to destruction as my husband is doing."
My story opens in a small fishing village on the coast of one of the New England States. Robert Coverdale, whom I have briefly introduced, is the young hero whose fortunes I propose to record.
He is a strong, well-made boy, with a frank, honest face, embrowned by exposure to the sun and wind, with bright and fearless eyes and a manly look. I am afraid his dress would not qualify him to appear to advantage in a drawing-room.
He wore a calico shirt and well-patched trousers of great antiquity and stockings and cowhide shoes sadly in need of repairs.
Some of my well-dressed boy readers, living in cities and large towns, may be disposed to turn up their noses at this ragged boy and wonder at my taste in choosing such a hero.
But Robert had manly traits, and, in spite of his poor clothes, possessed energy, talent, honesty and a resolute will, and a boy so endowed cannot be considered poor, though he does not own a dollar, which was precisely Robert's case.
Indeed, I may go further and say that never in the course of his life of fifteen years had he been able to boast the ownership of a hundred cents.
John Trafton, his uncle, was a fisherman. His small house, or cabin, was picturesquely situated on the summit of a cliff, at the foot of which rolled the ocean waves, and commanded a fine sea view.
That was perhaps its only recommendation, for it was not only small, but furnished in the plainest and scantiest style. The entire furniture of the house would not have brought twenty-five dollars at auction, yet for twenty-five years it had been the home of John and Jane Trafton and for twelve years of their nephew, Robert.
My readers will naturally ask if the fisherman had no children of his own. There was a son who, if living, would be twenty-three years old, but years before he had left home, and whether Ben Trafton was living or dead, who could tell? Nothing had been heard of him for five years.
Mrs. Trafton's affections had only Robert for their object, and to her sister's son she was warmly attached—nearly as much so as if he had been her own son.
Her husband's love of drink had gradually alienated her from him, and she leaned upon Robert, who was always ready to serve her with boyish devotion and to protect her, if need be, from the threats of her husband, made surly by drink.
Many days she would have gone to bed supperless but for Robert. He would push out to sea in his uncle's boat, catch a supply of fish, selling a part if he could or trade a portion for groceries. Indeed he did more for the support of the family than John Trafton did himself.
"It's about time for supper, Robert," said his aunt; "but I've only got a little boiled fish to offer you."
"Fish is good for the brains. Aunt Jane," said Robert, smiling.
"Well, I suppose it's no use waiting for your uncle. If he's at the tavern, he will stay there until he is full of liquor and then he will reel home. Come in and sit down to the table."
Robert entered the cabin and sat down at a side table. His aunt brought him a plate of boiled fish and a potato.
"I found just one potato in the cupboard, Robert," she said.
"Then eat it yourself, aunt. Don't give it to me."
"No, Robert; I've got a little toast for myself. There was a slice of bread too dry to eat as it was, so I toasted it and soaked it in hot water. That suits me better than the potato."
"Haven't you any tea, aunt—for yourself, I mean?" Robert added quickly.
"I don't care for it, but I know you do."
"I wish I had some. Tea always goes to the right spot," said Mrs.
Trafton; "but I couldn't find a single leaf."
"What a pity!" said Robert regretfully.
"Yes," sighed Mrs. Trafton; "we have to do without almost everything. It might be so different if Mr. Trafton wouldn't drink."
"Did he always drink?"
"He's drank, more or less, for ten years, but the habit seems to have grown upon him. Till five years ago two-thirds of his earnings came to me to spend for the house, but now I don't average a dollar a week."
"It's too bad, Aunt Jane!" said Robert energetically.
"So it is, but it does no good to say so. It won't mend matters."
"I wish I was a man."
"I am glad you are not, Robert."
"Why are you glad that I am a boy?" asked Robert in surprise.
"Because when you are a man you won't stay here. You will go out into the world to better yourself, and I shan't blame you. Then I shall be left alone with your uncle, and Heaven only knows how I shall get along. I shall starve very likely."
Robert pushed back his chair from the table and looked straight at his aunt.
"Do you think. Aunt Jane," he demanded indignantly, "that I will desert you and leave you to shift for yourself?"
"I said, Robert, that I shouldn't blame you if you did. There isn't much to stay here for."
"I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Aunt Jane," said the boy gravely. "I am not quite so selfish as all that. I certainly should like to go out into the world, but I won't go unless I can leave you comfortable."
"I should miss you, Robert, I can't tell how much, but I don't want to tie you down here when you can do better. There isn't much for me to live for—I'm an old woman already—but better times may be in store for you."
"You are not an old woman, Aunt Jane. You are not more than fifty."
"I am just fifty, Robert, but I feel sometimes as if I were seventy."
"Do you know, Aunt Jane, I sometimes think that brighter days are coming to both of us? Sometimes, when I sit out there on the cliff and look out to sea, I almost fancy I can see a ship coming in laden with good things for us."
Mrs. Trafton smiled faintly.
"I have waited a long time for my ship to come in, Robert," she said.
"I've waited year after year, but it hasn't come yet."
"It may come for all that."
"You are young and hopeful. Yours may come in some day, but I don't think mine ever will."
"Have you anything for me to do, aunt?"
"Not at present, Robert."
"Then I'll study a little."
There was an unpainted wooden shelf which Robert had made himself and on it were half a dozen books—his sole library.
From this shelf he took down a tattered arithmetic and a slate and pencil, and, going out of doors, flung himself down on the cliff and opened the arithmetic well toward the end.
"I'll try this sum in cube root," he said to himself. "I got it wrong the last time I tried."
He worked for fifteen minutes and a smile of triumph lit up his face.
"It comes right," he said. "I think I understand cube root pretty well now. It was a good idea working by myself. When I left school I had only got through fractions. That's seventy-five pages back and I understand all that I have tried since. I won't be satisfied till I have gone to the end of the very last page."
Here his aunt came to the door of the cabin and called "Robert."
"All right, aunt; I'm coming."
The boy rose to his feet and answered the summons.
"Are you willing to go to the village for me, Robert?" asked his aunt.
"To be sure I am, aunt," answered the boy promptly. "I hope you don't doubt it?"
"I thought you might be tired, as you were out all the forenoon in the boat."
"That's sport, Aunt Jane. That doesn't tire me."
"It would if you were not very strong for a boy."
"Yes, I am pretty strong," said Robert complacently, extending his muscular arms. "I can row the boat when the tide is very strong. What errand have you got for me to the village, aunt?"
"I have been doing a little sewing for Mrs. Jones."
"You mean the landlord's wife?" questioned Robert.
"Yes; I don't feel very friendly toward her husband, for it's he that sells strong drink to my husband and keeps his earnings from me, but I couldn't refuse work from her when she offered it to me."
Mrs. Trafton spoke half apologetically, for it had cost her a pang to work for her enemy's family, but Robert took a practical view of the matter.
"Her money is as good as anybody's," he said. "I don't see why you shouldn't take it. She has enough of our money."
"That's true, Robert," said his aunt, her doubts removed by her young nephew's logic.
"Is the bundle ready. Aunt Jane?"
"Here it is, Robert," and the fisherman's wife handed him a small parcel, wrapped in a fragment of newspaper.
"How much is she to pay for the work?"
"I hardly know what to ask. I guess twenty-five cents will be about right."
"Very well, Aunt Jane. Any other errands?"
"If you get the money, Robert, you may stop at the store and buy a quarter of a pound of their cheapest tea. I am afraid it's extravagant in me to buy tea when there's so little coming in, but it cheers me up when I get low-spirited and helps me to bear what I have to bear."
"Of course you must have some tea, Aunt Jane," said Robert quickly.
"Nobody can charge you with extravagance. Anything more?"
"You may stop at the baker's and buy a loaf of bread. Then to-morrow—please God—we'll have a good breakfast."
"All right, aunt!" and Robert began to walk rapidly toward the village, about a mile inland.
Poor woman! Her idea of a good breakfast was a cup of tea, without milk or sugar, and bread, without butter.
It had not always been so, but her husband's intemperance had changed her ideas and made her accept thankfully what once she would have disdained.
It must be said of Robert that, though he had the hearty appetite of a growing boy, he never increased his aunt's sorrow by complaining of their meager fare, but always preserved a cheerful demeanor in the midst of their privations.
I have said that the settlement, which was known as Cook's Harbor, was a fishing village, but this is not wholly correct. A mile inland was a village of fair size, which included the houses of several summer residents from the city, and these were more or less pretentious.
Several comfortable houses belonged to sea captains who had retired from active duties and anchored in the village where they first saw the light.
The cabins of the fishermen were nearer the sea, and of these there were some twenty, but they were not grouped together.
I have said that the main village was a mile away. Here was the tavern, the grocery store and the shops of the tailor and shoemaker. Here was centered the social life of Cook's Harbor. Here, unfortunately, the steps of John Trafton too often tended, for he always brought up at the tavern and seldom came home with a cent in his pocket.
Robert was no laggard, and it did not take him long to reach the village.
Just in the center stood the tavern, a rambling building of two stories, with an L, which had been added within a few years.
During the summer there were generally boarders from the city, who considered that the invigorating sea air, with its healthful influences, counterbalanced the rather primitive accommodations and homely fare with which they must perforce be content.
By hook or crook Nahum Jones—or Nick Jones as he was called—had managed to accumulate a snug competence, but much of it was gained by his profit on liquor.
He was a thrifty man, whose thrift extended to meanness, and his wife was thoroughly selfish. They had but one child—a daughter—who bade fair to be an old maid.
Though Robert had made no objection to carry the work to the tavern, he didn't enjoy his visit in anticipation.
He disliked both Mr. and Mrs. Jones, but felt that this must not interfere with his aunt's business.
He went round to a side door and knocked. The door was opened by the daughter—Selina Jones.
"Well, Robert," she said abruptly, "what's wanted?"
"Is your mother at home?"
"I suppose she is."
"Can I see her?"
"I don't know—I guess she's busy. Won't I do as well?"
"I would rather see your mother."
Upon this Selina summoned her mother, not thinking it necessary to invite our hero into the house.
"Oh, I see!" said Mrs. Jones as she glanced at the bundle in Robert's hand. "You've brought back the work I gave your aunt."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Let me look at it."
She took the bundle, opened it and ran her eye rapidly over it.
"It'll do," she said. "Might have been better done, but it'll answer."
She was about to close the door, as if her business with Robert was at an end, but this did not suit our hero.
"It will be twenty-five cents," he said in a business-like tone.
"Were you afraid I would forget to pay you?" asked Mrs. Jones rather sourly.
"No, ma'am, but I supposed you would like to know how much it would be."
"Very well; now I know."
If Robert had been easily abashed he would have dropped the matter there and suffered her to take her time about paying, but he knew that his aunt's intended purchasing must be made with ready money and he persisted.
"I would like the money now," he said, "for I am going to the store to buy something."
"It seems to me you are in a great hurry," said Mrs. Jones unpleasantly.
"So would you be, Mrs. Jones," said Robert bluntly, "if you were as poor as my aunt."
"Folks needn't be poor if they are smart," said the landlord's wife.
"I suppose you know where my uncle's money goes?" said Robert pointedly.
Mrs. Jones did know, and, though she had not much of a conscience, she felt the thrust and it made her uncomfortable and therefore angry. But it also gave her an idea.
"Wait a minute," she said and left Robert standing in the doorway.
When she returned, which was in a short time, her thin lips were wreathed with satisfaction.
"You can tell your aunt there won't be any money coming to her," she said.
"Why not?" demanded Robert in great surprise.
"Mr. Jones tells me that your uncle is indebted to him, and he will credit him with twenty-five cents on account."
"What does my uncle owe him for?" demanded the boy with flashing eyes.
"For drink, I suppose," said Mrs. Jones rather reluctantly.
"For drink!" repeated our hero. "Are you not satisfied with taking all my uncle's earnings, but you must get my aunt to work her fingers to the bone and then keep back her money in payment for your rum?"
"Upon my word, Robert Coverdale," said Mrs. Jones sharply, "you are very impudent! How dare you speak to me in that way?"
"How dare you treat my aunt so meanly?" retorted Robert with righteous indignation.
"I won't stand your impudence—so there! Your aunt needn't expect any more sewing to do," said the angry landlady.
"She wouldn't take any more of your work if that is the way you mean to pay her."
"I won't stand here talking with you. I'll get Mr. Jones to give you a horsewhipping—see if I don't!"
"He'd better not try it," said Robert with flashing eyes.
The door was slammed in his face, and, angry and disappointed, he walked slowly out of the tavern yard.
John Trafton was sitting out on the porch of the tavern when his nephew came out of the side gate.
"There's your nephew, Trafton," said old Ben Brandon, who, like John Trafton, frequented the barroom too much for his good. "Hasn't come here for his dram, has he?" added the old man, chuckling.
John Trafton's curiosity was excited, for he had no idea of any errand that could bring Robert to the tavern. A suspicion crossed his mind, the very thought of which kindled his indignation. His wife might have sent to request Mr. Jones not to sell him any more liquor. He did not think she would dare to do it, but she might. At any rate he determined to find out.
He hastily left the porch and followed Robert. Presently the boy heard his uncle call him and he turned round.
"What's wanted, uncle?" he inquired.
"Where have you been, Robert?"
"I called to see Mrs. Jones."
"What did you want of Mrs. Jones?"
"It was an errand for Aunt Jane."
"Will you answer my question?" said Trafton angrily. "What business has your aunt got with Mrs. Jones?"
He still thought that his wife had sent a message to Mr. Jones through the wife of the latter.
"She had been doing a little sewing for Mrs. Jones and asked me to carry the work back."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said John Trafton, relieved. "And how much did the work come to?"
"Twenty-five cents."
"You may give me the money, Robert," said the fisherman. "You might lose it, you know."
Could Robert be blamed for regarding his uncle with contempt? His intention evidently was to appropriate his wife's scanty earnings to his own use, spending them, of course, for drink. Certainly a man must be debased who will stoop to anything so mean, and Robert felt deeply ashamed of the man he was forced to call uncle.
"I can't give you the money, uncle," said Robert coldly.
"Can't, hey? What do you mean by that, I want to know?" demanded the fisherman suspiciously.
"My aunt wanted me to buy a little tea and a loaf of bread with the money."
"What if she did? Can't I buy them just as well as you? Hand over that money, Robert Coverdale, or it will be the worse for you."
"I have no money to hand you."
"Why haven't you? You haven't had a chance to spend it yet. You needn't lie about it or I will give you a flogging!"
"I never lie," said Robert proudly. "I told you I haven't got the money and I haven't."
"Then what have you done with it—lost it, eh?"
"I have done nothing with it. Mrs. Jones wouldn't pay me."
"And why wouldn't she pay you?"
"Because she said that you were owing her husband money for drink and she would credit it on your account."
As Robert said this he looked his uncle full in the eye and his uncle flushed a little with transient shame.
"So aunt must go without her tea and bread," continued Robert.
John Trafton had the grace to be ashamed and said:
"I'll fix this with Jones. You can go to the store and get the tea and tell Sands to charge it to me."
"He won't do it," said Robert. "He's refused more than once."
"If he won't that isn't my fault. I've done all I could."
Trafton turned back and resumed his seat on the porch, where he remained till about ten o'clock. It was his usual evening resort, for he did not think it necessary to go home until it was time to go to bed.
Though Robert had no money to spend, he kept on his way slowly toward the village store. He felt mortified and angry.
"Poor Aunt Jane!" he said to himself. "It's a shame that she should have to go without her tea. She hasn't much to cheer her up. Mrs. Jones is about the meanest woman I ever saw, and I hope Aunt Jane won't do any more work for her."
It occurred to Robert to follow his uncle's direction and ask for credit at the store. But he knew very well that there would be little prospect of paying the debt, and, though a boy, he had strict notions on the subject of debt and could not bring his mind, even for his aunt's sake, to buy what he could not pay for.
When we are sad and discouraged relief often comes in some unexpected form and from an unexpected quarter. So it happened now to our young hero.
Walking before him was an elderly gentleman who had on his head a Panama straw hat with a broad brim.
He was a Boston merchant who was spending a part of the season at Cook's Harbor. As his custom was, he was indulging in an evening walk after supper.
There was a brisk east wind blowing, which suddenly increased in force, and, being no respecter of persons, whisked off Mr. Lawrence Tudor's expensive Panama and whirled it away.
Mr. Tudor looked after his hat in dismay. He was an elderly gentleman, of ample proportions, who was accustomed to walk at a slow, dignified pace and who would have found it physically uncomfortable to run, even if he could be brought to think it comported with his personal dignity.
"Bless my soul, how annoying!" exclaimed the merchant.
He looked about him helplessly, as if to consider what course it would be best to pursue under the circumstances, and as he looked he was relieved to see a boy in energetic pursuit of the lost hat.
This boy was Robert, who grasped the situation at once, and, being fleet of foot, thought it very good fun to have a race with the wind.
He had a good chase, for the wind in this case proved to be no mean competitor, but at last he succeeded and put his hand on the hat, which he carried in triumph to its owner.
"Really, my boy, I am exceedingly indebted to you," said Mr. Tudor, made happy by the recovery of his hat.
"You are quite welcome, sir," said Robert politely.
"You had a good run after it," said Mr. Tudor.
"Yes, sir; the wind is very strong."
"I don't know what I should have done without you. I am afraid I couldn't have overtaken it myself."
"I am afraid not," said Robert, smiling at the thought of a man of the merchant's figure engaging in a race for a hat.
"I could run when I was a boy like you," said Mr. Tudor pleasantly, "but there's rather too much of me now. Do you live in the village?"
"Out on the cliff, sir. My uncle is a fisherman."
"And do you ever fish?"
"Sometimes—a little, sir."
"But you don't expect to be a fisherman when you grow up?"
"Not if I can find anything better."
"A bright-looking lad like you ought to find something better. Please accept this."
He drew from his vest pocket a two-dollar bill, which he placed in
Robert's hand.
"What!" exclaimed our young hero in astonishment. "All this for saving your hat? It is quite too much, sir."
Mr. Tudor smiled.
"You will no doubt be surprised," he said, "when I tell you that my hat cost me fifty dollars. It is a very fine Panama."
"Fifty dollars!" ejaculated Robert.
He had not supposed it worth two.
"So you see it is worth something to save it, and I should undoubtedly have lost it but for you."
"I am very much obliged to you, sir," said Robert. "I wouldn't accept the money if it were for myself, but it will be very acceptable to my aunt."
"I suppose your uncle does not find fishing very remunerative?"
"It isn't that, sir; but he spends nearly all of his money at the tavern, and——"
"I understand, my boy. It is a very great pity. I, too, had an uncle who was intemperate, and I can understand your position. What is your name?"
"Robert Coverdale."
"There is my business card. If you ever come to Boston, come and see me."
Robert took the card, from which he learned that his new acquaintance was Lawrence Tudor.
When Robert parted from Mr. Tudor he felt as if he had unexpectedly fallen heir to a fortune. Two dollars is not a very large sum, but to Robert, nurtured amid privation, it assumed large proportions.
He began at once to consider what he could do with it, and it is to his credit that he thought rather of his aunt than himself.
He would buy a whole pound of tea, he decided, and a pound of sugar to make it more palatable. This would last a considerable time and take less than half his money. As to the disposal of the remainder, he would consider how to expend that.
In a long, low building, with brooms, brushes and a variety of nondescript articles displayed in the windows and outside, Abner Sands kept the village store.
It was a dark, gloomy place, crowded with articles for family use. The proprietor enjoyed a monopoly of the village trade, and, in spite of occasional bad debts, did a snug business and was able every year to make an addition to his store of savings in the county savings bank.
He was a cautious man, and, by being well acquainted with the circumstances and habits of every man in the village, knew whom to trust and to whom to refuse credit. John Trafton belonged to the latter class.
Mr. Sands knew, as everybody else knew, that all his money was invested in liquor and that the chance of paying a bill for articles needful for the household was very small indeed.
When, therefore, Robert entered the store he took it for granted that he meant to ask credit, and he was all ready for a refusal.
"What do you charge for your tea, Mr. Sands?" the boy asked.
"Different prices, according to quality," answered the storekeeper, not thinking it necessary to go into details.
"How much is the cheapest?"
"Fifty cents a pound."
"Do you call it a pretty good article?" continued our hero.
"Very fair; I use it in my own family," answered Abner, looking over his spectacles at his young customer.
"I guess I'll take a pound," said Robert with the air of one who had plenty of money.
"A pound?" ejaculated Abner Sands in surprise.
"Yes, sir."
A pound of tea for one in John Trafton's circumstances seemed to Mr. Sands an extraordinary order. Considering that it was probably to be charged, it seemed to the cautious trader an impudent attempt to impose upon him, and he looked sternly at our young hero.
"We don't trust," he said coldly.
"I haven't asked you to trust me, Mr. Sands," said Robert independently.
"You don't mean to say you're ready to pay for it cash down, do you?" asked Abner, his countenance expressing amazement.
"Yes, I do."
"Show me the money."
"I'll show you the money when I get my tea," said Robert, provoked at Mr. Sands' resolute incredulity. "I've told you I will pay you before I leave the store. If you don't want to sell your goods, say so!"
"Come, come! there ain't no use in gettin' angry," said the trader in a conciliatory tone. "Your trade's as good as anybody's if you've got money to pay for the goods."
"I've already told you I have, Mr. Sands."
"All right, Robert. You shall have the tea."
He weighed out the tea and then asked:
"Is there anything more?"
"Yes, sir. How do you sell your sugar?"
"Brown sugar—eight cents."
"I guess that will do. I will take a pound of brown sugar."
"Your folks don't generally buy sugar. I didn't know you used it."
"We are going to use a pound," said Robert, who did not fancy the trader's interference.
"Well, I'd jest as soon sell you a pound as anybody as long as you've got the money to pay for it."
Robert said nothing, although this remark was made in an interrogative tone, as if Mr. Sands still doubted whether our hero would be able to pay for his purchases.
There was nothing to do, therefore, but to weigh out the sugar.
The two bundles lay on the counter, but Mr. Sands watched them as a cat watches a mouse, with a vague apprehension that our hero might seize them and carry them off without payment.
But Robert was better prepared than he supposed.
From his vest pocket he drew the two-dollar bill, and, passing it across the counter, he said:
"You may take your pay out of this."
Abner Sands took the bill and stared at it as if some mystery attached to it. He scrutinized it carefully through his spectacles, as if there was a possibility that it might be bad, but it had an unmistakably genuine look.
"It seems to be good," he remarked cautiously.
"Of course it's good!" said Robert. "You don't take me for a counterfeiter, do you, Mr. Sands?"
"It's a good deal of money for you to have, Robert. Where did you get it?"
"Why do you ask that question?" asked our hero, provoked.
"I was a leetle surprised at your having so much money—that's all. Did your uncle give it to you?"
"I don't see what that is to you, Mr. Sands. If you don't want to sell your tea and sugar, you can keep them."
If there had been another grocery store in the village Robert would have gone thither, but it has already been said that Abner Sands had the monopoly of the village trade.
"You're kind of touchy this evenin', Robert," said Abner placidly, for he was so given to interesting himself in the affairs of his neighbors that he did not realize that his curiosity was displayed in an impertinent manner. "Of course I want to sell all I can. You've got considerable money comin' back to you. Don't you want to buy something else?"
"I guess not to-night."
"As long as you've got the cash to pay, I'm perfectly ready to sell you goods. Lemme see. Fifty-eight from two dollars leaves a dollar'n thirty-two cents."
"Forty-two," corrected Robert.
"I declare, so it does! You are a good hand at subtraction."
Robert felt that he could not truthfully return the compliment and prudently remained silent.
"There is your money," continued the trader, putting in Robert's hand a dollar bill and forty-two cents in change. "Your uncle must have been quite lucky."
He looked questioningly at our hero, but Robert did not choose to gratify his curiosity.
"Is it so very lucky to make two dollars?" he asked, and with these words he left the store.
"That's a cur'us boy!" soliloquized Mr. Sands, looking after him. "I can't get nothin' out of him. Looks as if John Trafton must have turned over a new leaf to give him so much money to buy groceries. I hope he has. It's better that I should get his money than the tavern keeper."
Mr. Sands did not have to wait long before his curiosity was partially gratified, for the very man of whom he was thinking just then entered the store.
"Has my nephew been here?" he inquired.
"Just went out."
"I thought you might be willing to let him have what little he wanted on credit. I'll see that it's paid for."
"Why, he paid for the goods himself—fifty-eight cents."
"What!" exclaimed the fisherman, astonished.
"He bought a pound of tea, at fifty cents, and a pound of sugar, at eight cents, and paid for 'em."
"Where'd he get the money?" asked Trafton.
"I am sure I don't know. I supposed you gave it to him. He's got more left. He paid for the articles with a two-dollar bill and he's got a dollar and forty-two cents left!"
"The young hypocrite!" ejaculated John Trafton indignantly. "All the while he had this money he was worryin' me for a quarter to buy some tea and a loaf of bread."
"Looks rather mysterious—doesn't it?" said the grocer.
"Mr. Sands," said the fisherman, "I've took care of that boy ever since he was three year old, and that's the way he treats me. He's a young viper!"
"Jes so!" said Mr. Sands, who was a politic man and seldom contradicted his neighbors.
"The rest of that money belongs to me by rights," continued the fisherman, "and he's got to give it to me. How much did you say it was?"
"A dollar and forty-two cents, John; but, seems to me, you'd better let him keep it to buy groceries with."
"I must have the money!" muttered Trafton, not heeding this advice, which was good, though selfish. "I guess I'll go home and make the boy give it to me!"
And he staggered out of the store, and, as well as he could, steered for home.
From the village store Robert went to the baker's and bought a loaf of bread for six cents, making his entire expenditures sixty-four cents.
He was now ready to go home. He walked rapidly and soon reached the humble cabin, where he found his aunt waiting for him.
She looked with surprise at the three bundles he brought in and asked:
"What have you got there, Robert?"
"First of all, here is a pound of tea," said the boy, laying it down on the kitchen table. "Here is a pound of sugar and here is a loaf of bread."
"But I didn't order all those, Robert," said his aunt.
"I know you didn't," answered her nephew, "but I thought you'd be able to make use of them."
"No doubt I shall, but surely you did not buy them all for twenty-five cents?"
"I should say not. Why, the tea alone cost fifty cents! Then the sugar came to eight cents and the loaf cost six cents."
"Mrs. Jones didn't pay you enough to buy all those, did she?"
"Mrs. Jones is about as mean a woman as you can find anywhere," Robert said warmly. "She didn't pay me a cent."
"Why? Didn't she like the work?"
"She said uncle owed her husband money for drink and the work would part pay up the debt."
But for the presence of the groceries, this would have had a discouraging effect upon Mrs. Trafton, but her mind was diverted by her curiosity, and she said apprehensively:
"I hope you didn't buy on credit, Robert? I never can pay so much money!"
"Mr. Sands isn't the man to sell on credit. Aunt Jane. No, I paid cash.
And the best of it is," continued our hero, "I have some money left."
Here he produced and spread on the table before his aunt's astonished eyes the balance of the money.
Mrs. Trafton was startled. The possession of so much money seemed to her incomprehensible.
"I hope you came by the money honestly, Robert?"
"What have I ever done, Aunt Jane, that you should think me a thief?" asked Robert, half amused, half annoyed.
"Nothing, my dear boy; but I can't understand how you came to have so much money."
"I see I must explain, aunt. A strong wind blew it to me."
"Then somebody must have lost it. You shouldn't have spent it till you had tried to find the owner."
"I'll explain to you."
And he told her the story of the lost hat and the liberal reward he obtained for chasing and recovering it.
"Think of a straw hat costing fifty dollars, aunt!" he said wonderingly.
"It does seem strange, but I am glad it was worth so much or you wouldn't have been so well paid."
"This Mr. Tudor is a gentleman, aunt. Why, plenty of people would have given me only ten cents. I would have thought myself well paid if he had even given me that, but I couldn't have brought you home so much tea. Aunt Jane, do me a favor."
"What is it, Robert?"
"Make yourself a good strong cup of tea tonight. You'll feel ever so much better, and there's plenty of it. A pound will last a long time, won't it?"
"Oh, yes, a good while. I shall get a good deal of comfort out of that tea. But I don't know about making any to-night. If you would like some——"
"If you'll make some, I'll drink a little, Aunt Jane."
Robert said this because he feared otherwise his aunt would not make any till the next morning.
"Very well, Robert."
"Don't let uncle know I've brought so much money home," said Robert with a sudden thought.
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want him to know I have any money. If he knew, he would want me to give it to him."
"I don't think he would claim it. It was given to you."
"I'll tell you why I am sure he would."
And Robert told how his uncle demanded the scanty pittance which he supposed Mrs. Jones had paid for the sewing.
Mrs. Trafton blushed with shame for her husband's meanness.
"Drink changes a man's nature completely," she said. "The time was when
John would have scorned such a thing."
"That time has gone by, aunt. For fear he will find out that I have the money, I believe I will go and hide it somewhere."