Now or Never; Or, The Adventures of Bobby Bright, Oliver Optic [short story to read TXT] 📗

CHAPTER XIII IN WHICH BOBBY DECLINES A COPARTNERSHIP AND VISITS B—— AGAIN

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