JERRY.
CHAPTER I.
THE RUNAWAY’S RETURN.
“I wish I could look out and see father coming; here it is the tenth of the month, and he ought to have got home a week ago. February, March, April, May,—it’s over three months since father went off, and he said he should be back by the first of May. I can’t imagine what has become of him. There’s the doctor coming, I believe. Yes, that’s his wagon. He’s got a man with him—who knows but it’s father? No, it’s a young fellow. I wonder who it is. He’s as black as an Indian; and he’s casting up sheep’s-eyes at me, too. Well, I don’t care for you, whoever you are.”
The doctor’s wagon stopped, and so did the busy tongue whose words we have been repeating. The doctor alighted, and walked into the house without ceremony; and Emily, the proprietor of the tongue aforesaid, flattened her little nose against the chamber-window in her efforts to look down upon the young stranger, who remained seated in the wagon.
“Why, it’s somebody that mother knows,” Emily added, after a few moments’ pause; “she has run out to the wagon, and she’s hugging and kissing him, and he kissed her! Oh, I know now who it is,—it’s Jerry! it’s Jerry!” and the girl, half crazed with excitement, jumped from her seat and ran to the door.
“I’m going, too,” said Harriet, her younger sister, springing toward the door.
“No,” said Emily, holding the door fast; “you mustn’t go now; it won’t do to leave the baby. I’ll come right back in a minute, and let you go.”
“I want to go now; mother told you to tend the baby,” replied Harriet, beginning to snivel.
“You may both go, children, and I’ll see to the baby,” said Dr. Hart, who suddenly opened the door upon them.
The two girls ran down-stairs as fast as possible, without stopping to thank the doctor for his kindness. And, sure enough, it was Jerry, their long-lost brother, who ran away from home fifteen months previous to this time, and had long been regarded as dead. He seemed very glad to see his sisters, and greeted them each with a good “sailor’s smack,” as he termed it.
“And so you thought I shouldn’t know you, sitting in the doctor’s wagon,” said Mrs. Preston. “Don’t you think it must be a queer mother that doesn’t know her own son?”
“That was the doctor’s notion; it wasn’t mine,” replied Jerry. “He overhauled me on the road, and offered to give me a ride; but he didn’t know me until I told him where I was going. He looked at me pretty sharp, and then says he, ‘Why, ain’t you Mr. Preston’s son?’ and I told him I believed I was. Then he said he had got to come here, to see the baby; but he told me I had better sit in the wagon while he was making his call, because everybody thought I was dead, and there would be quite a scene when I made myself known, and he didn’t wish to intrude upon it.”
“Your father thought you dead, but I never gave you up,” said Mrs. Preston. “Just as soon as I laid eyes on you I knew you. I asked the doctor whom he had got there, and he looked so queer when he said it was ‘a young friend of his from out of town,’ that I was certain then that it was you.”
Jerry now went up-stairs with his mother and sisters, and the doctor introduced him to his new brother, the baby, who had been quite ill, but was now getting better.
“You don’t seem to think much of your baby brother,” said Mrs. Preston, observing that he took but little notice of it.
“Yes, I do,” replied Jerry; “but I can’t help thinking about Mary. I didn’t know she was dead until Uncle Henry told me yesterday, and I can’t realize it. I keep looking around, expecting to see her; it doesn’t seem natural without her.”
The mention of the name of Mary brought a shade of sadness to every face, but no one seemed inclined to speak further of the departed. Jerry was more attached to Mary than to either of his other sisters. She was the youngest, and was but six years old when she died. Her death took place only a few weeks after Jerry left home; but as he had not heard of it, and always thought of her as living, it was nearly the same to him as though she had but just died.
The doctor soon withdrew, and Mrs. Preston went down to the kitchen to get something for Jerry to eat, for he had fasted since the night before, and it was now toward the middle of the afternoon. Jerry followed her, promising his sisters that if they would remain with the baby he would shortly return and answer the thousand questions they were so impatient to ask him. As soon as Jerry was alone with his mother, he commenced making a confession to her.
“Mother,” he said, “running away from home was the worst day’s work I ever did. I was a fool to do it, and I’ve got pretty well punished for it. You’ve no idea what a hard time I’ve had. I gave myself up for dead more than once; but I’ll tell you about that this evening, perhaps, when we’re all together. I meant to have brought money enough home to pay back what I took, but I lost everything when we were wrecked.”
“No matter about that,” said Mrs. Preston; “we never shall think of that again, so long as you have got home alive.”
“What do you suppose father will say to me?” inquired Jerry, with some hesitation; for he had serious doubts as to the kind of reception his father would give him.
“He will think you have risen from the dead; I don’t believe he has the least idea that you’re in the land of the living,” replied his mother, evading a direct answer to the question.
“Do you suppose he will be glad to see me?” inquired Jerry.
“Certainly I do; I can’t imagine how it could be otherwise,” replied Mrs. Preston. After a moment’s pause, she added, “Your father is peculiar about some things; he doesn’t always show his feelings. But I’ve no doubt he’ll be as rejoiced as any of us at your return, whether he says so or not.”
Jerry sat silently speculating upon this reply to his question, while his mother was busy in pantry and cellar, collecting all the good things in the house to prepare a feast for the returned prodigal. To tell the truth, he had serious doubts whether his father would be glad to see him, for he was a stern and seemingly cold man, who did not look with much charity upon the faults of others, and was slow to forgive those who had offended him.
Mr. Preston divided his time between farming and logging. In the summer, he carried on his farm, in the small and retired town of Brookdale. In the fall, he went into the forests in the northern part of Maine, where he usually remained until spring. A gang of men accompanied him, and they formed a camp in the woods, where they lived all winter in a very primitive way. Their business was to cut down trees, trim off the branches, and haul the logs to the river. On the breaking up of the ice in the spring, these logs were floated down the stream to the mill, where they were sawn into lumber.
It was during his father’s absence at the logging camp that Jerry ran away from his home. He was at that time nearly fourteen years old. He had for some time been growing lazy, restless, and unmanageable, so that his mother could not do much with him. His character had suffered greatly from intimacy with a cousin of his, about a year older than himself, named Oscar Preston. Oscar belonged in Boston, but falling into bad habits, his father thought it would benefit him to send him away from the city for a season. So he lived with his uncle’s family, in Brookdale, for several months. His character did not improve, however, and he was finally obliged to leave the State to avoid trial on a charge of setting fire to a wood-lot, his father at the same time paying over one hundred dollars, damages and costs, to effect his release.
When his cousin returned to Boston, Jerry grew lonesome, uneasy, and unhappy. He wanted to go to sea, or to travel over the country, or to live in some great city; anywhere, he thought, he could be happier than at home. His father would not hear a word on the subject, and his mother would not give the slightest encouragement to any such whims. So, at length, he concluded to shake off parental authority; and one Sunday morning, soon after the rest of the family started for church, he hastily gathered up a bundle of clothing, and set out on a longer journey than he then imagined.[1]
There was one act, connected with Jerry’s flight from home, which he had always regretted, and which, more than anything else, made him dread to meet his father. On going off, he took with him every cent of money in the house,—the allowance which Mr. Preston had left for the necessities of the family during his absence. Conscience began to reprove Jerry for his theft as soon as he had leisure to think about the matter, and he resolved to pay back the whole amount out of his first earnings. When, after a few days, his pockets were picked clean, and nearly every dollar of his mother’s money went into the hands of a second thief, the wickedness and folly of his own offence were still more deeply impressed on his mind. He came back to his father’s house not merely a runaway, but a thief.
Mrs. Preston, notwithstanding her reply to Jerry’s last question, had some slight misgivings in regard to the reception his father would give him. She knew that Mr. Preston, whatever he may have felt, had never manifested any relentings or parental yearnings toward his lost son in her presence, though she had been told that he had evinced some feeling when conversing about him with others. But, so far as she could judge, he had never forgiven his erring boy’s last offence. He seldom alluded to Jerry in the family, and when he did, he spoke of him only as a lazy, heartless, and ungrateful boy, who was bent on evil, and he was seemingly quite indifferent as to whether he ever came back again or not. Even when news came of the wreck of Jerry’s vessel and his supposed loss, he exhibited no feeling, though, for many days after, he was unusually silent and reserved, and seemed to take little notice of what was going on around him. From that day, he never alluded to his son, except once or twice, when he tried to convince his wife of the folly of expecting ever to see him again. The wayward boy was dead and buried to him, and, so far as human eye could see, few paternal sighs and tears were called forth by his untimely end.
The table was soon spread, and Jerry ate a hearty meal. How delicious mother’s light bread and sweet butter tasted to the hungry wanderer, so long used to the sailor’s coarse fare! And what a treat was a tumbler of new, rich milk, after drinking ship-water and sea-slops for over a year!
As soon as the family could all get together, after supper, Jerry spun his “yarn,” as he called it, and gave them a brief account of his adventures during the fifteen months of his absence. His narrative follows in the succeeding chapters.
CHAPTER II.
JERRY BEGINS HIS STORY.
“Now I’ll spin that yarn, if you would like to hear it,” said Jerry, after tea. “I suppose you don’t want to hear about the voyage out, for nothing very remarkable happened, only we came amazing near getting wrecked, and I believe I wrote you something about it.”
“Yes, begin at the beginning, and tell us the whole story,” said Emily, and Hattie seconded the request.
“It would take me more than a week to do that,” replied Jerry, “if I talked as fast as I could. I can’t tell the whole story now; but I’ll tell you about some of the most important events of the voyage, and save the rest for another time.
“Well, I went straight to Boston, after I left home, and the first thing I did was to try to get a chance to go to sea. As luck would have it, I fell in with the brig Susan, bound for Valparaiso, just as she was hauling off from the wharf. They had shipped a boy the day before, but he went ashore, and hadn’t come back, and the captain told me I might take his place. So I bundled right in, without stopping to think. I didn’t know the name of the vessel, nor where she was bound, nor what wages I was to have, nor anything else. I only knew I was going to sea, and that was all I cared about.
“Before I got out of sight of land, I began to be dreadful seasick; but it isn’t worth while to tell you about that now. And, if you’ll believe me, the very first job I had to do, on board the Susan, was to clear out the pigsty! and I had to do it every day through the voyage!”
“Why, do they have pigsties on board vessels?” inquired Harriet.
“Yes, sometimes,” continued Jerry. “But our pigs were not to be killed for fresh meat,—they were a choice kind, that somebody was sending out to Valparaiso for breeding. But I thought it was rather queer, after I had run away from home to get rid of such work, that I should have to feed pigs and clean out their pen at sea. And it wasn’t many days, I tell you, before I wished myself home again. Everybody, from the captain down, cursed and cuffed and kicked me, because I was so green,—just as if I ought to have known every rope of the brig, when I never saw a brig before. If I didn’t happen to do a thing just right, down would come a rope’s-end across my shoulders, as like as not; and if I dared to say a word, I would find myself sprawling on the deck the next minute. The men, too, played off all sorts of tricks upon me.[2] And then the living was enough to sicken anybody. It was salt beef and hard bread morning, noon, and night, and week after week, only, once in a while, we were treated with stewed beans or peas, or boiled rice, or duff,—a kind of pudding made of flour. And I wish you could have seen the place where we slept. The forecastle is the name of it. It was a little, narrow, dark, and dirty hole, with berths on the sides, like shelves, where the men slept. Why, our cock-loft is a perfect parlor compared with it.”
“No wonder you wished yourself home, poor fellow!” said Mrs. Preston.
“Well, after all, mother,” continued Jerry, “it wasn’t so dreadful bad, when a fellow got used to it. In a few weeks I kind of got the hang of things, and made the best of them, and after that I got along a good deal easier. My sea-sickness went off, and I could eat my allowance with the smartest of them, salt-junk or anything they’d a mind to bring on. The weather was fine for several weeks; we’d got into a warm latitude, and the old brig made a handsome run. There was one time that we didn’t shorten sail once for a week,—she kept right along on her course, with a fair wind, without starting tack or sheet. We had some rare sport, too, about that time. We killed a shark that was hanging around the brig, for one thing. One of the men heated a brick as hot as he could, and then wrapped it up in some greasy cloths, and chucked it to him. Sharks, you know, will jump at anything you throw at them, and this fellow smelt the grease, and down went the brick, before you could say Jack Robinson. And then you ought to have seen him thrash round. Why, it looked as if the water was boiling, where he was, he lashed it so, and the spray came down upon us like a shower. But in a few minutes it was all over, and his ugly carcass rose to the top and floated off.”
“Oh, that was cruel!” said Mrs. Preston.
“Well, mother, the sharks are cruel, too,” said Jerry; “and the sailors don’t have any love for them, I can tell you. The rascals would eat a man just as quick as anything else, if they could get a chance. They’d snap a leg off just as a boy bites a stick of candy, and they’d finish the rest of him in two or three mouthfuls.
“A day or two after that, we caught an albatross. There were several of them that had been following us three or four days. They are a curious bird. They are very large, and their wings opened from twelve to fifteen feet. We sailed at the rate of about two hundred miles a day, for several days running, and yet these birds kept up with us all the time. But they went more than double the distance that we did, because they kept making circles round us for miles, and then coming back in our wake. They follow vessels to pick up the stuff that is thrown overboard. One of our men baited a hook with a piece of salt pork, and towed it from the stern by a strong line. In a few minutes one of the birds swallowed the bait, and we pulled him on deck. He was a monstrous fellow, but he didn’t try to defend himself only by biting at us a little. He was so clumsy he couldn’t stand up on the deck. He had great webbed feet. The sailors began to skin his feet, to make purses, before the poor fellow was dead.”
“Oh, what hard-hearted wretches!” exclaimed Emily.
“Well, I must hurry along with my yarn,” said Jerry, “or I shan’t get through to-night. We crossed the line,—the equator, I suppose you call it,—and I was introduced to King Neptune, and was shaved and washed by him in great style; but I can’t stop to tell you about that, now. Every greenhorn has to go through the ceremony the first time he crosses the line. We didn’t have any very rough weather till after we had passed Cape St. Roque. Do you know where that is, Emily? Get your atlas, and I’ll show you.”
Emily brought her school atlas, and found Cape St. Roque, the extreme eastern point of South America, about five degrees below the equator.
“A day or two after we passed the cape,” continued Jerry, “it grew rough and stormy, and finally settled down into a regular gale. The sea ran as high as the mast-head, and I thought we should be swallowed up every moment. The brig lay down on her side so that you couldn’t stand still nor walk without holding on to something. The wind blew terribly, the rain poured down in torrents, the sea dashed over the deck, and every rope and plank seemed to creak as though the brig was just going to pieces. It was pretty shaky business, I can tell you, going up aloft then, and hanging to the yards and ropes, but we had to do it. And for two days we didn’t one of us get any rest or put on a rag of dry clothing. In the height of the storm, our maintop and topgallant masts, with the yards and rigging, came down with a crash to the deck, and nearly killed one of the crew. I thought our time had come then, certainly, but we cut away the wreck, and made everything all snug again. Soon after that, the captain discovered that we had sprung a leak, and all hands had to take their turn at the pumps. That came pretty hard, worn out as we were, but it was pump or sink with us, and there was no get-off.
“The next day after we sprung a leak, the gale began to die away, and our captain made up his mind to run into Rio for repairs. Do you know where that is, Emily?”
“Rio Janeiro? Yes; here it is,—it’s the capital of Brazil,” replied Emily, looking upon the map.
“That’s the place I wrote my first letter from,” resumed Jerry. “We lay by there about a week, and had a chance to go ashore. It was the last of March, but it was the latter part of their summer. When it’s winter here, it’s summer there. We had plenty of fruit while we stopped there,—such as oranges, plantains, pineapples, bananas, and mangoes. And the monkeys and parrots that we saw there I guess would have made you open your eyes. They say they grow wild in the woods there. Just as soon as we got anchored, the natives began to come out in canoes, with fruits and poultry and monkeys and parrots and all sorts of knickknacks, to sell. Rio looks real handsome from the water, but it’s a queer place when you get into it. The houses are high, and most of the streets are so narrow that two carriages can’t pass without running upon the sidewalk. The streets are full of slaves, and they seem to do all the work. You will see them with great boxes and bales on their backs, and they take the place of horses and drag heavy carts loaded with goods. A party of us walked out into the country one day; and such splendid forests as we saw I never had any idea of before. The trees were nearly all strange to us, and there was no end to the different kinds. Everything grows rank there. The woods were full of the handsomest birds I ever saw, and there was about every kind of insect that ever was thought of, I should think.
“After we left Rio, we made a pretty good run, until we got in the neighborhood of Cape Horn, and then we had a rough time of it for five weeks. It was about the first of May when we rounded the cape, which is the beginning of winter there. The days were short and cold, and we had gales and rain, snow or hail storms, pretty much all the time. It’s the stormiest place I ever got into. One night we saw a bright-red light in the west, that seemed to be only ten or twelve miles off; but the captain said it was all of a hundred miles distant. It was a burning volcano, in Terra del Fuego. The next day we saw land, for the first time since we left Rio. It was the coast of Terra del Fuego and Staten Land, and it was about as desolate a looking place as you can imagine. It was rocky, mountainous, and barren, and the sight of it was enough to give a fellow the blues.
“Cape Horn itself is a great black rock, high and steep, and extending out into the sea. We were within sight of it when we passed it. It is a terrible bleak place. We had about a dozen hail and snow storms that day, and they say it’s always rough there, where the two oceans meet. Our decks and shrouds and rigging were coated with ice, and the sails were as stiff as sheet-iron. We were all glad enough when we knew we were in the Pacific Ocean; but we hadn’t got through our troubles even then, for we had a very rough time, for two or three weeks, in sailing up the coast. About all the amusement we had at that time was catching cape pigeons, which followed us in great flocks. We caught them with a hook, just as we did the albatross. They look very much like our common pigeons, only they are web-footed.
“Well, at last we dropped our anchor in the bay of Valparaiso, in a little more than three months from the time we left Boston. Here it is,—it’s the capital of Chili,” added Jerry, pointing out its location on the map. “It isn’t so pleasant a place as Rio. The main part of the town is built along the beach, for about two miles. Right back of the city there is high land, where most of the foreign merchants live. There are three hills that rise above the southern end of the city, which they call the ‘Fore,’ ‘Main,’ and ‘Mizzen Tops.’ This is where the sailors go on their sprees, after they are paid off. They drink and fight and gamble and rob and commit every sin you can think of. I suppose some of the worst dens in the world are on those hills.”
“I hope you kept clear of such places,” said Mrs. Preston, rather anxiously.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid to risk me, mother,” replied Jerry; “I didn’t have much to do with them, I can assure you. I went around among them a little, just to see what sort of places they were, that’s all.”
“But you couldn’t go near such places without danger; it’s contaminating to approach them,” replied his mother.
“I don’t think they harmed me much,” continued Jerry; “but one of our crew got drunk, up on the Main Top, and was robbed of all his wages, and then pitched head-first down the precipice, and almost killed. I guess he won’t forget the Main Top very soon.
“When we arrived at Valparaiso, the crew were discharged; but the captain said he wanted me to stay with the brig, and so I did. We didn’t know where we should go next, as we had no cargo engaged. We some expected to go to San Francisco, but freights were dull, and after waiting about four weeks, the captain finally engaged a cargo of hides for Boston. It took about a fortnight to load and get ready for sea, so our whole stop in Valparaiso was about six weeks.”
Here we will pause, and resume Jerry’s narrative in the next chapter.
CHAPTER III.
JERRY CONTINUES HIS STORY.
“We sailed from Valparaiso on the 4th of July,” continued Jerry. “I was in hopes we should stay in port one day more, for the Americans were going to have a jolly celebration of Independence; but we were all ready, and the wind was fair, so we sailed early in the morning. It was the middle of winter, but we had not seen any ice, and it was about as warm as it is here in October. We soon got into colder weather, though. I remember one night, when we were a few days out, the air grew very cold, and we discovered an immense iceberg right in our track. It was all of a hundred and fifty feet high, above water, and I should think it must have been a mile round it. We made out just to clear it, and that was all. There had been a thick fog for a day or two before, and if we had come across the iceberg then, we should have gone pell-mell right into it, and I reckon that would have been the end of us. Perhaps it would have been better for us if we had run into it, for the weather was calm, and we were near the coast, and might have saved ourselves in the boats.
“We made a pretty good run down the coast till we got into the neighborhood of the Horn, and then our troubles began again. We were beating about, off the cape, for about a month, before we got around it; and all the time it was cold, stormy, and rough. It was more wintry, and the days were shorter, than when we first doubled the cape. But we finally got into the Atlantic, and began to steer north. We thought the worst of the voyage was over now, and we did have very good luck until we got into the latitude of the Rio de la Plata. Do you know where that is, Emily?”
Emily readily found the river on her map.
“It’s a stormy region,” resumed Jerry. “They have a terrible kind of tempest, called a pampero, and we got caught in one. The day before it broke upon us, the weather was fine and the sea quite calm. Toward night, red and angry-looking clouds began to gather in the west, and now and then there was a flash of lightning. A slight breeze sprung up, but the air was hot and stifling, and the captain said we should have a tough blow, and set us to taking in sail. The gale commenced about sunset, and such a gale I don’t believe any of us ever saw before. It was perfectly furious, and that doesn’t half tell the story. The thunder rolled awfully, without stopping for a moment. The lightning seemed almost to scorch us, it was so near and so sharp. The wind blew a hurricane, and the sea ran mountains high, and broke over the deck, sweeping off everything in its way.”
“Didn’t it rain, too?” inquired Harriet; “you didn’t say anything about rain.”
“Well, I don’t know whether it rained or not,” replied Jerry. “It was impossible to tell, the spray was dashing over us so, all the time. I suppose it did rain, though, and in torrents, too. After two or three hours, it was impossible to do anything. Two of the men were washed away from the deck and lost; and a fellow couldn’t keep on deck, unless he was lashed to something. The rigging began to blow away like cobwebs, and we lost most of our sails and spars, and finally the head of the rudder and wheel were broken, so that we lost all control over the brig. Pretty soon after this, she canted over on her beam-ends, so that the upper lee-rail—the rail is the top of a vessel’s sides, that rises above the deck—was all of two feet under water.
“All hands were now called into the after-cabin, as that was the safest place. In the forecastle, where the sailors slept, the water was up to the lower berths. We were a sober set of fellows, then, I can assure you. There we were, huddled together, expecting every moment to go down. Nobody said anything, but I guess most of us kept up a terrible thinking. I know I did, for one; I thought of everything I’d ever done. The captain kept watching the barometer, and down, down, down it kept going till after midnight. But at last it stopped falling, and in about an hour after that it began to rise. That was a sign that the worst of the storm was over; and we began to have a little hope, now, that we might escape, after all. Pretty soon the wind changed, and about daybreak the brig righted herself, and we went on deck to see how matters stood.
“Well, we found it was indeed a pretty sad case. The tempest was not so furious as it had been, but our brig was a complete wreck. Nothing was left of the foremast above the foretop, and the spars and rigging of the mainmast had all disappeared, and only a stump of the mast was left. The jib-boom was carried away and bowsprit sprung. The galley and poop were stove, too. We found there was four feet of water in the hold, and our water and provisions were nearly all spoilt. And, to crown all, we were drifting directly toward a reef, about two miles off, where the surf was breaking in a terrible fashion. Wasn’t that a pretty fix? The first thing the captain did was to try to mend the rudder; but we couldn’t do anything with it. Then he said we must abandon the brig or we should be dashed to pieces on the rocks.
“We had lost a small boat in the gale, but, luckily for us, we had two larger ones that were safe. We got these ready, and stowed away provisions, water, sails, and compasses, in them. Five of us then got into one of the boats, by the captain’s orders. The mate took charge of it, and the captain told him what course to take. The captain and the rest of the crew, and the three passengers that were on board,—nine in all,—took the other boat, which was a life-boat. Our boat came near getting swamped when we launched it, and, in fact, we expected to be dashed to pieces before we got clear of the brig. But, as good luck would have it, both boats got off from the wreck without losing a man.”
“Not good luck, my son,” said Mrs. Preston, “but good Providence; the hand of God was certainly in it.”
“Well, call it good Providence,—it’s all the same,” replied Jerry.
“No, no, don’t say so,” replied his mother, with a reproving look and tone; for she was pained to hear him speak so lightly of the Almighty One who had delivered him from his perils.
“As I was saying,” resumed Jerry, “both boats got clear of the wreck. We didn’t know exactly where we were, but we thought we were not within two or three hundred miles of the coast. The reef the brig was driving upon was a barren island. It was very rocky, and the cliffs rose up, almost perpendicular, nearly two hundred feet, I should think. There was no chance to land, that we could see, even if the weather had been calm. The brig drifted toward the island very fast after we left her, and the last we saw of her, she was thumping upon the rocks, and just ready to go to pieces.
“The weather cleared off finely after sunrise, and the change in the wind made the sea a good deal smoother, so that we could manage the boats pretty well. We saw two or three vessels the day before the hurricane, and we kept a sharp lookout, in hopes we should fall in with one of them. We pulled toward land, and kept within sight of the captain’s boat all that day; but the next morning we could see nothing of her, although we took the course the captain gave us. We concluded, at last, that they had gone down; but it seems they were picked up by a ship bound for New Orleans, three days after the wreck, and brought home. We didn’t know anything about that, however, till we got to Boston. And it seems, too, they thought we had gone down; for they say the ship cruised around a day or two, hunting after us, and they finally concluded we had gone to Davy Jones’s locker.”
“Where’s that?” inquired Harriet, reaching for the atlas.
“You won’t find it there, sis,—it’s in the bottom of the sea,” replied Jerry. “And, in fact, we did come pretty near going there,” he continued. “Our boat couldn’t stand a rough sea half as well as theirs, and if we hadn’t had two or three first-rate seamen, I don’t believe we’d have lived through it. As it was, we got drenched and almost smothered by the sea. All the bread we had was soaking wet with salt water, and we had nothing else to eat but a little junk and rice, and there was no chance to cook them. But the worst thing that happened to us was the losing of our compass. We lost it the first night out. A heavy sea broke over us, and carried away our rudder and one oar and several other things from the boat, among them the compass. We came very near broaching to and upsetting several times during the night, and although this was the second night we had been without sleep, we couldn’t get a moment’s rest, for it took all of us to manage the boat.
“The next day the sea was a good deal smoother, and we rigged up a mast and hoisted a sail, and steered with an oar toward land. From dawn till night we kept a sharp lookout for the other boat, but we didn’t see any signs of her, or of anything else. We got a little sleep, by turns, that day. The third day we began to feel rather blue. So much of our bread was spoilt that we put ourselves upon short allowance. We were sore and stiff and weak, and the sun beat down upon us hot enough to roast us almost. We kept straining our eyes all day, hoping to discover a sail, but we saw nothing. We didn’t look for land yet, for we knew we must be a great way from the coast.”
“You said you were only about two or three hundred miles from shore when you were wrecked,” remarked Mrs. Preston; “I should think you might have sailed that distance in five or six days.”
“I said we must have been at least two or three hundred miles from shore when we were wrecked,” replied Jerry, “but I didn’t know how much more. The pampero drove us out of our course, and the captain had no chance to take an observation, and find where we were, after the gale commenced. Besides, after we took to the boat, we didn’t make much progress. The first day, the sea ran so high that about all we could do was to keep the boat on the top of the waves. After that, we were so used up that we couldn’t row but little; and as our boat was an old tub of a concern, and we had but one small sail, and the wind was almost in our faces, no wonder we didn’t get along very fast.
“Well, we crept along in this way for about a week, and didn’t see the least sign of a sail until the morning of the eighth day. I shall never forget that day, as long as I live. About the middle of the forenoon, we discovered the least speck of a sail, away off in the east, and we soon found she was steering north. We hoisted a signal of distress, and began to pull toward her with all our might. You never saw fellows work harder than we did. A little while before, we could hardly handle an oar; but now strength seemed to come to us, and we pulled away as though we were as fresh and strong as need be. We kept it up for nearly three hours, but at last we found it was of no use, and gave up the race. The sail gained on us, and by noon she was out of sight.”
“Oh, that was too bad,” said Mrs. Preston. “Don’t you suppose anybody in the vessel saw you?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Jerry. “We didn’t get within four miles of them, and our boat was so small that they couldn’t have seen us unless they happened to turn their glass toward us. But it was a terrible disappointment to us. Some of the fellows raved like madmen, and cursed the vessel and everybody that was in it. Others were so down in the mouth that they couldn’t say a word. As for me, I actually went to crying,—a thing I hadn’t done before since the last time I”——
—“Got licked at school,” Jerry was about to add; but just then bethinking himself of sundry tear-drawing admonitions he had received in his earlier service on board the Susan, he concluded not to finish the sentence.
“Well, no wonder we acted strangely,” continued Jerry. “We were just as weak as children. As soon as we lost all hope of getting on board the vessel, our strength went off just as suddenly as it came. We thought we’d give up then,—we didn’t care what became of us. So we floated along, just where the wind and current carried us, the rest of that day and night. But the next morning we discovered an island, five or six miles off, and that roused us up a little. We steered toward it, and concluded we’d land and see if we could find anything to eat.”
Here a sharp and sudden cry from the baby, in the bedroom, called Mrs. Preston away for a few minutes, and interrupted the narrative.
CHAPTER IV.
JERRY ENDS HIS STORY.
As soon as Mrs. Preston had quieted the baby to sleep, she returned, and Jerry resumed his story.
“We had got almost to the island, when I stopped,” he continued. “We found it was a pretty mean-looking place. It was rocky and barren, and there were but few trees, and not much of anything that was green. It was about two miles long, and half a mile wide. We landed without much trouble, and pulled our boat into a safe place on the beach, and then scattered about to see what we could find. We were glad enough to stand on solid ground once more, I can tell you, even if it was a desolate island. We had been cramped up in the boat so long that we had almost lost the use of our legs; but we contrived to get along, after a fashion. We divided into three parties, and explored the island thoroughly. But we didn’t find much to reward us. The only living things we saw were a few sea-birds, which had their nests in the rocks on the south side. We did not find anything fit to eat, except some muscles, and a kind of crab, and the eggs of the birds. The mate had pulled up some roots, that he thought we could eat rather than starve, but they didn’t have a very inviting taste, and none of us knew but they were poisonous. We didn’t find any fresh water on the island.
“After we had all come together again, we talked over matters, and decided to camp on the island awhile, and watch for a sail. We were afraid we were off the common track of vessels. But this seemed to be the best thing we could do. We were nearly out of water, and our bread was about all used up, and we certainly could not hold out but a few days longer if we pushed out to sea. But on the island, with our crabs and muscles and eggs, we should not need much water, and could probably catch what we needed when it rained.
“So that very afternoon we set about building a hut, for shelter. Luckily, we had a couple of axes, and we cut down a lot of bushes and trees, and before night we had quite a comfortable place to sleep in. It was a great treat to stretch ourselves out on the leaves and go to sleep. But first we kindled a fire, and cooked some beef and rice, and then if we didn’t eat, no matter.”
“How did you get your fire,—by rubbing two sticks together, as they say the savages do?” inquired Mrs. Preston.
“No; we very fortunately had some friction matches,” replied Jerry. “One of our men was a great smoker, and about the last thing he did before we abandoned the brig, was to get all of his tobacco, and his pipe, and a bunch of friction matches, and stow them away in his pocket. That was all he saved from the wreck, and it was lucky for us that he saved so much, for none of the rest of us thought of matches. Well, as I was going to say, we had a grand night’s rest. The next day it rained, and about all we did was to catch a little water. We caught a few crabs and roasted them, and they tasted very well. We tried the muscles, too, but nobody seemed to think much of them.
“The next day we rigged a piece of sail to the end of a long pole, and set it up on the highest point of land, as a signal to vessels passing. We collected a lot of bushes, and leaves, too, so that we could make a bonfire in case we saw a sail, for we thought a smoke might be noticed, when our signal wouldn’t be. We treated ourselves to a few roasted eggs that day; but we found it wasn’t very easy or safe work getting them. Most of the nests were built among steep rocks, where it was almost impossible to get at them, without ladders and ropes, and the birds were so savage that it wasn’t safe to go near them without a club. They didn’t seem to be at all afraid of us, and wouldn’t stir from their nests when we went right up to them. I suppose they never saw any men on their island before, and didn’t know what they were. I thought I would just smooth down the feathers on the neck of one real handsome bird that I found near the bottom of the cliff, but she gave me such a poke with her beak that I almost wonder it didn’t break my arm. But she got paid for her impudence; one of the men brought a club and knocked her on the head, and we got three or four eggs from her nest, larger than ducks’ eggs.”
“Did you eat the bird, too?” inquired Harriet.
“No,” replied Jerry; “that kind of bird is a little too strong even for a sailor’s stomach. But I shan’t get through to-night, if I stop to tell you about all these little things. We kept a lookout for sails day after day, but didn’t see any. Every pleasant day we pushed our boat into the water, to prevent her drying up, and to have her ready for service at a moment’s notice; and every night we hauled her ashore, for fear of a sudden storm. Things went on in this way for about six weeks, when, one morning, we saw very distinctly a large vessel sailing south, several miles to the east of us. We lighted our bonfire, and in five minutes all hands were in the boat, pulling for dear life toward the vessel. Nobody said a word, but the men kept looking over their shoulders toward the vessel, as if they were afraid they should lose sight of it. We had our mast up, and a bit of sail-cloth flying at the top as a signal. We pulled away with all our might for fifteen or twenty minutes, I should think, till at last we got so near that we could see the vessel was a large ship. She had all sails set, but was going rather moderately, for the wind was light. We were still some distance in front of her, and were steering so as to head her off. We began to feel pretty lively now, and were putting in harder than ever, when all at once a fellow, who went by the name of Dick, pulled off his hat, and swung it over his head with one hand, while he kept his oar going with the other, and sung out,—
“‘Hurrah, boys! we’re safe! They see us, and have run up their flag as a signal to us!’
“None of the rest of us could see the flag, but as Dick was allowed to have the sharpest eyes in the crowd, we took his word for it; and, sure enough, it wasn’t but a few minutes before the ship changed her tack, and was sailing right toward us. If we didn’t cheer and laugh and swing our hats then, it’s no matter. I suppose we acted like a parcel of fools, but we couldn’t help it.
“Well, after we got over our excitement a little, we pulled away toward the ship, and pretty soon we were alongside of her. We found it was the ship May Queen, from New York for the Sandwich Islands. The officers and crew treated us first-rate. They gave us clothes, and plenty to eat, and told us we might stay on board till we got a chance to go home. They said they saw the smoke on our island, and that put them on the lookout. With the glass, the captain saw our signal on the hill, and pretty soon he discovered our boat pulling toward them. They didn’t know whether the rest of our crew had been picked up or not. They didn’t remember hearing anything about it.
“So we had got to go round Cape Horn twice more. That wasn’t very pleasant, but it was better than staying any longer on our little island. The captain promised to put us on board the first craft we spoke, bound home; but there was no knowing when we should meet anything. We had a rather pleasanter passage to the Cape in the ship than we did in the Susan. It wasn’t so stormy, and the weather was warmer, for it was the beginning of summer. We saw lots of floating ice, though, and we passed very near one immense iceberg that was bound north. The first vessel bound home that we saw was off Cape Horn, but the weather was so rough that we didn’t get a chance to speak her. That was quite a disappointment to us; but we had to get used to disappointments; for about a week after this, we saw another craft, and spoke her; but she was an English ship, bound to Liverpool, and as her captain didn’t seem at all anxious to take us with him, our captain concluded to keep us a spell longer.
“It was nearly a month before we spoke another vessel, and we were then pretty well up in the Pacific; in fact, almost up to the latitude of Valparaiso, though we were far to the westward of the coast. This time we spoke the barque Bride, bound from Honolulu to New York. The captain of the Bride said he’d take us, so the other captain had a boat launched, and sent us to the barque. We soon found that our berth on board the Bride wasn’t quite so pleasant as it was in the May Queen. The officers didn’t like to refuse to take us, I suppose, but I guess they thought we were more plague than profit. We did our share of the work, though, to pay for our grub, and were on good terms with the crew. And, after all, we had a pretty good time on the voyage home. We made a fine run round the Horn, and up the coast of South America, until we got to the equatorial doldrums. Do you know where that is, Emily?”
“No; I don’t think that’s on our map,” replied Emily.
“Well, it’s a narrow belt that stretches right across the Atlantic, from America to Africa, where it rains nearly all the time, and is almost always calm. It shifts about a little with the seasons, but is generally north of the equator, say from four to ten or twelve degrees. It varies in width, too. When we got caught in it, on our way home, it must have been seven or eight degrees wide. We were twelve days crossing it. It was cloudy every day, and such heavy, black clouds, too,—why, our thunder-storms in summer are nothing to be compared to them. We had a little deluge every day, with thunder and lightning, and sometimes a sudden squall, that would last an hour, and then all would be calm again. The air was so hot and suffocating that most of the men were about half sick, and some of our provisions were spoilt, too; but at last we got out of the doldrums, into the trade-winds, and though we had one or two gales after that, they were nothing to those tedious calms. We arrived at New York in good order, and I came right on to Boston the same day, with a free pass that the captain got for me. Several others of the Susan’s crew came with me. We called on the owners the next morning, and they were quite astonished to see us. They supposed we were dead, long ago. They asked each of us where we belonged, and gave us money enough to pay our fares.”
“And was that all?” inquired Mrs. Preston, with surprise.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Jerry; “and that was more than they were bound to do. Our wages were paid for the outward voyage, and as the vessel was wrecked on the homeward passage, we couldn’t claim anything more.”
“That seems hard,” continued Mrs. Preston. “They might have paid your wages up to the time the vessel was lost, and not felt it much, either, I dare say. I suppose they were insured.”
“That isn’t the custom,” replied Jerry; “if the vessel is wrecked, the sailor loses his wages. I thought I was lucky to get enough to pay my fare home. I called at Uncle Henry’s store, in Boston, the same forenoon, and he made me go home to dinner with him, all dirty as I was. I felt cheap enough; but aunt and the children were glad to see me, and treated me first-rate. I started for home by the steamboat, that afternoon, and the cars and stage brought me as far as the Cross-Roads. Nobody from this way was over there, so I concluded I had got to walk over; but soon after the doctor came along and picked me up,—and that is the end of my story.”
“And now,” said Mrs. Preston, “I hope you have had enough of going to sea, and will settle down on the farm, and be a sober and steady young man.”
“That’s just what I mean to do,” replied Jerry. “You won’t catch me going to sea again, you may depend upon that. It’s a regular dog’s life. If father’s willing, I’ll stay at home and work on the farm in the summer, and go logging with him in the winter. Or, if I can’t do that, I’ll learn a trade of some sort or other. Anyhow, I mean to do something to earn an honest living.”
Mrs. Preston said she was very glad he had come home with that resolution; and, after a few words of encouragement and advice,—the hour for retiring having arrived,—the family separated, and Jerry found his way to the well-remembered little bedroom, which he had always called his own, and which he found just as he left it, fifteen months before, with the same patchwork quilt of many colors, the same green-paper curtain at the window,—only a little less green,—the same substantial yellow chair, the same capacious horse-hair trunk in the corner, and the same little square of looking-glass on the wall, inclosed in a brown-paper frame.
CHAPTER V.
CLINTON.
Jerry had not been in town twenty-four hours before he found that he was decidedly a “lion,”—an object of general interest and attention. In the house, he could not stir without being followed by Emily and Harriet, who talked, thought, and dreamed of nothing but their wonderful brother Jerry. Their fondness was almost annoying to him. He was the hero, too, of all the town gossip. Everybody in that little community knew Jerry Preston, and his history,—how he grew up an idle and wayward boy, how he ran away to sea, and how he was shipwrecked, and, as everybody supposed, lost. And now almost everybody had heard of his sudden return. The good doctor distributed the news at several distant points, and from these it rapidly spread over all Brookdale. Jerry had several visitors the morning after his return, who came to satisfy themselves that the report was true. With these he chatted away the whole forenoon, relating his marvellous adventures and hair-breadth escapes. It was planting-time, and everybody was busy, otherwise his callers would probably have been more numerous.
Old Mr. Jenkins, who was Mrs. Preston’s man-of-all-work during the absence of her husband, was among the early callers. He lived in a little red house, a quarter of a mile distant, and usually came over every morning to take care of the cattle, and do any work that Mrs. Preston desired. He was in too great a hurry, this morning, to hear or tell any long stories, and seemed only to be thinking how he could turn Jerry’s arrival to some practical account.
“It’s too bad,” he exclaimed; “here are the folks all round got half through planting, and there isn’t a furrow turned in your father’s land, yet. I don’t see where he is. He never staid off so late before. Suppose he’ll be mad, when he gets home and finds nothing’s been done, but I can’t help it. I’ve had just as much as I could do to get my own land ready; I can’t shove off the work as I used to, twenty years ago. Besides, he didn’t say anything to me about ploughing or planting. It’s a great pity, though, to have things left so. I tell you what, Jerry, I don’t know but I might possibly squeeze out half a day for you, although I’m dreadful busy. You get the team ready, and I’ll try to run over, after dinner, and we’ll plough that lot on the side-hill, just beyond the brook, and manure it, and to-morrow you can put the potatoes in yourself. What do you say to that?”
“Perhaps father doesn’t intend to have potatoes there,” suggested Jerry.
“Well, I reckon he’d better have them there than have them nowhere,” replied Mr. Jenkins, not quite pleased with Jerry’s reluctance to accept his kind proposition. “But never mind,” he continued; “it’s nothing to me; I don’t care anything about it; I was only looking out for your father, that’s all;” and he hurried off to his work, without waiting for any further objections from Jerry.
The truth of the matter was, Jerry, with all his good resolutions, was not yet quite ready to go to work. It seemed to him a little too sudden a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous, to put his hands to the plough-tail and the manure-fork on the very day after he had astonished everybody by his return as of one from the dead. It was a little too soon to come down from his eminence as the “lion” of the day. He had rather be receiving congratulations and spinning sea-yarns, just then, than planting potatoes.
Among all the boys of Jerry’s acquaintance, there was no one he was so desirous of seeing as Clinton Davenport. Clinton was only a few months younger than Jerry, and had been his playmate almost from infancy. They were not much alike in disposition or character; but living near together, and there being no other boys of their age in the neighborhood, they became not only intimate, but strongly attached to each other. After dinner, Jerry went in search of Clinton. I have represented them as neighbors, but they lived half a mile apart. This distance, however, was thought nothing of in Brookdale,—there were few neighbors nearer than that. Jerry knew very well he should find Clinton at work somewhere on the farm, and he did. He was dropping corn, and his father was at work in the same field, covering the seed. They both gave Jerry a hearty greeting, and the two boys seemed about equally surprised at the growth and change which each marked in the other.
Clinton dropped his corn and chatted with Jerry until the last hill had received its seed; and then, with his father’s permission, he took a respite, and the two slowly walked off toward the house.
“I suppose you stick to work as closely as ever,” said Jerry.
“Well, yes, I don’t know but I do,” said Clinton; “but that isn’t saying a great deal. Take the year through, I suppose I don’t work much more than half the time. I fuss round in the shop a good deal, rainy days, and in the winter, but I don’t count that anything. I don’t believe I’ve done half the work you have the past year.”
“But you’ve got something to show for your work, while I haven’t got a cent,” added Jerry.
“That’s true,” replied Clinton; “I made out pretty well with my work last season,—put fifty dollars into the savings-bank in a single year.”
“You did!” exclaimed Jerry; “why, you must have quite a pile in the bank by this time; you had about a hundred dollars there, I believe, before I went off.”
“No; I haven’t got much in the bank; it’s less than two hundred dollars now,” replied Clinton.
“You’ll be a rich man, yet,” said Jerry, as if impressed with the magnitude of this nest-egg.
“I don’t know about that,” replied Clinton; “when I get a little more, I intend to spend the whole.”
“You do?” inquired Jerry; “what are you going to buy?”
“An education,” replied Clinton.
“Oh, going to college?” suggested Jerry.
“There, do you see that field, the next beyond the stone-wall?” inquired Clinton, suddenly turning the subject. “That’s my corn-field. I planted it last year, and raised over forty bushels of as handsome corn as you ever saw. Father gives me the use of the land, and helps me about the ploughing; and I do all the rest of the work, and find the manure, seed, etc., and have all I can make out of it.”
“Do you keep hens, still?” inquired Jerry.
“Yes; the hens and turkeys are mine, and I have all I can make out of them,” replied Clinton. “It’s almost six years since I began to take charge of the poultry. I make them pay me about twenty dollars a year.”
“I don’t see how you do it; father always said hens were more plague than profit,” remarked Jerry.
“It’s all in management,” replied Clinton. “They need considerable care and attention, and they won’t pay you any profit if you neglect them. But here we are, at the door; come in, and show yourself to mother.”
Jerry followed Clinton into the house, and was very cordially received by Mrs. Davenport. Clinton’s little sister, Annie, was also in the room; but, though she had once known Jerry, he seemed to have faded from her recollection, and she was rather shy of the big, brown-skinned boy.
“This is something new, isn’t it?” inquired Jerry, pointing to a neat trellis, in diamond-work, surrounding the back door-way.
“Yes; I made that last fall,” replied Clinton.
Jerry had seen too many evidences of Clinton’s skilful use of carpenters’ tools to be at all surprised at this statement. Mr. Davenport, who had formerly worked as a carpenter, had a great variety of tools, and there was a regular workshop in the rear of the house, where Clinton spent many pleasant hours. He and Jerry now directed their steps to the shop, where several other new specimens of Clinton’s mechanical skill, completed or in progress of manufacture, were examined.
“Did you go to school last winter?” inquired Jerry, after he had satisfied his curiosity.
“No; I had been through all the branches they studied, and father thought it would be of no use for me to go,” replied Clinton.
“I suppose you don’t have lessons to get at home, now, do you?” added Jerry.
“Oh, yes,” replied Clinton; “I study at home, just the same as ever. I’ve been through my arithmetic, grammar, and geography, pretty thoroughly; and now I am studying algebra, chemistry, natural philosophy, and composition.”
There was no school kept in Brookdale except during three months in winter. The population was so small and scattered that the people thought this was all they could do for the education of the children. Mr. Davenport, however, did not think this was enough. From the time Clinton was old enough to study, he had required him to commit a certain number of lessons daily, at home, when school did not keep, and to recite them in the evening. Clinton was a pretty good scholar, and in this way made considerable progress with his studies. He had actually outgrown the village school, when but little more than fourteen years old. There was not another young man in town, under twenty, who could boast of having done this. Jerry well remembered how he used to pity Clinton, because he had to study so much, while other boys were roaming about at their pleasure; and, at the mention of philosophy, algebra, and chemistry, something of the same old feeling came up in his mind. But the greatest wonder was, Clinton never seemed to know how badly he was used. He could not seem to understand that there was any hardship about it. He said he didn’t study any more than boys did who went to school the year round. Why, if you will believe it, he rather seemed to like his tasks! It was an enigma that Jerry never could comprehend.
“You said something, a little while ago, about my going to college,” continued Clinton, after a pause. “No; I don’t think of going through college, exactly; but one of these days, when I am old enough, and have got money enough to pay my way, I mean to spend a year or two in the Scientific School at Cambridge. That’s what I’m studying and saving up my money for.”
“I don’t see what you want to study so much for,” replied Jerry. “I’ve been thinking what I’d do with your money, if I had it. I’d buy a smart horse and a handsome wagon, and go round and peddle all sorts of things. I bet I’d make a good deal more money than you can here on the farm, and I wouldn’t have to work, either.”
Clinton could hardly help smiling at this remark, which so truly revealed the character of Jerry; but he merely added,—
“Well, that’s something I never thought of.”
“But I don’t believe that would suit you,” added Jerry. “I suppose you mean to be something more than common, don’t you?”
“Why, as to that,” replied Clinton, “I want to do the best for myself that I can, that’s all. I never expected to be a great character, or to cut a wonderful figure in the world, or anything of that sort; but I want to be a useful and intelligent man. To tell the truth, I can’t make up my mind what I do want to be, exactly. I used to think I’d like to be a merchant, if I could live in some great city, and do business on a big scale, and own ships and warehouses, and make plenty of money; but I’ve about given up that idea. I think now, sometimes, that I should like to be an architect, an engineer, or something of that sort.”
“What, an engineer on a railroad?” inquired Jerry, who supposed an engineer must be a man who runs a steam-engine.
“No; a civil engineer; a man that plans public works, such as roads and bridges and aqueducts and draining, etc.,” replied Clinton. “And then, again,” he added, “sometimes I think I’ll stick to farming; only I shouldn’t like to settle down in this little town. If I go into that business, I want one of those great farms out West, that we read about. But I don’t know; I can’t make up my mind what I do want to be. I mean to get the best education I can, though, and I’m not afraid but I can turn it to good account, when I do settle down in some business.”
It must be confessed that Clinton was rather ambitious. Though his preferences had not settled decidedly upon any profession, it was evident that he expected to make his mark in the world. His father sometimes tried to check this boyish ambition, so eager, exuberant, and all-confident; but, after all, he felt pretty sure that time would correct the fault, and that these ambitious dreams would, in a few years, be chastened down into a very proper and laudable spirit of thrift and enterprise.
“I suppose you’ve heard nothing from your father yet?” inquired Clinton, as Jerry was about leaving.
“No,” replied Jerry.
“Well,” added Clinton, “father and I were talking the matter over yesterday, and we came to the conclusion that if he didn’t get home this week, we’d go over to your place and put in an acre or two of corn and potatoes, just to get things started. Now you’ve come home, if we and Mr. Jenkins help you a little, perhaps you might get almost half the planting done before your father gets back. That would be a pleasant surprise to him, wouldn’t it?”
“Father’ll be home before next Saturday night; there’s no doubt about that,” was all the reply that Jerry made to this kind offer.
Clinton stood silent a moment, as if uncertain how to take these words, and then, calling after Jerry, who had now turned to go home, said,—
“If you should want any help, Jerry, let us know.”
FOOTNOTES
[1] For a fuller account of Jerry’s early career, and his flight from home, the reader is referred to the first and second volumes of this series, “Oscar” and “Clinton.”
[2] Probably Jerry’s “breaking-in” at sea was a little severer than it would have been if he had learned to obey at home. With his lazy and disobedient habits, no doubt it took some hard knocks to make him understand that no shirking was allowed on board the Susan, but that every order and every duty must be performed promptly and good-naturedly.
“Is this all?” we think we hear many an eager and deeply-interested, yet disappointed boy exclaim, as he arrives at this point of the volume. “Oh, it’s too bad to be cut short right in the midst of such an interesting story!”
The only reply to be made is, “A wise Providence has so ordered it;” and you can only be thankful that you have so much. The author had proceeded thus far with the volume completing the history of Jerry, when death closed his useful life, and he was transferred from the toils of earth to the rest of heaven. To make up for this deficiency, a Memoir of the Author, with a fine likeness, is added, which cannot fail to interest all the readers of the “Aimwell Stories.”