'It wasn't mother's fault,' said Sam, who was by at the time, and knew all the circumstances.
'Whose fault was it then, you little vagabond?'
'I ain't a vagabond yet; but we shall all be soon, if you keep going to Grizzle's every day.'
Sam's father was utterly confounded; he took off his hat and sat down.
'What, are my children going to rise up against me? Go out of the house, sir.'
Poor Mrs. Oakum was in great trouble. Sam had said what was true; his father had, in a state of unconsciousness, left the flour at the mercy of the pigs; but she felt sorry that he had spoken, and Sam soon felt very sorry for it too; his conscience upbraided him; he went out of the house and kept as busy as he could, but he could not feel happy.
By little and little Oakum found out from his wife all about the meal; he was thoroughly ashamed, asked for another bag, and immediately took his hat and departed.
About the middle of the afternoon Sam sauntered along the shore to a large flat rock that stood just at the water's edge. He took a seat upon it, and with his eye stretched far over the beautiful bay, mused on his sad condition and hopeless prospects. Was life to be as it had ever been—a scene of idleness and want, a waste, with nothing to cheer or stimulate his youthful mind? without education (not being able even to read), without a trade, or the prospect of one, or any employment that offered the least inducement to exertion? His conscience sorely troubled him also on account of the disrespect he had shown to his father that morning; and as he mused, his excited feelings started the tears down his sunburnt face, and in the agony of the moment he exclaimed,
'I wish I was—'
'What do you wish?' said Ned Montjoy, as he stole up behind, and put his hands over Sam's eyes.