“No, he ain’t,” said Captain Folger; “he belongs to me. He can go to supper with Arthur, and he can dine to-morrow with you, Ned; but we are old shipmates, and the rest of the time he belongs to me.”
Captain Rhines, while at Mrs. Brown’s, proposed that the whole family should go down and live with him. But Mrs. Brown, who was a capable, energetic woman, many years younger than her husband, would by no means consent. She told him, in reply, that her daughters were doing well in their store; that though her husband left her no money, he had left the house clear of debt. That his nephew was learning a trade, and she was doing well keeping boarders, and could not consent, by any means, to live upon him, as she could not be happy in so doing; but as he had announced his intentions of helping Arthur to a vessel, she should feel under the greatest obligations.
Before leaving, he compelled her to accept a check upon Mr. Welch for two thousand dollars, made the girls a present of five hundred more, and a hundred to George Ferguson, the nephew, without which, he declared, he could not sleep nights.
Having accomplished this, he felt quite satisfied and happy; and began to talk with Arthur in relation to the intended vessel.
“What kind of a vessel do you want, Arthur, and what trade do you want to go into?”
“I should prefer, sir, always with submission to your better judgment, a sharp vessel, that will outsail the English cruisers, run the gantlet, and carry provisions and supplies to France. There will be risk, but I have an idea there will be corresponding profit.”
“That’s the talk, my boy,” cried the captain, delighted with a proposal so congenial to his own hardy and enterprising nature. “I only wish I was young enough to go into it myself. Now, if there’s a man in these United States that can build a clipper that will show a clean pair of heels to anything that swims, that man is Charles Bell.”
It was just after dinner, of a pleasant afternoon, Charlie and his wife were seated in the sun, in the barn-door, husking corn, the sharp click of a horse’s feet that overreached was heard.
“That’s father,” said Mary. “I know the click of the mare’s shoes.”
“Charlie!” shouted the captain, never stopping, till the mare’s feet struck the heap of corn in the floor, sending the kernels in Mary’s face, “grind your broad-axe. Arthur Brown wants a vessel that will show her heels to the English frigates, run the blockade, and make the sweat stand on a dolphin’s nose to keep up.”