“Same as your brother Reuben did,” said my father. “Come, come, old lady, courage! We must look this sort of thing in the face.”
“And I’ll go out there, mother and see if Uncle Reuben will help me. If he can’t, I’ll try for myself, for I will get on; and some day, if I don’t come back a rich man, I’ll come back with a sufficiency to make the old age of both you and my father comfortable. Trust me, I will.”
For some few minutes there was very little breakfast eaten; but at last my father roused us up, talking quite cheerfully, and evidently trying to reconcile my mother to my going, and then we went on with the meal.
“So Tom wants to go with you, does he?” said my father. “Well, he’s a good, hard-headed sort of fellow, and likes you, Harry. He’d better go.”
“But isn’t he likely to lead poor Harry into mischief?” said my mother.
“No; he’s more likely to act as ballast and keep him from capsizing if he carries too much sail. Tom’s all right.”
My mother accepted the inevitable in a very short time, and soon began to talk as mothers do—that is to say, homely mothers—for almost as soon as she had wiped her eyes she exclaimed—
“Why, Harry, my dear, you must have at least six new shirts.”
“Must I, mother?” I said smiling.
“Yes, my son, and of the best and strongest stuff. I’m glad to say that I’ve just finished a couple of pairs of strongly-knitted stockings.”