And from that hour, I believe, my mother was happy in her task of getting ready my sea-chest, putting in no end of pleasant little surprises for me, to be ready when I was in the far-off land.
Tom, too, was not forgotten, poor fellow, for he had no one to take tender notice of him.
“And it don’t matter a bit, Mas’r Harry,” he cried cheerily, “I don’t want a lot o’ things. One clean shirt and a pocket-comb—that’s about all a chap like me wants.”
But he was better provided than that, and at last, before a couple of months had passed away, our farewells were said and we started for Liverpool, in low spirits with our partings, but full of hope and eager ambition, since at the great western port we were to take our passage in one of the great steamers for the West Indies, where we would have to change into a smaller trading vessel which would take us on to Caracas.
“No soap-boiling out there, Mas’r Harry,” cried Tom cheerily; and he gave a long sniff as if to get some of the familiar old smell into his nose.
“No, Tom,” I replied quietly. “We are going to begin a new life now;” for the future looked to me a far more serious affair than I had imagined before in the midst of my sanguine aspirations and rather wild and dreamy ideas.