There was another boy who was very restless all that afternoon, and who, being unable to decide upon any better way of passing the time, kept trotting up and down the wharf. It was Tom Newcombe. To save his life he could not remain in the office more than ten minutes at a time, and it was only by an unusual exercise of will that he kept from telling his secret, confidentially of course, to every one he met. In one of his rounds he came across the fisher-boy; and knowing that he could sympathize with him, he kept him company during the rest of the afternoon.
"O how I do wish this week was gone," Tom would say, almost every five minutes, "and that we had an answer to that letter! I am in a great hurry to begin trading. I tell you, Bob, all the boys in the village will wish themselves in my boots when they see my new yacht."
To the fisher-boy's immense relief, half-past four came at last, and, bidding Tom good-by, he started for Mr. Graves's boat-yard. The proprietor was standing in the door of his office, and when he saw Bob he called out—
"Go and get her! She is all ready for you, and I think when you have tried her you will say that she is the finest boat you ever saw. Now, if you don't ruin Sam Barton by taking every one of his passengers away from him, I shall be sorry that I let you have her."
"If he wants customers he must work for them," replied Bob. "And now, Mr. Graves, if you will furnish me pen and paper, I'll give you my note."
The boat-builder laughed, and more to satisfy the fisher-boy than any thing else, he gave him a chair at his desk, and looked over his shoulder, as he dashed off the note in regular business style; promising, in ninety days from date, to pay James H. Graves twenty-six dollars, for value received.
"There!" said Bob, throwing the ink off his pen, and rising from the desk; "I think you will find that all right."
Mr. Graves put the note into his pocket, and conducted his customer to the place where the skiffs were anchored; and the first object upon which Bob's eyes rested was the Go Ahead No. 2, gracefully riding the little swells, and pulling at her moorings as if impatient to be off. A pair of strong oars, and a sail neatly rolled up, lay upon the thwarts, and her painter, which was long enough to serve as an anchor rope, was laid down in Flemish coil in the bow.
"Now, remember," said Mr. Graves, as Bob stepped into his skiff and began to hoist the sail, "your note will fall due in three months from to-day, and then I shall want the money."
"You need have no fears," replied the fisher-boy, promptly. "I promise you that every cent shall be paid up long before that time."