CHAPTER XIII.
MR. NEWCOMBE'S PRESENT.
It was about two o'clock when Tom reached his home, and, during the next three hours, he lived in a state of mind that can scarcely be described. He remained in his room, pacing angrily up and down the floor, thinking over his numerous troubles, and conjuring up new schemes for the future—all the while watching the hands of the little time-piece that stood on the mantle as they moved slowly around toward five o'clock, the hour at which he expected to be summoned into the presence of his father. He was not sorry for any thing he had done—he still had too much confidence in his grand schemes for that—neither did he believe that there could be any thing wrong with the gentlemen in Baltimore; on the contrary, he still imagined them to be the most honorable of men—otherwise, they never could have built up so extensive a business. They were not to blame for his disappointment, for had they not told him that his letter had miscarried; that they had made every inquiry for it, but could not find it? Some dishonest post-office clerk was at the bottom of all his troubles! How Tom wished he had him there, locked up in his room with him! Wouldn't he pay him for all the misery he had caused him! He would beat him next time, for he would send his ten dollars by express.
Mr. Newcombe was on time that evening, for, just as the clock struck five, Tom heard his step in the hall. The unpleasant interview was not far distant, and Tom began to prepare himself for it by plunging his face into the wash-bowl, and trying to hide all traces of his tears. Scarcely had he performed this operation, when he heard his father calling him. Hastily drying his face upon the towel, he slowly descended to the library, where he found the merchant walking up and down the floor, with his hands behind his back.
"Close the door, Tom," said he, "and sit down; I want to talk to you."
Tom reluctantly obeyed, and Mr. Newcombe continued: "I have been down to the ship-yard to look at your new yacht."
"O, now, she doesn't belong to me yet!" drawled Tom, whirling his cap in his hand, and looking down at the floor.
"Why, I understand that she was built by your order," said the merchant. "I think she is a splendid little vessel. I admire your taste, but I should have been much better pleased if you had consulted me in the matter."
Tom looked down at the carpet, and had nothing to say. He thought that, if he had asked his father's advice, the yacht would not have been built at all.