"No; that will not satisfy me. I want to know all about it."
Mr. Newcombe spoke these words rather sternly, and Tom knew that it was dangerous to hesitate longer. "I am going to get the money of some men in Baltimore," said he, the tears starting to his eyes again: "they have promised me five thousand dollars, if I will act as their agent."
"They are very liberal. What is their business?"
"Lottery business!" drawled Tom.
The merchant was really amazed now. He arose to his feet and walked up and down the floor, repeating the words over and over again, as if he could scarcely understand them. At length he stopped in front of Tom, and inquired:
"How did you find out that these men wanted an agent? Now, I want you to tell me all about it, from beginning to end."
Tom, as was always the case with him when called upon to explain any of his schemes to his father, had tried to avoid coming to the point. He did not want Mr. Newcombe to become acquainted with all his secrets, but, knowing by the latter's looks that it was time for him to speak if he wished to keep out of trouble, he began at the beginning and told the whole story. He said he had become tired of the office, but, being well aware of the fact that he could not get out of it until he should be able to satisfy his father that he had some better business in view, he had finally decided that the easiest occupation in which he could engage was trading. He determined to go into it on a grand scale this time, but, having no capital with which to carry out his plans, he had commenced reading the advertisements in the newspapers, in the hope of "getting an idea," and he had thus obtained the address of the proprietors of the lottery. (Here Tom produced their advertisement. He had carried it next to his heart for the last month.) He then went on to repeat what he had written in his letter to them, as near as he could remember it, and handed his father the one he had received in reply. He related the particulars of the interview with Bob Jennings, rehearsed the arguments he had used to induce him to advance the five dollars to send for the "lucky package," and told his father that he had then ordered the Storm King, because he believed that his fortune was made, and that, in a very few days, he would be the wealthiest boy of his age in the village. "And I would certainly have got the money," said he, in conclusion, "if some rascally post-office clerk hadn't stolen my letter."
Mr. Newcombe grew more and more astonished as Tom proceeded with his story, but he listened patiently to every word of it, and heard him through without interruption. It did not seem possible to him that a boy, fifteen years old, could seriously entertain such ridiculous ideas. For a long time he sat gazing at the letter, which he still held in his hand, then he read the advertisement, and finally he looked at Tom.
"Mr. Graves told me that you wanted him to credit you for two or three weeks," said he.