Go-Ahead; Or, The Fisher-Boy's Motto

by Harry Castlemon

"Well, I am a little afraid of you," was the reply. "You didn't get the yacht after all. Those academy fellows seem to be delighted with her."

"They had better use her while they can," answered Tom, shaking his head threateningly. "They will not have her very long. I suppose you don't want any thing more to do with my plans?"

"No, I believe not. Money is what I need now, and I can make more by sawing wood than I can by helping you in your grand schemes."

"Stick to it, then," said Tom, angrily. "I hope you will be a poor man as long as you live. Look out for me, now. You are going back on me like all the rest of the Spooneys, and I'll be sure to get even with you."

The fisher-boy did not quite understand this last remark; but, before he had time to ask any questions, Tom had walked to the edge of the wharf, and was beckoning to Sam Barton. When the yawl came up, he climbed down into it, and was ferried across the harbor. He did not get out, however, when he reached the opposite side, but sat in the boat and held a long and earnest conversation with Sam. Bob, who had watched all these movements, thought he must have been telling him some secret; for, when two or three of the ferry-boys came up to hear what Tom was saying, Sam ordered them to go away and attend to their own business. Finally, the bully pulled the yawl under the wharf out of sight; and Bob, who kept one eye directed across the harbor, did not see them come out again until the six o'clock bell rang.

Since he had begun the work of retrieving his lost fortune, the fisher-boy had worked early and late. The first peep of day found him at his wood-pile, and, as the moon shone brightly every night, it was sometimes nine or ten o'clock before he left the wharf. He ate his breakfast before he started from home, and, in order that he might not lose a moment from his work, he brought his dinner and supper with him. He looked upon every instant of time as too valuable to be wasted, but the singular movements of Tom Newcombe had excited his curiosity, and for the next two hours his work progressed rather slowly. He wondered what his aristocratic friend had to say to that fellow! He was satisfied that Tom had some new idea in his head, but he could not imagine what it could be that he should need the assistance of Sam Barton in carrying it out. The only conclusion he could come to was, that Tom was trying to borrow ten dollars from the bully to send for the "lucky package." Sam was rich, as fortunes were measured in Fishertown, and it was not likely that he would refuse to accommodate Tom with a few dollars, believing, as he did, that he was able to pay him a big interest, and that there was no danger of losing it. If that was the object of Tom's interview with the bully he must have been successful; for, when the six o'clock bell rang, and Sam brought his passenger back to his own side of the harbor, Bob saw that he was in excellent spirits. He walked toward the office snapping his fingers and whistling a gay tune, and as he passed by the fisher-boy he shook his head at him, as if to say, "I am all right now!"

Bob worked late that night. Even after Mr. Henry had closed his store, and the wharf had been deserted by every body except Mr. Newcombe's night watchman, he kept busy in spite of his weary muscles and heavy eyelids. Besides being anxious to earn the twenty-six dollars, with which to settle his indebtedness to Mr. Graves, the fisher-boy had another object in working so late. He was punishing himself. Every time he stopped to wipe the perspiration from his face he would say:

"It serves you just right, Bob Jennings! I don't pity you in the least. You were well off in the world at one time. You had money in the bank, and were not ashamed to look any man in Newport in the face. Now look at you! Go to work, and don't be fooling away your time here!" Then Bob would put another stick of wood on his saw-horse, and his tired arms would drive the saw as if his life depended upon getting his pile of wood done in the shortest possible space of time.

About half-past nine o'clock the fisher-boy thought it time to go home. He ceased his work and stood looking at his pile of wood he had cut that day, when, upon raising his eyes, he saw a boy spring behind the corner of Mr. Newcombe's warehouse. Had this happened a month before, he would have paid no attention to it; but, as he had not yet given up all hopes of recovering the Go Ahead No. 2, nor forgotten that Sam Barton was his bitter enemy, and only awaiting a favorable opportunity to be revenged upon him, the simple fact of a boy dodging behind the warehouse was enough to arouse his suspicions. He had recognized the spy, and knew him to be one of the bully's particular friends; but what was he doing about the wharf at that hour, and why was he watching Bob? The fisher-boy was sure that he was watching him, or he would not have taken so much pains to keep out of his sight. He did not feel altogether safe for he was afraid that Sam and his band were lurking behind some of the neighboring buildings, intending to waylay him on his way home; in which case he would probably be very severely handled. They were five or six to his one, and if they were resolved to have a fight with him, he could not hope to come off unharmed. But Bob, knowing that he had never given Sam Barton, or any other boy about Fishertown, any cause for enmity, had no idea of standing still and allowing himself to be whipped. Without removing his eyes from the corner of the building where the spy had disappeared, he picked a small, round stick of wood from the pile, sawed it in two, and, after testing the strength of both pieces by pounding them upon the wharf, he shouldered the one he thought he could use to the best advantage in case of an attack, and set out for home. He walked along at a brisk pace, casting anxious glances around every corner he passed, and keeping a sharp lookout for enemies in the rear; but the only person he saw was the boy who had been watching him on the wharf, and who was now following him at a respectful distance. The spy's movements indicated that he did not wish to be seen. Every time Bob stopped and looked around, he would step into a door-way, or drop down behind a box or barrel on the sidewalk; and when the fisher-boy walked on, he would follow him as before. He performed his work in a very clumsy manner, for Bob saw every move he made; and, before he reached Fishertown, he had changed his mind in regard to the spy's object in following him. He was not awaiting an opportunity to signal to Sam Barton that the time had come for him to "get even" with his rival, but he was simply watching Bob to see that he went home. Now, why did he want him to go home? Undoubtedly, because his chief had some project in view, which he was afraid to attempt until he knew that the fisher-boy was in bed and asleep. This was the way Bob looked at the matter, and subsequent events proved that he was right.