As the fisher-boy said this, he gave one parting glance at the schooner, and then turned his attention to the management of his scow. His feelings now were very different from what they had been when he began his voyage homeward, for the sneering remarks of the schooner's crew had aroused his pride and indignation. He was willing to admit that he was a ragamuffin, but he was determined that he would not always remain one. He was ambitious to be something better; and, like a sensible boy, he knew there was but one way for him to accomplish his object, and that was to work hard for it.
During the voyage homeward, Bob thought over his situation, and revolved in his mind numerous plans for future operations; but the only conclusion he could come to was, to "stick to his business" and do the best he could. He might have accepted a situation in some store; in fact, one or two had been offered him—for Bob, like every other honest, industrious boy, had plenty of friends—but that would not better his condition as far as money was concerned. His wages would amount to but a dollar and a half or two dollars a week, and at that rate he could not save a cent. Even fishing and ferrying were generally more profitable; for, although some weeks he would make scarcely enough to pay expenses, he would, at other times, clear three and four dollars, so that his mother could lay by something to increase their little fortune. His present "streak of bad luck" could not last always; it would soon change in his favor, and, until then, he would work on and hope for the best. There were numerous obstacles and discouragements in his way, and the greatest of them was the want of a good boat. The Go Ahead had done him considerable service, but she was so old and shaky that, with the exception of Bob, there was scarcely a boy in Newport who was brave enough to trust himself very far from shore in her. It was no wonder, then, that the ship-carpenters gave the fisher-boy a wide berth, and preferred Sam Barton's staunch yawl to his leaky scow. The question, How should he get a new boat? had troubled him for three months, and he was not yet able to answer it. At first he had thought of building one; but he had no money to buy the necessary material, and the planks and boards that got loose in the harbor were always picked up before Bob knew they were there. He could not buy a boat, for such a one as he wanted would cost twenty or thirty dollars; and where could he obtain so much money? This question perplexed Bob greatly, and now it seemed to trouble him more than ever. He did not recover his usual spirits again that afternoon, and, when he ran his scow upon the beach in front of his humble home, he wore an exceedingly long face, which told the family, as plainly as words, that his day's work had not been a profitable one.
"How many, Bobby?" asked his mother, appearing at the door.
"So many!" replied the fisher boy, inverting his basket, to show that it was empty. "I hope I shall have better luck to-morrow."
Bob threw his basket on the beach, pulled down his sail, and, after rolling it up, carried it around behind the house, and put it in its accustomed place. He then walked round to the other side of the cabin, and eagerly read some rude characters which he had cut in the boards, close up under the eaves. This was, no doubt, an unusual way to raise one's spirits, but it seemed to have that effect upon Bob, for he shook his head and whispered to himself:
"I'm not discouraged yet. If a boy lives up to that motto, he'll make a man of himself, I don't care how poor he is."
This was not the first time the fisher-boy had drawn encouragement and consolation from this same mysterious source, for, every day, after he returned from his fishing grounds, he would steal around behind the house to read his motto. If he had been unlucky, he did it to raise his spirits; and if he had been successful, he read it with a renewed determination to "stick to it." What it was that served to encourage him, no one about the house knew except himself. His mother had often seen the characters cut in the boards, but she could not read them, for they were so rudely executed that they bore but very little resemblance to the letters of the alphabet. Bob could use a pen or pencil very well, but he had never learned the art of engraving, and that was the reason no one could read the words he had cut in the boards.
"Yes, sir!" repeated Bob, "that motto will make a man of me yet, if I live up to it."
"Did you ever hear of a person who became rich by it?" asked one of his brothers, who had followed him behind the house.
"No, but still I believe it will work wonders."