“What! black boots and saw wood!” exclaimed Tom, in utter amazement.
“Exactly!” was the answer.
“Then I can’t be a sailor. That’s settled. I can’t do such work. I wouldn’t mind going aloft; but I can’t black boots. Why can’t Bob White do it?”
The captain made no reply, but again turned his attention to his chart, while Tom helped himself to a chair, resolved, now that he was again safe in the cabin, to remain there. Once or twice, his eyes wandered to the captain’s boots, which had been placed just outside the door of his state-room, and to the brush and box of blacking that lay beside them; but he could not endure the thought of playing the part of a boot-black. He remembered a little negro boy he had often seen plying his trade on his father’s wharf, and he could not bear the idea of placing himself on an equality with him.
“Captain,” said Tom, at length, “must I black your boots?”
“I have nothing to say,” answered that gentleman. “If the second mate told you to do it, you must obey him, for I can’t countermand his orders.”
“Why didn’t he tell Bob White to do it?” whined Tom. “I can’t.”
“You can try,” said the captain.
“O, no, I can’t,” insisted Tom. “I never blacked boots in my life. It wouldn’t look well for me to do it. Send for Bob White. He’s the one that ought to do such work.”
“I have nothing to do with the matter,” repeated the captain. “And my advice to you is, to obey all orders you receive promptly, and to the letter. You will fare much better if you do.”