“I understand,” said Tom.
“Then there is another way you might make something,” continued Mr. Newcombe. “Butter, eggs, potatoes, and chickens are cheaper up the coast a few miles than they are here in the village, and you might take a sail up there some day, purchase a cargo, and bring it down here and sell it.”
“I’ll do it!” exclaimed Tom, joyfully. “That’s just the very business I always wanted to go into. I’ll be certain to make lots of money; and it’s easy work, too.”
Mr. Newcombe resumed his paper, without making any reply; and Tom, being again left to his own resources, walked about the house so uneasy that he hardly knew what to do with himself—for, having determined upon his course, he was impatient to begin operations at once. It was then about nine o’clock, and, of course, too late to make arrangements for carrying out his new scheme that night; and after loitering about the house for half an hour, he went to bed, full of his glorious ideas for the future, and so restless that it was almost midnight before he fell asleep.
It may not be improper to remark, that the last plan suggested by Mr. Newcombe, was one which, if properly managed, Tom might have made profitable. Bob Jennings had often thought of it; and many a time, as he rowed by the merchant’s house, had he wished that he was the owner of a sail-boat like Tom’s, for then he would have turned trader; and two months’ work, he was confident, would have enabled him to lay by a sufficient sum to support his mother while he was gone on his first voyage. But, as it was, he was powerless. His old, leaky scow could not be trusted very far from shore, and thus Bob was obliged to lose one source of income—one that, under his control, would have yielded him more in one week than his fishing did in a month. Mr. Newcombe had consented to his son’s scheme, for the reason that he was in hopes that Tom, by being brought in contact with business men, might be made to see his deficiencies so plainly that he would be ashamed of them. He resolved to assist him, but, at the same time, to allow him full control of his business, so that when he failed (for the merchant fully expected that his scheme would result in failure) he could have no one to blame but himself.
The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Newcombe started for his office, and on the way, he stopped at a store, where he had a long conversation with the proprietor, after which he resumed his walk. A few moments afterward, Tom entered the store, and after the grocer had concluded his inquiries concerning his voyage, (a matter about which Tom said as little as possible,) he asked:
“Mr. Henry, what do you pay for fish?”
“What do I pay for them?” repeated the grocer. “Have you any to sell? Are you going into that business?”
“Yes,” answered Tom, with the air of one who was doing an immense trade; “I am a speculator.”