THE wind being favorable, the little vessel, with all her sails set, glided rapidly away from the shore; and Bob, in obedience to the order of his employer, shaped her course toward a point about five miles distant, where Tom, in one of his sailing excursions, had seen a thrifty farm-house, at which he hoped to be able to purchase his cargo. Captain Newcombe remained standing on his quarter-deck, now and then looking up at the sails, as he had seen the skipper of the Savannah do, until the Mystery was fairly under way; then he seated himself in the stern-sheets, and began to talk with Bob; giving him some insight into his new plan of operations. From some cause or another, he always felt well satisfied with himself whenever he had any new project in view; and the present expedition seemed more to his liking than any thing he had ever before undertaken. As was invariably the case with him, he confidently expected unbounded success to attend his efforts, and he determined that, from that day forward, he would make regular trips up the bay. This resolution he communicated to Bob, and also began to explain to him the manner in which he intended to dispose of his profits.
“I shall make at least ten dollars to-day,” said he; “and, if I make three trips each week, and clear ten dollars each trip, that will be—that will be—let me see, how much?” (Tom never could calculate his expenses or profits by the day; he always wanted to know how much they would amount to in a week.)
“That would be thirty dollars a week,” said Bob, who was rather surprised at the magnitude of the young trader’s imaginary profits.
“So it would! And that would amount to—to—how much a year? Five hundred dollars, at least, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” answered the fisher-boy, who did not know how much it was best to assist Tom in his calculations. “It would make more than that.”
“Well, now, the Swallow cost about a hundred and fifty dollars,” said Captain Newcombe. “That’s lots of money; but if I made thirty dollars a week, I could pay for her in—in—a few months, couldn’t I?”
“Yes,” answered Bob, again. “It wouldn’t take long to pay for her at that rate.”
“Then,” said Tom, settling back on his elbow, “I have decided that I shall follow trading for a business. It’s easy work, and I know I shall be certain to succeed. Now, Bob,” and here he straightened himself up again, “when we get into port, I want you to call me captain. I am master of this vessel, you know; and if you intend to be a sailor, you might as well learn one time as another how to address your officers. I will call you Mr. Jennings, because you are my first mate.”
Bob thought this rather a droll proposition; but, as he could not well afford to offend his employer, who was paying him much more money for a day’s work than he could have earned by fishing, he promised obedience, and Captain Newcombe again returned to the subject of his profits. The amounts, according to Bob’s reckoning, greatly exceeded his expectations, and he did not wish to talk about any thing else. Once, the fisher-boy, who thought the young trader was placing his mark rather high—in fact, altogether too high—ventured to remark that “perhaps he wouldn’t make quite thirty dollars a week;” and Tom’s reply was: