“Mr. Jennings, I am the captain of this vessel, and if I don’t know my own business, it is time I was discharged, and some better man put in my place. Don’t you suppose I can calculate figures? If I make three trips each week—and there is nothing to prevent it—and clear ten dollars each trip—and there’s nothing in the world to prevent that, either—won’t that amount to thirty dollars a week?” and thus Bob was silenced.
Captain Newcombe thoroughly discussed the subject in all its bearings, and he invariably arrived at the same conclusion—namely, that in a few weeks, he would be the owner of the Swallow, or of a sloop exactly like her. This made him more firm than ever in his belief that he was right in his calculations; “for,” said he, “if I was wrong, I wouldn’t get the same result every time, would I? Of course I wouldn’t.”
“Now, then, Bob,” he continued, “it’s a settled thing that I am to be a trader, and that I am to own a sloop exactly like the Swallow. I’ll need a crew, then, won’t I? How much will you take to go as my first mate? You and I can manage her.”
“Would I have regular work?” asked Bob.
“Yes; all you can do. When we are not off on a voyage, you’ll have to watch the vessel, keep her in order, and see that the tides, or a storm, don’t wash her ashore.”
“Well,” said the fisher-boy, after thinking a moment, “I’ll do it for fifty cents a day.”
“Fifty cents a day!” repeated Captain Newcombe, slowly. “That would be—let me see—how much a week?”
“Three dollars,” said Bob.
“That’s cheaper than I expected,” continued Tom. “That’s too cheap. I’ll give you seventy-five cents a day. Is that enough?”