CHAPTER II.
THE FISHER-BOY.
THE house in which Tom lived stood on a hill that commanded a fine view of the village of Newport and the adjacent bay, and before it was a wide lawn, that sloped gently down to the water’s edge, shaded by grand old trees. On the day we introduce Tom to our readers, he had been sent out of the school-room in disgrace, not having mastered his arithmetic lesson. He lay at full length under one of the trees, stretching his arms and yawning, throwing his book about, and looking out over the bay at the vessels that were sailing in and out of the harbor. Now and then he would think of his lesson, but the thought was always dismissed with an impatient “O, I can’t learn it; I know I can’t, and what’s the use in trying?” But it was evident that he did not intend to abandon it altogether, for he would occasionally open his book and study for a few moments, with his mouth twisted on one side, as if he were on the point of crying. The fact was, Mr. Newcombe was present at the recitation that morning, when his son had made a worse failure than usual; and as he was about to leave the school-room, he turned to Tom and told him, in language too plain to be misunderstood, that if he “didn’t have that lesson by five o’clock that afternoon, he would get his jacket dusted in a way that would make him open his eyes.” Tom remembered the threat, and he would now and then turn to his task with a listless, discouraged air, as if he regarded it as far beyond his comprehension. His mind, as usual, was wandering off over the bay, and to save his life he could not learn the rule for addition.
His lesson, however, was not the only thing that troubled him just then; a more important matter was on his mind, and perplexed him exceedingly. He had that morning found an insurmountable obstacle in his path—one that shut him out from all hopes of ever becoming a sailor.
When the sight of that fine ship had again turned Tom’s attention to the sea, he laid a regular siege to his father, and tried every plan he could think of to obtain his consent to ship as boy on one of his vessels; and that morning he had asked permission to go out on the “Savannah,” a schooner that was to sail in a week or two.
Mr. Newcombe had, for a long time, patiently borne his fretting and teasing; and, finally, to set the matter at rest at once and forever, he said to Tom:
“My son, when you can add up a column of figures without counting your fingers, and can tell me the capital of every State in the Union, and where it is situated, you may go to sea. Now, wake up, and see if you can’t display a little energy. The Savannah will not sail under two weeks, so you will have plenty of time to do all this.”
“O no, father,” drawled Tom, (he always spoke in a very low tone, and so slowly that it made one nervous to listen to him,) “I can’t learn all that in two weeks. It’s too hard.”
Mr. Newcombe did not wait to hear what Tom had to say, but picked up his cane and started for his office, leaving his son pondering upon this new and wholly unexpected turn of events.