“I wish thee’d never run away to sea,” said Tom’s mother.
“I wish so too,” said Tom; “but it can’t be helped now. I did run away to sea, and there’s an end of it.”
“Can’t thee find some way of making a living at home? Maybe Elihu Penrose would like thee better than he does if thee could stay at home, as other young men do.”
“How can I make a living at home?” said Tom, bitterly. “Can thee tell me of any way to make it?”
“No; but something might turn up.”
“I can’t wait for the chance of something turning up. I have seven hundred and fifty dollars to make in twelve months’ time.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. Tom sat beside his mother, and she was holding his hand and softly stroking it the while.
“Mother,” said Tom, at last.
“Well, son?”
“Does thee know what I’ve pretty well made up my mind to do?”