Late the day previous a Cunard steamer arrived at its dock. Among the passengers were two of our acquaintances. One was Frank Hunter, our hero, sun-browned and healthy, heavier and taller, and more self-reliant than when, three months before, he sailed from the port of New York bound for Liverpool. The other no one can mistake. The blue coat and brass buttons, the tall and somewhat awkward form, the thin but shrewd and good-humored face, are those of Jonathan Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine.
"Well, Frank, I'm tarnal glad to be here," said Mr. Tarbox. "It seems kind of nat'ral. Wonder what they'll say in Squashboro' when they see me come home a man of fortun'."
"Your plow is a great success, Mr. Tarbox. You ought to be proud of it."
"I be, Frank. My pardner says he wouldn't take twenty thousand for his half of the invention, but I'm satisfied with the ten thousand he gave me. I didn't never expect to be worth ten thousand dollars."
"You'll be worth a hundred thousand before you're through."
"Sho! you don't mean it. Any how, I guess Sally Sprague'll be glad she's going to be Mrs. Tarbox. I say, Frank we'll live in style. Sally shall sit in the parlor, and play on the pianner. She wouldn't have done that if she'd took up with Tom North. He's a shiftless, good-for-nothin' feller. But, I say, Frank, what'll your folks say to see you?"
"Mother'll be overjoyed, but Mr. Craven won't laugh much. I hope," he added, gravely, "he hain't been playing any of his tricks on mother."
"Do you think that skunk, Sharpley, has got back?"
"I think he has, and it makes me anxious. Mr. Tarbox, will you do me a favor?"
"Sartin, Frank."