He was not ashamed of the fisherman’s business, but he felt qualified for something better. It did not escape his notice that most of his neighbors were illiterate men, who had scarcely a thought beyond the success of their fishing trips, and he had already entered so far into the domain of study and books as to feel the charm of another world—the great world of knowledge—which lay spread out before him and beckoned him onward. But he was not impatient.
“My duty at present,” he reflected, “Is to stay in Cook’s Harbor and take care of my aunt. I am young and strong, and I don’t mean that she shall want for any comforts which I can get for her.”
He soon learned, however, that there was one great mistake in his calculations.
Robert was sitting by the door reading, after his return from a fishing trip, about a week after his uncle’s funeral, when he heard the steps of some one approaching.
Looking up, he saw advancing toward their humble residence the stout, ponderous figure of Nahum Jones, the landlord of the village inn.
It was not often that Mr. Jones found his way to the beach. Usually he kept close to the tavern, unless he rode to some neighboring town. Therefore Robert was surprised to see him.
Nahum Jones nodded slightly, and, taking off his straw hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
“Here, you, Bob,” he said, “Is your aunt at home?”
“Yes, sir!” answered Robert, but not cordially, for he felt that Mr. Jones had been no friend of his uncle.
“Well, tell her I’ve come to have a talk with her, do you hear?”