“I hope I shall not disappoint you, Mr. Huet.”
“Well, Robert, I will bid you good night and God bless you! We don’t know what lies before us, but if you succeed, I will take care that your career shall be a fortunate one.”
Robert walked slowly back to his humble home, almost wishing that the night were over and his journey actually begun.
There was but one way out of Cook’s Harbor—that is, by land. A stage left the village every morning for Kaneville, six miles distant, a small station on a road which terminated many miles away in Boston.
The stage started at seven o’clock, so Robert was forced to get up betimes, take an early breakfast and walk up to the tavern.
Mr. Jones, the landlord, was standing on the piazza when Robert made his appearance.
He had no proprietary right in the stage line, but the driver generally stopped overnight at the tavern and the horses were kept in his stable, so that he had come to assume a certain air of proprietorship.
As Robert was climbing up to take a seat by the driver Mr. Jones, with a frown, called out:
“Look here, you young rascal, come right down!”
“Why am I to come down, Mr. Jones?” said Robert independently.