"The more's the shame for him, then," replied the little hero; "if he does tremble, and durst not go, I shall think him a lubber"—a word that Tom had learnt from the sailors, and, of course, was very fond of using: "the moon's at full, and we can see as well as by daylight to manage the net."
"Thou'lt be drownded, bairn," said the mother; "and, besides, the fish may be all gone from where thou saw 'em this morning."
"Not they," insisted Tom; "they're brits, mother,—fine large brits," he repeated, with sparkling eyes; "and you've heard my fayther say over and over again that flat fish stay in a snug bottom for days together. I saw 'em spread all along the far flat, within the sunk rocks, toward Donna Hook: they've found fine shelter, and plenty to feed on, no doubt, and they won't go away; they'll make pounds, mother—and we need money, you know, mother."
Tom's mother gazed at him with fond wonder: so much ardour, so much earnest zeal to benefit his parents, and brothers and sisters, in one so young—it was almost too much for her, and the tears rose, as she stood silently looking at her child, with one hand on his shoulder, and his eager, entreating eyes penetrating into her very soul to learn whether he would win her consent. He prevailed, however, and she heard the last footsteps of the old horse, as it slowly left the door of the cottage, with Tom and Jack on its back, and the net packed behind, with feelings of excited apprehension she had not felt since the first storm after her marriage, when her husband was out at sea.——
"What's that?" asked the father, half awaking at the sound of the horse's feet, and wondering that his wife was still up; but she rendered him some evasive answer, and continued darning one of the children's rent garments, telling him that she must have it done for the boy to put on in the morning. Leaving the reader to imagine the mother's agonising doubts and fears, and anxious listenings to the movement of every changeful sound of the night, let us attend to Tom and his brother, and their daring adventure. Not that it needs any expanded description,—for it was entered upon, and achieved, with all Tom's soul thrown into it, in such a way as to render it memorable to Jack's latest day, when Jack told it to his children. Jack was fearful enough at remaining alone in the boat to hand out the net by moonlight,—but Tom was dashing along on the old horse that was a good swimmer, and was not long in doubling and returning. Again and again was their swoop of the sea repeated, till their strength was well-nigh exhausted with toiling to carry on land their loads of fish. A mighty harvest from the great waters it was, to be reaped by the energy and intrepidity of a boy of twelve years old. The fish were concealed in a "crike" or small freshet, a little removed from the beach, where it was easy to form a dam; and with one good load upon the old horse, fastened in the folded net, the lads set off on foot, long before daylight, from the beach, and speedily were at their father's cottage-door with this earnest of their booty.
"Whoa hoa!" cried Tom aloud to the old horse, almost before it was time to stop; and his mother, who was already in front of her cottage, lifted up her closed hand, and shook it, and cried, "Hush, bairn,—whisht, whisht!—thy fayther will hear thee, and what's to be done then?"
But Tom was neither to be hushed nor whished. "Tell my fayther to get up, and take Dick and Will with him to fetch the rest o' the brits and rays, while Jack and I have some breakfast, for we are hungry above a bit," he said; and he tumbled the fish out of the net, and told his mother they had left ten times as many in the crike. What cared Tom whether his father felt inclined to scold or not? He knew that the booty would silently and overwhelmingly plead his pardon. And oh, the trembling joy and pride of the poor mother,—her thoughts of large pecuniary relief and admiration of her child's noble act, combining, and causing her to prattle with so much elation that she scarcely knew what she said!
Seven pounds, in sterling English money, Tom's poor father made of his child's night adventure: a sum he had never approached for one day's, no, nor one week's labour in his little boat, since he had possessed it. Need it be said that Tom's father was proud of him? He loved all his children: they and his wife were his jewels, his only idols in the world; and to picture truly his yearnings for their happiness, as he cast a thought towards his cottage, or counted his boys by their little red caps, toiling, meanwhile, afar off from the beach where the children straggled sometimes at great distances from each other, at their hardy employ,—to tell what truly exalted thinkings passed hourly through the mind of that poor fisherman, tossed upon the surge often a whole day without a fragment of gain, and yet clinging with glowing love to his wife and children on land,—oh, it would form a theme to kindle the sweetest eloquence of the gentle yet godlike Shakspere himself! But it was natural that Tom should become his father's peculiar pride, for he was, indeed, a child to be proud of.
It was, therefore, a melancholy sound, the first request of that heroic boy, when he became fourteen—a sorrowful note in the ears of his doting parents—that he might become a sailor, and leave them! The father and mother exchanged a dreary look, and said nought. It was a request they might expect, one day or other, for the lad had always raved about the darling life of a sailor, and he was now becoming of an age when it was fit he should enter on such a profession as he intended to follow for life: but yet they had always put the thought aside, and clung to the enjoyment of possessing such a son, and beholding him as "the light of their eyes," daily. Tom saw and felt what his parents endured when he presented his first request, and he did not renew it till another month had flown, and a Boston sloop was lying off the cockle-sands, laden with timber from Hull, when he again asked if he might go for a sailor. This time, however, the question was put under circumstances which seemed to soften the dread of separation. Boston was a Lincolnshire port, and a voyage thither and back, on trial, would soon be performed, so that they would soon see their darling again; and therefore his parents gave consent for Tom's departure.
The boy became as much the darling of the little crew in the sloop, during their brief voyage, as he had been of his father and mother. They gave him the name which stuck to him through life, as soon as they had heard his history, to which, indeed, they were scarcely strangers, for it was not the first time he had been on board their shallop. And "Cockle Tom" was proud to tell his new name when he saw his home again: it had been given him by sailors, and it was, therefore, more honourable in his estimation than knighthood or nobility given by a monarch would have been, had he known of either.