When his cousin returned to Boston, Jerry grew lonesome, uneasy, and unhappy. He wanted to go to sea, or to travel over the country, or to live in some great city; anywhere, he thought, he could be happier than at home. His father would not hear a word on the subject, and his mother would not give the slightest encouragement to any such whims. So, at length, he concluded to shake off parental authority; and one Sunday morning, soon after the rest of the family started for church, he hastily gathered up a bundle of clothing, and set out on a longer journey than he then imagined.[1]
There was one act, connected with Jerry’s flight from home, which he had always regretted, and which, more than anything else, made him dread to meet his father. On going off, he took with him every cent of money in the house,—the allowance which Mr. Preston had left for the necessities of the family during his absence. Conscience began to reprove Jerry for his theft as soon as he had leisure to think about the matter, and he resolved to pay back the whole amount out of his first earnings. When, after a few days, his pockets were picked clean, and nearly every dollar of his mother’s money went into the hands of a second thief, the wickedness and folly of his own offence were still more deeply impressed on his mind. He came back to his father’s house not merely a runaway, but a thief.
Mrs. Preston, notwithstanding her reply to Jerry’s last question, had some slight misgivings in regard to the reception his father would give him. She knew that Mr. Preston, whatever he may have felt, had never manifested any relentings or parental yearnings toward his lost son in her presence, though she had been told that he had evinced some feeling when conversing about him with others. But, so far as she could judge, he had never forgiven his erring boy’s last offence. He seldom alluded to Jerry in the family, and when he did, he spoke of him only as a lazy, heartless, and ungrateful boy, who was bent on evil, and he was seemingly quite indifferent as to whether he ever came back again or not. Even when news came of the wreck of Jerry’s vessel and his supposed loss, he exhibited no feeling, though, for many days after, he was unusually silent and reserved, and seemed to take little notice of what was going on around him. From that day, he never alluded to his son, except once or twice, when he tried to convince his wife of the folly of expecting ever to see him again. The wayward boy was dead and buried to him, and, so far as human eye could see, few paternal sighs and tears were called forth by his untimely end.
The table was soon spread, and Jerry ate a hearty meal. How delicious mother’s light bread and sweet butter tasted to the hungry wanderer, so long used to the sailor’s coarse fare! And what a treat was a tumbler of new, rich milk, after drinking ship-water and sea-slops for over a year!
As soon as the family could all get together, after supper, Jerry spun his “yarn,” as he called it, and gave them a brief account of his adventures during the fifteen months of his absence. His narrative follows in the succeeding chapters.
CHAPTER II.
JERRY BEGINS HIS STORY.
“Now I’ll spin that yarn, if you would like to hear it,” said Jerry, after tea. “I suppose you don’t want to hear about the voyage out, for nothing very remarkable happened, only we came amazing near getting wrecked, and I believe I wrote you something about it.”
“Yes, begin at the beginning, and tell us the whole story,” said Emily, and Hattie seconded the request.