ten days later, having paid all our indebtedness and converted every ounce of our gold into ready money that was deposited to the credit of “perkins & steele,” at the bank, we started on what uncle naboth called our “voyage” across the continent.
we had both taken a strong liking for ned britton, who had stood by us so faithfully at the island; so mr. perkins decided to make ned the mate of the new ship, when she had been purchased. for this reason, and because the sailor wished to revisit some of his relatives in the east and make them happy by sharing with them his prize money, ned also traveled on the same train with us.
“britton’s judgment will be useful in helping us to pick out a ship,” said the old man. “i’m glad he’s going with us.”
nux and bryonia had promptly deserted the “flipper” as soon as they found that captain gay had purchased her, and i think my hardest task was to leave the simple black men behind me. they declared that they belonged to “the firm” and must be given places on the new ship, and this both uncle naboth and i were anxious to do, as we knew we could never again find such loyal and unselfish servants. but it would be folly to take them east until all arrangements had been made. so i found them comfortable lodgings, and supplied them with all the money they could possibly require until they were sent for. at the last moment they were at the station to see the train move away, and were so fearful of the iron monster that was to carry their friends on the journey that they cautioned me again and again to be very careful in my actions.
“’fore all, mars sam,” said nux, earnestly, “doan’ you go skeer dat injine on no ’count. w’en it’s skeert it smashes ev’ything into mush.”
“’pears gentle ’nouf now, sam,” added bry; “but don’ you trust it, no how. ’tain’t safe, like a great sail an’ a stiff breeze.”
“right you are, lad,” cried uncle naboth, approvingly. “injines is an invention of the devil, bry, but good christians can use ’em if they only watch out. an’ now, good-bye, an’ take care o’ yourselves till we get back or send for you.”
on account of our great wealth, mr. perkins had decided to take a tourist sleeping-car for the trip, rather than sit up in the seats of the common cars all night.
“sleepin’ cars is a genuine luxury, sam,” he said, “an’ only fit for the very rich, who’ve got so much money they won’t miss it, or the very poor, who’ve got so little there’s no use savin’ it. i guess we can afford the treat, and the bunks in this ’ere tourist car is jest as big as the ones in the high-priced coaches ahead. so as soon as we get clear of ’frisco, let’s go to bed.”
“but it isn’t dark yet, uncle,” i protested. “it won’t be bedtime for hours.”
“sam,” replied the old man, earnestly, “do you mean to say you’re goin’ to pay for a bed and let it lay idle? that’s what i call rank extravagance! i’ve seen it done, on my travels, o’ course. i’ve known a man to pay three dollars for a bed, an’ then set up half the night in the smokin’ cars before he turns in. but do you ’spose the railroad company pays him back half the money? never. they just laughs at him and keeps the whole three dollars! to pay for a thing, and use it, ain’t extravagance; but to buy a bed, and then set up half the night is. why, it’s like payin’ for a table-day-haughty dinner an’ then skippin’ half the courses! would a sensible man do that?”
“not if he’s hungry, uncle,” said i, laughing at this philosophy.
“if he ain’t hungry, he buys a sandwich, an’ not a table-day-haughty,” cried uncle naboth, triumphantly.
nevertheless, being fully conscious of my newly acquired wealth, i recklessly sat up until bedtime, while my thrifty uncle occupied his “bunk” and snored peacefully. the journey was accomplished in safety, and from boston we took the little railway to the seaport town of batteraft.
during the last hours of the trip uncle naboth had become very thoughtful, and i frequently noticed him making laborious memoranda with his pencil on the backs of envelopes and scraps of paper which he took from his wallet. finally i asked:
“what are you writing, uncle?”
“i’m jest jotting down the things i mean to say to that old female shark at batteraft,” was the reply. “i tell you, sam, she’s goin’ to have the talkin’-to of her life, when i get at her; and she’ll deserve every word of it. i’ll let you pay her first, so’s the money account will be square; an’ then i’ll try to square the moral account.”
“will she let you?” i enquired doubtfully, for i had a vivid remembrance of mrs. ranck’s dislike of any opposition.
“she can’t help herself,” replied uncle naboth, seriously. “if you knew the things she up an’ said to me that day i tackled her before, sam, an’ the harsh an’ impident tones she used to say ’em with, you’d realize how much my revenge means to me.”
“why didn’t you resent it then, uncle?”
“why, she took me by surprise, an’ i didn’t have time to collect my parrergraphs, and that’s the reason. also it’s the reason i’m figgerin’ out my speeches aforehand this time, so’s i won’t be backwards when the time comes. you can’t thrash the cantankerous old termagen’ like you would a man, but you can lash her with speeches that cuts like a two-edged sword. at sarcasm and ironical i’m quite a professor, sam; but them talents would be wasted on mrs. ranck. with her i’ll open my vials o’ wrath an’ empty ’em to the dregs. i’ll wither her with scorn, an’—an’—an’ tell her just what i think o’ her,” he concluded, rather lamely.
i sighed, for the mention of mrs. ranck always recalled to me the fate of my poor father. the landscape began to grow very familiar now, and presently the train swung into the little station where i had so often stood in my younger days to watch the passengers get on and off the cars.
ned britton at once walked on to the tavern, but as the afternoon was only half gone uncle naboth and i decided to go on up to my father’s old home without delay and have our carefully planned interview with mrs. ranck. the bank-notes i was to pay to her lay crisply in my new pocket-book, and i was eager to be free of my debt to the cruel woman who had aspersed my dead father’s character and driven me from my old home.
uncle naboth walked very fast at first, but while we ascended the little hill his pace grew gradually slower, and as we reached the well-remembered bench beneath the trees, from whence our first view of the cottage was obtained, my uncle suddenly set himself down and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the well-remembered crimson handkerchief.
“we’ll rest a minute, sam, so’s i can get my breath back,” he gasped. “i’ll need it all, presently, and hill-climbin’ ain’t my ’special accomplishment.”
so i sat down beside him and waited patiently, eyeing the while rather sadly the old home where i had once been so happy.
it seemed not to have changed in any way since i left it. the blinds of my little room in the attic were closed, but those of the lower floor were thrown back, and a column of thin smoke ascended lazily from the chimney, showing that the place was still inhabited.
in spite of myself i shivered. the autumn air struck me as being chilly for the first time, and the declining sun moved slowly behind a cloud, throwing the same gloom over the landscape that was already in my heart.
“are you ready, uncle?” i asked, unable to bear the suspense longer.
“jest a minute, sam. let’s see; the opening shot was this way: there’s folks, ma’am, that can be more heartless than the brute beasts, more slyer than a roarin’ tiger, more fiercer than a yellow fox, an’—”
“that isn’t right, uncle naboth,” i interrupted. “the fox is sly and the tiger—”
“i know, i know. them speeches is gettin’ sorter mixed in my mind; but if that she-devil don’t quail when she hears ’em, my name ain’t naboth perkins! perhaps i ought to have committed ’em more to memory—eh, sam? what do you say to waitin’ till tomorrow?”
“no, uncle. let’s go to her now. you can reserve your vials of wrath, if you want to; but i shan’t sleep a wink unless i pay mrs. ranck that money.”
“all right,” said the old man, with assumed cheerfulness. “there’s no time like the present. ‘never put off ’til tomorrer,’ you know. come along, my lad!”
he sprang up and led the way with alacrity for a few steps, and then slackened his pace perceptibly.
“if i’m goin’ to forget all them speeches,” he whispered, in a voice that trembled slightly, “i might jest as well have saved my time a-composin’ of ’em. drat the old she-pirate! if she wasn’t a woman, i’d pitch her into the sea.”
by this time i was myself too much agitated to pay attention to my uncle’s evident fright on the eve of battle. the house was very near now; a few steps further and we were standing upon the little porch.
“you knock, uncle,” i said, in a whisper.
uncle naboth glanced at me reproachfully, and then raised his knuckles. but before they touched the panel of the door he paused, drew out his handkerchief, and again wiped his brow.
i felt that my nerves would bear no further strain. with the desperation of despair or a sudden accession of courage—i never knew which—i rapped loudly upon the door.
a moment’s profound silence was followed by a peculiar sound. thump, thump, thump! echoed from the room inside, at regular intervals, and then the door was suddenly opened and a man with a wooden leg stood before us. he was clothed in sailor fashion and a bushy beard ornamented his round, frank face.
for an instant we three stood regarding one another in mute wonder. the open door disclosed the long living-room, at the back end of which mrs. ranck stood by the kitchen table with a plate in one hand and a towel in the other, motionless as a marble statue and with a look of terror fixed upon her white face.
singularly enough, i was the first to recover from my surprise.
“dad!” i cried, in a glad voice, and threw myself joyfully into the sailor man’s arms.
“why—cap’n steele, sir—what does this mean?” faltered uncle naboth. “i thought you was dead an’ gone, long ago, an’ safe in davy jones’s locker!”
