CHAPTER V.

SETTING SAIL.

THEIR future constant companion joined the father and son, as might be expected, at Mooney's Tavern. He had no leave-takings to subdue the boisterous spirits in which he set out on an expedition that was to make a rich man of him. His brothers and sisters were married, and had lost all interest in him long ago. They were even glad that he would no longer be a daily disgrace to them. He was very grand with Mr. Gilman's money, and expected, of course, to drink to their success in a parting glass at Mooney's. He had drank to it so often already that morning, that it was doubtful whether he would be fit to start on the journey. It had the effect of making him unusually good-natured, fortunately, so that he took Mr. Gilman's refusal with only

the complacent remark, "more fool he." The stage did not make long stoppages so early in the day; away they drove again-the tavern, the post-office, the white meeting-house on the hill, disappearing in turn, and then the young traveller felt that home was really left behind.

He was very quiet, he could not help it.— The day was exceedingly cold, and the road, for miles together, dreary and uninteresting. The noisy laugh of Colcord troubled him, while he thought of his mother and the girls. This could not last long, as the stage filled up, stopping now at a farm house, where a place had been bespoken for its owner the day before, or receiving a passenger at some wayside tavern. Sam began to feel all the dignity of being a traveller himself, and particularly when he saw how much the strangers were interested, hearing that they were bound for California. Colcord talked to every one, and made himself out the commander-inchief of the expedition. He was going to "invest," as he called it; he expected to see the time when he could buy up the whole of an insignificant little village like Merrill's Corner !And then the most incredible facts were related,

exaggerated newspaper reports given, as having happened to the uncle, or cousin, or friend of the speaker. When they came to a tavern, Colcord was the first man out, strutting around the barroom, and asking all his fellow-passengers to drink with him. Even Mr. Gilman seemed ashamed of his partner, as he loudly proclaimed himself to be.

Sam went to bed at Concord that night, wondering if New-York could be larger, or have handsomer houses, and what they were doing at home. It seemed as if months had passed since bidding them good-bye. Then came the novelty of a railroad, the hurried glimpse at Manchester and Lowell, with their tall piles of brick and mortar, the loud hiss of steam, and clanking of machinery. How busy and restless all the world began to seem, and how far off the eventless village life, which had till now been a world in itself.

Colcord did not let them lose a moment's time. He had found out on the journey, that no ship was to sail from Boston for more than a week. A week, he said, would give them a long start; as they had the money, they might as well

push through to New-York, where whole columns of vessels were advertised.

The morning of the third day after leaving home, Sam found himself following his father and Colcord along the crowded wharves of this great city, going to secure their passage.

The "Helen M. Feidler," was the unromantic name of the ship Colcord had selected. She was to sail first, and the handbills pasted along the corners, described her as nearly new-fast sailing-with every possible accommodation for freight and passengers. The owners said she would make the voyage in half the usual time, and if they did not know, who should? In fact the clerk, or agent at the office, gave such a glowing account of her wonderful speed, the excellent fare, and the rush of people to engage their berths, that Mr. Gilman was all ready to secure three cabin vacancies that happened, by the most fortunate chance in the world, to be left. He had even taken out the old-fashioned leather pocket-book, in which the bills were laid, when he saw Colcord making signs to him not to be in too much of a hurry. The clerk assured them, his warm manner growing very cold and distant,

as he replaced his pen behind his ear, that the next day would probably be too late. Sam did not understand what Colcord said to his father, but almost as soon as they were in the street, they told him he had better stroll around and amuse himself; they were going to look at the ship, and see if all that had been said was true.

This was certainly very reasonable. Sam wondered, at the same time, what had made Colcord so suddenly cautious, and why they did not take him with them. However, he strolled along the wharves, where all was new to him; the inviting eating saloons, with their gayly-painted signs, the sailors in their blue and red shirts, and rolling gait, that came out and went into them, the tall warehouses of the ship-chandlers, with the piles of ropes, and what seemed to him rusty chains, and useless lumber, scattered about the lower floor. It was a bitter day, and seemed doubly cold and disagreeable in the absence of snow, which only was found in dirty and crumbling piles out on the wharves or along the edge of the frozen gutters. The signs creaked and clanked in the wind, that came sweeping with icy chillness from the river; and the bareheaded em