“That’s true as gospel,” observed my father; “but still, if he had said nothing worse than that, I should not have minded.  I do think that Jack is now old enough to do something better; and I must say, I do not dislike his wishing so to do—­for it is begging for halfpence, arter all.”

“Well, boy,” said Peter Anderson, “suppose you leave your father and me to talk over the matter; and to-morrow, by this time, we will tell you what we think will be best.”

“Anything—­anything,” replied I, “but being a beggar.”

“Go along, you are a foolish boy,” said Anderson.

“I like his spirit, though,” said my father, as I walked away.

On the next day the important question was to be decided.  I did not go to the stairs to follow up my vocation.  I had talked the matter over with Virginia, who, although she did not like that I should go away, had agreed with me that she objected to my begging for money.  I waited very impatiently for the time that Anderson had appointed, and, at last, he and my father came together, when the former said: 

“Well, Jack, it appears that you do not like to be a waterman, and that you have no great fancy for a man-of-war, although you have a hankering for the sea.  Now, as you cannot cruise with your friend Spicer on the Spanish Main, nor yet be safe from impressment in a privateer or merchantman, we have been thinking that, perhaps, you would have no objection to be a channel and river pilot; and if so, I have an old friend in that service who, I think, may help you.  What do you say?”

“I should like it very much.”

“Yes, it is a good service, and a man is usefully employed.  You may be the means, as soon as you are out of your time, and have passed your examination, of saving many a vessel and more lives.  You have had a pretty fair education, indeed quite sufficient; and, as you will often be coming up the river, you will have opportunities of seeing your father and your friends.  If you decide, I will write at once.”

“It is the very thing that I should like,” replied I; “and many thanks to you, Anderson.”

“And it’s exactly what I should wish also,” replied my father.  “So that job’s jobbed, as the saying is.”

After this arrangement, I walked away as proud as if I had been an emancipated slave.  That very evening I announced my intention of resigning my office of “Poor Jack,” and named as my successor the boy with whom I had fought so desperately to obtain it, when the prospect was held out to me, by old Ben, of my becoming Poor Jack—­forever.

CHAPTER TWENTY

     Much ado about Nothing; or, a Specimen of modern Patronage.