“The master asked him if I whispered to him; of course he ought not to lie about it.  But he told of you at the same time.”

“I know it; but I wouldn’t have licked him on my own account.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t.”

“I know I wouldn’t.  But, I say, Bobby, where do you buy your books?”

“At Mr. Bayard’s, in Washington Street.”

“He will sell them to me at the same price, won’t he?”

“I don’t know.”

“When are you going again?”

“Monday.”

“Won’t you let me go with you, Bob?”

“Let you?  Of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business.”

Bobby did not like the idea of having such a co-partner as Tom Spicer, and he did not like to tell him so.  If he did, he would have to give his reasons for declining the proposition, and that would make Tom mad, and perhaps provoke him to quarrel.

The fish bit well, and in an hour’s time Bobby had a mess.  As he took his basket and walked home, the young ruffian followed him.  He could not get rid of him till he reached the gate in front of the little black house; and even there Tom begged him to stop a few moments.  Our hero was in a hurry, and in the easiest manner possible got rid of this aspirant for mercantile honors.

We have no doubt a journal of Bobby’s daily life would be very interesting to our young readers; but the fact that some of his most stirring adventures are yet to be related admonishes us to hasten forward more rapidly.

On Monday morning Bobby bade adieu to his mother again, and started for Boston.  He fully expected to encounter Tom on the way, who, he was afraid, would persist in accompanying him on his tour.  As before, he stopped at Squire Lee’s to bid him and Annie good by.

The little maiden had read “The Wayfarer” more than half through, and was very enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure she derived from it.  She promised to send it over to his house when she had finished it, and hoped he would bring his stock to Riverdale, so that she might again replenish her library.  Bobby thought of something just then, and the thought brought forth a harvest on the following Saturday, when he returned.

“When he had shaken bands with the squire and was about to depart, he received a piece of news which gave him food for an hour’s serious reflection.

“Did you hear about Tom Spicer?” asked Squire Lee.

“No, sir; what about him?”

“Broken his arm.”

“Broken his arm!  Gracious!  How did it happen?” exclaimed Bobby, the more astonished because he had been thinking of Tom since he had left home.

“He was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on Sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird’s nest, he fell to the ground.”

“I am sorry for him,” replied Bobby, musing.

“So am I; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should have been, it would not have happened.  If I had any boys, I would lock them up in their chambers if I could not keep them at home Sundays.”