When they reached the store, Bobby went into Mr. Bayard’s private office and told him all about the affair.  The bookseller decided that Tom had run away more to avoid being bound to a trade than because his home was unpleasant; and this decision seemed to Bobby all the more just because he knew that Tom’s mother, though a drunkard’s wife, was a very good woman.  Mr. Bayard further decided that Bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be the companion of his journey.  He also considered it his duty to write to Mr. Spicer, informing him of his son’s arrival in the city, and clearing Bobby from any agency in his escape.

While Mr. Bayard was writing the letter, Bobby went out to give Tom the result of the consultation.  The runaway received it with a great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded to have the decision reversed.  But Bobby, though he would gladly have done any thing for him which was consistent with his duty, was firm as a rock, and positively refused, to have any thing to do with him until he obtained his father’s consent; or, if there was any such trouble as he asserted, his mother’s consent.

Tom left the store, apparently “more in sorrow than in anger.”  His bullying nature seemed to be cast out, and Bobby could not but feel sorry for him.  Duty was imperative, as it always is, and it must be done “now or never.”

During the day the little merchant attended to the packing of his stock, and to such other preparations as were required for his journey.  He must take the steamer that evening for Bath, and when the time for his departure arrived, he was attended to the wharf by Mr. Bayard and Ellen, with whom he had passed the afternoon.  The bookseller assisted him in procuring his ticket and berth, and gave him such instructions as his inexperience demanded.

The last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, and the great wheels of the steamer began to turn.  Our hero, who had never been on the water in a steamboat, or indeed any thing bigger than a punt on the river at home, was much interested and excited by his novel position.  He seated himself on the promenade deck, and watched with wonder the boiling, surging waters astern of the steamer.

How powerful is man, the author of that mighty machine that bore him so swiftly over the deep blue waters!  Bobby was a little philosopher, as we have before had occasion to remark, and he was decidedly of the opinion that the steamboat was a great institution.  When he had in some measure conquered his amazement, and the first ideas of sublimity which the steamer and the sea were calculated to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked forward to take a closer survey of the machinery.  After all, there was something rather comical in the affair.  The steam hissed and sputtered, and the great walking beam kept flying up and down; and the sum total of Bobby’s philosophy was, that it was funny these things should make the boat go so like a race horse over the water.