“I am sorry you hit him, at the same time I suppose you meant to do me a service, and I thank you, not for the blow you struck the black boy, but for your good intentions.”

“That sounds better.  I meant well, Bob.”

“I dare say you did.  But how came you here?”

“Why, you see, I was bound to go with you any how or at least to keep within hail of you.  You told me, you know, that you were going in the steamboat; and after I left the shop, what should I see but a big picture of a steamboat on a wall.  It said, ’Bath, Gardiner, and Hallowell,’ on the bill; and I knew that was where you meant to go.  So this afternoon I hunts round and finds the steamboat.  I thought I never should have found it, but here I am.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Going into the book business,” replied Tom, with a smile.

“Where are your books?”

“Down stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, or whatever you call it.”

“Where did you get them?”

“Bought ’em, of course.”

“Did you?  Where?”

“Well, I don’t remember the name of the street now.  I could go right there if I was in the city, though.”

“Would they trust you?”

Tom hesitated.  The lies he had told that morning had done him no good—­had rather injured his cause; and, though he had no principle that forbade lying, he questioned its policy in the present instance.

“I paid part down, and they trusted me part.”

“How many books you got?”

“Twenty dollars worth.  I paid eight dollars down.”

“You did?  Where did you get the eight dollars?”

Bobby remembered the money Tom’s father had lost several weeks before, and immediately connected that circumstance with his present ability to pay so large a sum.

Tom hesitated again, but he was never at a loss for an answer.

“My mother gave it to me.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, sir!” replied Tom, boldly, and in that peculiarly bluff manner which is almost always good evidence that the boy is lying.

“But you ran away from home.”

“That’s so; but my mother knew I was coming.”

“Did she?”

“To be sure she did.”

“You didn’t say so before.”

“I can’t tell all I know in a minute.”

“If I thought your mother consented to your coming, I wouldn’t say another word.”

“Well, she did; you may bet your life on that.”

“And your mother gave you ten dollars?”

“Who said she gave me ten dollars?” asked Tom a little sharply.

That was just the sum his father had lost, and Bobby had unwittingly hinted his suspicion.

“You must have had as much as that if you paid eight on your books.  Your fare to Boston and your steamboat fare must be two dollars more.”

“I know that; but look here, Bob;” and Tom took from his pocket five half dollars and exhibited them to his companion.  “She gave me thirteen dollars.”