Calling Tom, they went down to the main deck, where the baggage had been placed.

“Now’s our time,” said he, as he proceeded to unlock one of the trunks that contained his books.  “Now or never.”

“I am with you,” replied Tom, catching the idea.

The books of the latter were in a box, and he was obliged to get a hammer to open it; but with Bobby’s assistance he soon got at them.

“Buy ‘The Wayfarer,’” said Bobby, when he returned to the saloon, and placed a volume in the hands of the yawning gentleman.  “Best book of the season; only one dollar.”

“That I will, and glad of the chance,” replied the gentleman.  “I would give five dollars for any thing, if it were only the ‘Comic Almanac.’”

Others were of the same mind.  There was no present prospect that the fog would lift, and before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty copies of “The Wayfarer.”  Tom, whose books were of an inferior description, and who was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of twenty, which was more than half of his stock.  The fog was a godsend to both of them, and they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, for almost all the passengers seemed willing to spend their money freely for the means of occupying the heavy hours, and driving away that dreadful ennui which reigns supreme in a fog-bound steamer.

About the middle of the afternoon, the fog blew over, and the boat proceeded on her voyage, and before sunset our young merchants were safely landed at Bath.

CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH TOM HAS A GOOD TIME, AND BOBBY MEETS WITH A TERRIBLE MISFORTUNE.

Bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their wares, and they remained there the rest of the week.  They then proceeded to Brunswick, where their success was equally flattering.

Thus far Tom had done very well, though Bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct himself in a proper manner.  He would swear now and then, from the force of habit; but invariably, when Bobby checked him, he promised to do better.

At Brunswick Tom sold the last of his books, and was in possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher who had furnished his stock.  This money seemed to burn in his pocket.  He had the means of having a good time, and it went hard with him to plod along as Bobby did, careful to save every penny he could.

“Come, Bob, let’s get a horse and chaise and have a ride—­what do you say?” proposed Tom, on the day he finished selling his books.

“I can’t spare the time or the money,” replied Bobby, decidedly.

“What is the use of having money if we can’t spend it?  It is a first rate day, and we should have a good time.”

“I can’t afford it.  I have a great many books to sell.”

“About a hundred; you can sell them fast enough.”