“I’m willing.”

“I shall leave Brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the river.  I hope no harm will befall you.  Good by, Tom,”

“Go it!  I have heard your preaching about long enough, and I am more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me.”

Bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk containing his books, while Tom made his way towards a livery stable.  The boys had been in the place for several days, and had made some acquaintances; so Tom had no difficulty in procuring a companion for his proposed ride.

Our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to Mr. Bayard, in which he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with Tom Spicer, and the success that had attended his labors.  At the bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it in the letter.

He felt sad about Tom.  The runaway had done so well, had been so industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been very much encouraged about him.  But if he meant to be wild again,—­for it was plain that the ride was only “the beginning of sorrows,”—­it was well that they should part.

By the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to Gardiner, passing through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very abundant harvest.  His usual success attended him; for wherever he went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as Squire Lee had declared they would be.  His pleasant, honest face was a capital recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the result which eloquence has ever achieved from Demosthenes down to the present day.

Our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him at Augusta.  He had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty dollars more to Mr. Bayard.  It was Wednesday, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for Boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day.

He had heard nothing from Tom since their parting, and had given up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the streets of Augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him—­and this time it was indeed a misfortune.

“Hallo, Bobby!” shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations.

“Ah, Tom, I didn’t expect to see you again,” replied Bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet his late companion.

“I suppose not; but here I am, as good as new.  Have you sold out?”

“No, not quite.”

“How many have you left?”

“About twenty; but I thought, Tom, you would have returned to Boston before this time.”

“No;” and Tom did not seem to be in very good spirits.