“I don’t know,” replied Bobby.  “I want to get back to Boston.”

“Perhaps I can put you aboard of some coaster bound there.”

“That will do nicely.”

“I will head towards Boston, and if I don’t overhaul any thing, I will take you there myself.”

“Is this boat big enough to go so far?”

“She’ll stand anything short of a West India hurricane.  You ain’t afeerd, are you?”

“O, no; I like it.”

The big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of water.  Bobby had unlimited confidence in Sam Ray, and felt as much at home as though he had been “cradled upon the briny deep.”  There was an excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys.

They ate their dinners from the provision box; Sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land.  Bobby felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but good-hearted friend They were now far out at sea, and the night was coming on.

“Now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn’t rest much last night.”

“I am not sleepy; but there is one thing I will do; and Bobby drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills.

“Put them up, sonny,” said Sam.

“I want to make you a present of ten dollars.”

“You can’t do it.”

“Nay, but to please me.”

“No, sir!”

“Well, then, let me send it to your good wife.”

“You can’t do that, nuther,” replied Sam, gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner ahead of him.

“You must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and I insist upon making it up to you.”

“You can’t do it.”

“I shall feel bad if you don’t take it.  You see I have twenty dollars here, and I would like to give you the whole of it.”

“Not a cent, sonny.  I ain’t a heathen.  That schooner ahead is bound for Boston, I reckon.”

“I shall be sorry to part with you, Mr. Ray.”

“Just my sentiment.  I hain’t seen a youngster afore for many a day that I took a fancy to, and I hate to let you go.”

“We shall meet again.”

“I hope so.”

“Please to take this money.”

“No;” and Sam shook his head so resolutely that Bobby gave up the point.

As Sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to Boston.  Her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend.

“Good by, Mr. Ray,” said Bobby, as the schooner filled away.  “Take this to remember me by.”

It was his jackknife; but Sam did not discover the ten dollar bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it.