It was not my fate to change the prescribed order of things.  I, too, was to run away, thereby proving, if any proof were needed, that I was the grandson of my grandfather.  I do not hold myself responsible for the step any more than I do for the shape of my nose, which is said to be a facsimile of Captain Nutter’s.

I have frequently noticed how circumstances conspire to help a man, or a boy, when he has thoroughly resolved on doing a thing.  That very week the Rivermouth Barnacle printed an advertisement that seemed to have been written on purpose for me.  It read as follows: 

Wanted. A Few Able-bodied Seamen and a Cabin-Boy, for the ship Rawlings, now loading for New Orleans at Johnson’s Wharf, Boston.  Apply in person, within four days, at the office of Messrs.—­& Co., or on board the Ship.

How I was to get to New Orleans with only $4.62 was a question that had been bothering me.  This advertisement made it as clear as day.  I would go as cabin-boy.

I had taken Pepper into my confidence again; I had told him the story of my love for Miss Glentworth, with all its harrowing details; and now conceived it judicious to confide in him the change about to take place in my life, so that, if the Rawlings went down in a gale, my friends might have the limited satisfaction of knowing what had become of me.

Pepper shook his head discouragingly, and sought in every way to dissuade me from the step.  He drew a disenchanting picture of the existence of a cabin-boy, whose constant duty (according to Pepper) was to have dishes broken over his head whenever the captain or the mate chanced to be out of humor, which was mostly all the time.  But nothing Pepper said could turn me a hair’s-breadth from my purpose.

I had little time to spare, for the advertisement stated explicitly that applications were to be made in person within four days.  I trembled to think of the bare possibility of some other boy snapping up that desirable situation.

It was on Monday that I stumbled upon the advertisement.  On Tuesday my preparations were completed.  My baggage—­consisting of four shirts, half a dozen collars, a piece of shoemaker’s wax, (Heaven knows what for!) and seven stockings, wrapped in a silk handkerchief—­lay hidden under a loose plank of the stable floor.  This was my point of departure.

My plan was to take the last train for Boston, in order to prevent the possibility of immediate pursuit, if any should be attempted.  The train left at 4 P.M.

I ate no breakfast and little dinner that day.  I avoided the Captain’s eye, and wouldn’t have looked Miss Abigail or Kitty in the face for the wealth of the Indies.

When it was time to start for the station I retired quietly to the stable and uncovered my bundle.  I lingered a moment to kiss the white star on Gypsy’s forehead, and was nearly unmanned when the little animal returned the caress by lapping my cheek.  Twice I went back and patted her.