LITMIR.BIZ

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not be easy without keeping the money under his eye.

      Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on the hearth with his father that evening, and Mr. Tulliver listened, leaning forward in his arm-chair and looking up in Tom’s face with a sceptical glance. His first impulse was to give a positive refusal, but he was in some awe of Tom’s wishes, and since he had the sense of being an “unlucky” father, he had lost some of his old peremptoriness and determination to be master. He took the key of the bureau from his pocket, got out the key of the large chest, and fetched down the tin box,—slowly, as if he were trying to defer the moment of a painful parting. Then he seated himself against the table, and opened the box with that little padlock-key which he fingered in his waistcoat pocket in all vacant moments. There they were, the dingy bank-notes and the bright sovereigns, and he counted them out on the table—only a hundred and sixteen pounds in two years, after all the pinching.

      “How much do you want, then?” he said, speaking as if the words burnt his lips.

      “Suppose I begin with the thirty-six pounds, father?” said Tom.

      Mr. Tulliver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping his hand over it, said:

      “It’s as much as I can save out o’ my pay in a year.”

      “Yes, father; it is such slow work, saving out of the little money we get. And in this way we might double our savings.”

      “Ay, my lad,” said the father, keeping his hand on the money, “but you might lose it,—you might lose a year o’ my life,—and I haven’t got many.”

      Tom was silent.

      “And you know I wouldn’t pay a dividend with the first hundred, because I wanted to see it all in a lump,—and when I see it, I’m sure on’t. If you trust to luck, it’s sure to be against me. It’s Old Harry’s got the luck in his hands; and if I lose one year, I shall never pick it up again; death ’ull o’ertake me.”

      Mr. Tulliver’s voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few minutes before he said:

      “I’ll give it up, father, since you object to it so strongly.”

      But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he determined to ask his uncle Glegg to venture twenty pounds, on condition of receiving five per cent. of the profits. That was really a very small thing to ask. So when Bob called the next day at the wharf to know the decision, Tom proposed that they should go together to his uncle Glegg’s to open the business; for his diffident pride clung to him, and made him feel that Bobs’ tongue would relieve him from some embarrassment.

      Mr. Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four in the afternoon of a hot August day, was naturally counting his wall-fruit to assure himself that the sum total had not varied since yesterday. To him entered Tom, in what appeared to Mr. Glegg very questionable companionship,—that of a man with a pack on his back,—for Bob was equipped for a new journey,—and of a huge brindled bull-terrier, who walked with a slow, swaying movement from side to side, and glanced from under his eye-lids with a surly indifference which might after all be a cover to the most offensive designs.

      Mr. Glegg’s spectacles, which had been assisting him in counting the fruit, made these suspicious details alarmingly evident to him.

      “Heigh! heigh! keep that dog back, will you?” he shouted, snatching up a stake and holding it before him as a shield when the visitors were within three yards of him.

      “Get out wi’ you, Mumps,” said Bob, with a kick. “He’s as quiet as a lamb, sir,”—an observation which Mumps corroborated by a low growl as he retreated behind his master’s legs.

      “Why, what ever does this mean, Tom?” said Mr. Glegg. “Have you brought information about the scoundrels as cut my trees?” If Bob came in the character of “information,” Mr. Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some irregularity.

      “No, sir,” said Tom; “I came to speak to you about a little matter of business of my own.”

      “Ay—well; but what has this dog got to do with it?” said the old gentleman, getting mild again.

      “It’s my dog, sir,” said the ready Bob. “An’ it’s me as put Mr. Tom up to the bit o’ business; for Mr. Tom’s been a friend o’ mine iver since I was a little chap; fust thing iver I did was frightenin’ the birds for th’ old master. An’ if a bit o’ luck turns up, I’m allays thinkin’ if I can let Mr. Tom have a pull at it. An’ it’s a downright roarin’ shame, as when he’s got the chance o’ making a bit o’ money wi’ sending goods out,—ten or twelve per zent clear, when freight an’ commission’s paid,—as he shouldn’t lay hold o’ the chance for want o’ money. An’ when there’s the Laceham goods,—lors! they’re made o’ purpose for folks as want to send out a little carguy; light, an’ take up no room,—you may pack twenty pound so as you can’t see the passill; an’ they’re manifacturs as please fools, so I reckon they aren’t like to want a market. An’ I’d go to Laceham an’ buy in the goods for Mr. Tom along wi’ my own. An’ there’s the shupercargo o’ the bit of a vessel as is goin’ to take ’em out. I know him partic’lar; he’s a solid man, an’ got a family i’ the town here. Salt, his name is,—an’ a briny chap he is too,—an’ if you don’t believe me, I can take you to him.”

      Uncle Glegg stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this unembarrassed loquacity, with which his understanding could hardly keep pace. He looked at Bob, first over his spectacles, then through them, then over them again; while Tom, doubtful of his uncle’s impression, began to wish he had not brought this singular Aaron, or mouthpiece. Bob’s talk appeared less seemly, now some one besides himself was listening to it.

      “You seem to be a knowing fellow,” said Mr. Glegg, at last.

      “Ay, sir, you say true,” returned Bob, nodding his head aside; “I think my head’s all alive inside like an old cheese, for I’m so full o’ plans, one knocks another over. If I hadn’t Mumps to talk to, I should get top-heavy an’ tumble in a fit. I suppose it’s because I niver went to school much. That’s what I jaw my old mother for. I says, ‘You should ha’ sent me to school a bit more,’ I says, ‘an’ then I could ha’ read i’ the books like fun, an’ kep’ my head cool an’ empty.’ Lors, she’s fine an’ comfor’ble now, my old mother is; she ates her baked meat an’ taters as often as she likes. For I’m gettin’ so full o’ money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me. But it’s botherin,’ a wife is,—and Mumps mightn’t like her.”

      Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since he had retired from business, was beginning to find Bob amusing, but he had still a disapproving observation to make, which kept his face serious.

      “Ah,” he said, “I should think you’re at a loss for ways o’ spending your money, else you wouldn’t keep that big dog, to eat as much as two Christians. It’s shameful—shameful!” But he spoke more in sorrow than in anger, and quickly added:

      “But, come now, let’s hear more about this business, Tom. I suppose you want a little sum to make a venture with. But where’s all your own money? You don’t spend it all—eh?”

      “No, sir,” said Tom, coloring; “but my father is unwilling to risk it, and I don’t like to press him. If I could get twenty or thirty pounds to begin with, I could pay five per cent for it, and then I could gradually make a little capital of my own, and do without a loan.”

      “Ay—ay,” said Mr. Glegg, in an approving tone; “that’s not a bad notion, and I won’t say as I wouldn’t be your man. But it ’ull be as well for me to see this Salt, as you talk on. And then—here’s this friend o’ yours offers to buy the goods for you. Perhaps you’ve got somebody to stand surety for you if the money’s put into your hands?” added the cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles at Bob.

      “I don’t think that’s necessary, uncle,” said Tom. “At least, I mean it would not be necessary for me, because I know Bob well; but perhaps it would be right for you to have

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