Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Now or Never; Or, The Adventures of Bobby Bright by Oliver Optic (classic literature list .TXT) 📖
- Author: Oliver Optic
Book online «Now or Never; Or, The Adventures of Bobby Bright by Oliver Optic (classic literature list .TXT) 📖». Author Oliver Optic
"Yes, you can," replied Bobby, promptly.
"Can I?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"By letting me go."
"Eh; you talk flush. I suppose you mean to give me your note, payable when the Kennebec dries up."
"Cash on the nail," replied Bobby. "You look like a man with a heart in your bosom,"—Bobby stole this passage from "The Wayfarer."
"I reckon I have. The time hasn't come yet when Sam Ray could see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. But to help a thief off——"
"We will argue that matter," interposed Bobby. "I can prove to you beyond a doubt that I am innocent of the crime charged upon me."
"You don't look like a bad boy, I must say."
"But, Mr. Ray, I'm hungry; I haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon."
"Thunder! You don't say so!" exclaimed Sam Ray. "I never could bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards."
Sam Ray took Bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the table. Our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he felt like a new creature.
"Now, Mr. Ray, let me tell you my story," said Bobby.
"I don't know as it's any use. Now you have eat my bread and butter, I don't feel like being mean to you. If anybody else wants to carry you back, they may; I won't."
"But you shall hear me;" and Bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain, unvarnished tale."
When he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. Sam looked out of the window, as almost everybody does in the country when a carriage passes.
"By thunder! It's the Reform School wagon!" exclaimed he. "This way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding him get under the bed.
The carriage stopped at the house; but Sam evaded a direct reply, and the superintendent—for it was he—proceeded on his search.
"Heaven bless you, Mr. Ray!" exclaimed Bobby, when he came out of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks.
"O, you will find Sam Ray all right," said he, warmly pressing Bobby's proffered hand. "I ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around here think so."
"You are an angel!"
"Not exactly," laughed Sam.
Our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his account book and some other papers which he had retained. Sam Ray was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw Tom Spicer he would certainly "lick" him for his sake.
"Now, sonny, I like you; I will be sworn you are a good fellow; and I mean to help you off. So just come along with me. I make my living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and then. You see, I have got a good boat down the creek, and I shall just put you aboard and take you anywhere you have a mind to go."
"May Heaven reward you!" cried Bobby, almost overcome by this sudden and unexpected kindness.
"O, I don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man—and I am dead sure you will be a great man—just think now and then of Sam Ray, and it's all right."
"I shall remember you with gratitude as long as I live."
Sam Ray took his gun on his shoulder, and Bobby the box of provisions which Mrs. Ray had put up, and they left the house. At the bridge they got into a little skiff, and Sam took the oars. After they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, Bobby felt secure from further molestation.
Sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner.
"Now, my hearty, nothing short of Uncle Sam's whole navy can get you away from me," said Sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner.
"You have been very kind to me."
"All right, sonny. Now tumble aboard."
Bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and Sam followed him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings.
In a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." Bobby, who had never been in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little craft.
"Now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked Sam, as they emerged from the bay into the broad ocean.
"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 anything, 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 afeard, 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.
Bobby did not cease to wave his hat to Sam till his little craft disappeared in the darkness.
CHAPTER XX IN WHICH THE CLOUDS BLOW OVER, AND BOBBY IS HIMSELF AGAIN
Fortunately for Bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions. He was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor he made himself useful to the best of his ability. Though the wind was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning after his parting with Sam Ray that the schooner arrived off Boston Light. The captain then informed him that, as the tide did not favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat which he saw standing up the channel.
"Thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a great deal of trouble," said Bobby.
"None at all. We must wait here till the tide turns; so we have nothing better to do."
"I should be very glad to get up this morning."
"You shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out the jolly boat.
"I will pay my passage now, if you please."
"That is paid."
"Paid?"
"I should say you had worked your passage. You have done very well, and I shall not charge you anything."
"I expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think I have done enough to pay it, why I have nothing to say, only that I am very much obliged to you."
"You ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for one."
"I like the sea, though I never saw it till a few weeks since. But I suppose my mother would not let me go to sea."
"I suppose not; mothers are always afraid of salt water."
By this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail. Bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed at the wharf in Boston.
With a beating heart he made his way up into Washington Street. He felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. He could not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the city, and perhaps gone to his friends in Riverdale. How his poor mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! No; she never could have thought that. She knew he would not steal, if no one else did. And Annie Lee—would she ever smile upon him again? Would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she had done in the past? He could bring nothing to establish his innocence but his previous character. Would not Mr. Bayard frown upon him? Would not even Ellen be tempted to forget the service he had rendered her?
Bobby had thought of all these things before—on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night on board the schooner. But now, when he was almost in the presence of those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly overwhelmed him.
"I am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need I fear? My good Father in heaven will not let me be wronged."
Yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the store of Mr. Bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who had been so kind to him. He could not bear even to be suspected of a crime by him.
"Now or never," said he, as he turned round.
"I will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it."
Mustering all his courage, he entered the store. Mr. Timmins was not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark from him.
"Hallo, Bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose acquaintance he had made on his first visit.
"Good morning, Mr. Bigelow," replied Bobby with as much boldness as he could command.
"I didn't know as I should ever see you again. You have been gone a long while."
"Longer than usual," answered Bobby, with a blush; for he considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. "Is Mr. Bayard in?"
"He is—in his office."
Bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. Mr. Bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did not observe his entrance. With his heart up in his throat, and almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the threshold. He almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown with which he expected to be received. Suspense, however, was more painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the point.
"Mr. Bayard," said he,
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