We will not attempt to depict the rage and vexation of Randall and the captain when they ascertained that Bill Sturdy had made his escape from the vessel and taken Charlie with him. For they entertained no doubt from the previous intimacy of the two that they had deserted the ship in company. They instituted as strict a search as they were able, and even offered a reward to any of the crew who should be instrumental in bringing back either, but particularly the boy. None of the sailors, however, would have betrayed our hero, even if they had had the opportunity. Captain Brace was finally obliged to put to sea without those whom he was so desirous of getting back into his power. He was compelled at the last to ship two new hands in place of Bill Sturdy and Antonio.
[257]
As for Bill Sturdy, he embarked on the Liverpool-bound vessel. He was desirous that Charlie should go as passenger, offering to pay his fare, that he might be spared the hardships of a boy on board ship. But to this arrangement our hero strongly objected. He said he had no intention of being idle, and as to the hardships, he was willing to encounter them. Bill, therefore, withdrew his objections, and Charlie became one of the crew. He soon became a favorite, and as the captain and mate were quite different in character and disposition from those of the Bouncing Betsey, his voyage proved much more pleasant and satisfactory.
We must now take leave of our young hero, well assured that he is in good hands, and, transferring the scene to Boston, inquire into the fate of our friends there.
It will be remembered that Mrs. Codman, after the abduction of her son, was successful in obtaining the post of governess to a rather playful and mischievous young lady, the only daughter of a wealthy merchant named Bowman.
Mrs. Codman found her pupil as playful as a kitten, and about as fond of study. To confess the truth, Miss Bert Bowman was deplorably ignorant for a young lady of her[258] age. Her governess, however, soon ascertained that it was from no want of natural capacity, but rather because she had been so much indulged, that nothing had been required of her beyond what the young lady chose to perform, and that was exceedingly little. In a private conversation with Mrs. Codman, Mr. Bowman explained the deficiencies of Bert with their cause, and went on to say, "Now, my dear madam, I wish to surrender Bert to your charge entirely. I feel assured that I may rely upon your judgment to adopt such a course as may be best adapted to reconcile her to study, of which at present, she has a great dread. I would not counsel too great strictness at first, though I do not apprehend that from you. Neither perhaps ought we to try to advance very rapidly at first. Step by step, will be the most judicious way. In regard to hours, text-books, and studies generally, you will do as you think best."
"I thank you, Mr. Bowman," replied Mrs. Codman, "for your dependence on my judgment, and hope to deserve it. I hope my young pupil, who, I am convinced is not wanting in intelligence, will do justice to her natural capacity."
The next day Mrs. Codman commenced her[259] undertaking, for such it may appropriately be called.
"Bertha," said she, pointing to the clock, "it is nine o'clock. Suppose we commence our studies."
"Just let me have another race with Topsy," said Bert, who was flying round the room in pursuit of the black kitten, who was evidently regarded by her young mistress as a congenial companion.
"I am afraid I must say no, my dear child," said Mrs. Codman gently; "there is nothing like punctuality. So if you will just ring the bell, I will ask Jane to take away Topsy for the present."
"Can't Topsy come to school with me?" asked Bert, disappointed.
"I am afraid if she did my other pupil would not make very much progress."
Bert unwillingly acquiesced in the dismission of her favorite companion.
"You won't keep me as long as they do in school, will you, Mrs. Codman?" asked Bert. "If I had to study four or six hours, I should certainly go into a fit."
"I dare say you would," replied her teacher, smiling. "Therefore I sha'n't keep you so long. In fact, as you are the only scholar, we sha'n't bind ourselves to so many hours, but[260] rather to so much learned, so that it will depend a good deal on how well you study."
"That's good," said Bert. "Only, Mrs. Codman, you mustn't be too hard upon me. I don't believe I can get very long lessons."
"I mean to be quite easy at first. I shall not ask much, but that little I shall be strict in requiring."
Bert wasn't quite sure how she liked the latter part of this remark.
"Before setting you any lessons, I must find out how much you know."
"I guess it won't take me long to tell you all I ever learned."
"Here is a reading-book. Let me hear you read."
Bert took the book, and stumbled through a paragraph, invariably mispronouncing all words of over one syllable.
"There," said she, taking a long breath; "I'm glad that is over."
"Now," said Mrs. Codman, taking the book, "let me read it aloud."
She was an excellent reader, and Bert, though she could not read herself, recognized the fact.
"I wish I could read as well as that," said Bert. "How awfully you must have studied when you were a girl."
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"Not so hard as you think for, perhaps," said her teacher, smiling. "Success depends more upon a series of small efforts, than any great one."
"Do you think I shall ever read well?" asked Bert doubtfully.
"I am sure you will, if you will give a moderate amount of attention. Do you know anything of arithmetic?"
"Do you mean the Multiplication Table?"
"Yes, that is a part of it."
"Yes," said Bert, "I know some lines about it. Charlie Morrill taught me them one day."
"What are they?"
Bert repeated these lines, which no doubt are familiar to many of my readers:
Multiplication is vexation,
Division is as bad,
The rule of Three doth trouble me,
And Practice makes me mad.
Mrs. Codman smiled. "Perhaps you will like them better as you grow better acquainted. Can you tell me how much are four times four?"
Bert went through a variety of motions in counting her fingers, and finally announced as the result of her computation, that four times four made twenty-nine.
[262]
"That is hardly right."
"I'm awful ignorant, ain't I?" asked Bert.
"Considerably so, I confess. But we shall be able to remedy that."
"You won't make me study my eyes out?"
"That would be a pity. You see mine are not yet gone, and I don't mean to ask you to study any harder than I did."
Bert looked at the eyes of her teacher which were quite as bright as her own, and lost her apprehensions on that score.
"I'll tell you why I asked," said she, after a pause. "There's a girl that goes to school—she's only twelve years old—and she has to wear spectacles, and I heard somebody say it was because she studied so hard. I shouldn't want to be obliged to wear spectacles."
Mrs. Codman could not forbear laughing at the idea of her frolicsome little scholar, with a pair of glasses perched upon her nose, and promised her that if she found there was any prospect of her being obliged to wear them, she would advise her at once giving up study.
"Then I hope," thought Bert, "I shall need them soon."
"Now," proceeded Mrs. Codman. "I am going to give you short and easy lessons in reading, spelling, and arithmetic. It won't take you long to get there, if you only try.[263] When you have recited them, we are to go out and ride in the carriage."
"Oh, that will be nice," exclaimed the child. "Tell me what the lesson is, quick."
The lessons were got and said sooner than could have been expected, and so Bert had taken the first step in ascending the hill of learning.