"How are you, captain!" cried Johnny Harding. "That's a splendid little craft of yours!"
"She is, indeed!" replied Tom, who resolved to "stick it out" as long as possible. "She's the finest boat about Newport. She sails like lightning, and is fitted up like a parlor."
"I suppose she belongs to you!" said another.
"Now, didn't I tell you this morning that she was mine?" asked Tom.
"There's a screw loose somewhere, captain," said Johnny. "I asked your father what that yacht cost you, and he said he wasn't aware that you owned her."
Tom was right in his suspicions. The boys knew all about it, and so did his father. Drawing in a long breath, and shutting his teeth hard to choke back his feelings, he pushed his way through the crowd, and started homeward at a rapid pace, not, however, without a few parting remarks from the boys.
"Hard-a-starboard, there, captain!" shouted one.
"O, now, I always was an unlucky boy," said another, exactly imitating Tom's lazy, drawling way of talking.
"The next time you go to sea in that beautiful yacht of yours, captain, we will go with you, if you will be good enough to send us word!"
Tom heard all these and a good many more exclamations; but he kept steady on his way, looking neither to the right nor left, and finally reached his home without having been so unfortunate as to meet any more of his acquaintances. He ran hastily up the stairs to his room, and, after he had closed and locked the door, he threw himself upon his bed, and found relief for his pent-up feelings in a copious flood of tears.
It was about two o'clock when Tom reached his home, and, during the next three hours, he lived in a state of mind that can scarcely be described. He remained in his room, pacing angrily up and down the floor, thinking over his numerous troubles, and conjuring up new schemes for the future--all the while watching the hands of the little time-piece that stood on the mantle as they moved slowly around toward five o'clock, the hour at which he expected to be summoned into the presence of his father. He was not sorry for any thing he had done--he still had too much confidence in his grand schemes for that--neither did he believe that there could be any thing wrong with the gentlemen in Baltimore; on the contrary, he still imagined them to be the most honorable of men--otherwise, they never could have built up so extensive a business. They were not to blame for his disappointment, for had they not told him that his letter had miscarried; that they had made every inquiry for it, but could not find it? Some dishonest post-office clerk was at the bottom of all his troubles! How Tom wished he had him there, locked up in his room with him! Wouldn't he pay him for all the misery he had caused him! He would beat him next time, for he would send his ten dollars by express.