Jonathan Tarbox seemed to have taken a fancy to our hero, for immediately after lunch he followed him on deck.

"I want to show you a drawin' of my plow, Mr. Hunter," he said.

"I should like to see it, Mr. Tarbox, but I am no judge of such things."

Mr. Tarbox drew a paper from his coat-pocket containing a sketch of his invention. He entered into a voluble explanation of it, to which Frank listened good-naturedly, though without much comprehension.

"Do you think it'll work?" asked the inventor.

"I should think it might. Mr. Tarbox, but then I don't know much about such things."

"I don't believe they've got anything in Europe that'll come up to it," said Mr. Tarbox, complacently. "Ef I can get it introduced into England and France, it'll pay me handsome."

"Have you shown it to any Englishman yet?"

"No, I haven't. I don't know any."

"There are some on board this steamer."

"Are there? Where?"

"There's one."

Frank pointed out a young man with weak eyes and auburn hair, a London clerk, who visited the United States on a business errand, and was now returning. He was at this moment standing on deck, with his arms folded, looking out to sea.

"I guess I'll go and speak to him," said Mr. Tarbox. "May be he can help me introduce my plow in London."

Frank watched with some amusement the interview between Mr. Tarbox and the London clerk, which he shrewdly suspected was not likely to lead to any satisfactory results.

Mr. Tarbox approached the Englishman from behind, and unceremoniously slapped him on the back.

The clerk whirled round suddenly and surveyed Mr. Tarbox with mingled surprise and indignation.

"What did you say?" he inquired.

"How are you, old hoss?"

"Do you mean to call me a 'oss?"

"No, I call you a hoss. How do you feel?"

"I don't feel any better for your hitting me on the back, sir," said the clerk, angrily.

"Sho! your back must be weak. Been sea-sick?"

"I have suffered some from sea-sickness," returned the person addressed, with an air of restraint.

"So have I. I tell you I thought something was goin' to cave in."

"Of what earthly interest does he suppose that is to me?" thought the clerk, superciliously.

"Fact is," continued Mr. Tarbox, "I'd a good deal rather be to home in Squashboro', livin' on baked beans, than be here livin' on all their chicken fixin's. I suppose you've heard of Squashboro' hain't you?"

"I can't say I have," said the clerk, coldly, adjusting his eye-glasses, and turning away from his uncongenial companion.

"Squashboro', State o' Maine. It's a pooty smart place—got three stores, a blacksmith's shop, a grist mill, and two meetin'-houses."

"Really, my friend," said the Englishman, "Squashboro' may be as smart a place as you say, but it doesn't interest me."

"Don't it? That's because you haven't been there. We've got some smart men in Squashboro'."

"You don't say so?" said the other, in a sarcastic tone.

"There's Squire Perkins, selectman, town clerk and auctioneer. You'd ought to hear his tongue go when he auctioneers. Then there's Parson Pratt—knows a sight of Latin, Greek and Hebrew."

"Are you one of the smart men of Squashboro'?" asked the clerk, in the same tone.

"Wal, that ain't for me to say," answered Mr. Tarbox, modestly. "You never can tell what may happen, as the hen said when she hatched a lot of geese. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Englishman—"

"My name is Robinson," interrupted the other, stiffly.

"Why, howdy do, Mr. Robinson!" exclaimed Jonathan, seizing the unwilling hand of the other and shaking it vigorously. "My name is Tarbox—Jonathan Tarbox, named after my grandfather. His name was Jonathan, too."

"Really, your family history is very interesting."

"Glad you think so. But as I was sayin', when you spoke about me bein' smart, I've got up a new plow that's goin' to take the shine off all that's goin'," and he plunged his hand into his pocket.

"You don't carry a plow round in your pocket, do you?" asked Mr. Robinson, arching his eyebrows.

"Come, now, Mr. Robinson, that's a good joke for you. I've got a plan of it here on this piece of paper. If you'll squat down somewhere, I'll explain it to you."

"I prefer standing, Mr.—Mr. Tarbarrel."

"Tarbox is my name."

"Ah—Tarbox, then. No great difference."

"You see, Mr. Robberson—"

"Robinson, sir."

"Ah—is it?" said Jonathan, innocently. "No great difference."

Mr. Robinson looked suspicious, but the expression of his companion's face was unchanged, and betrayed no malice prepense.

"I don't know anything about plows," said the clerk, coldly. "You'd better show it to somebody else—I never saw a plow in my life."

"Never saw a plow!" ejaculated Jonathan, in the utmost surprise. "Why, where have you been livin' all your life?"

"In London."

"And don't they have plows in the stores?"

"I suppose they may, but they're not in my line."

"Why, I knowed a plow as soon as I could walk," said Mr. Tarbox.

"I leave such things to laborers," said Mr. Robinson, superciliously. "I feel no interest in them."

"Ain't you a laborer yourself?" asked Jonathan.

"I—a laborer!" exclaimed Mr. Robinson, with natural indignation. "Do you mean to insult me?"

"I never insult nobody. But don't you work for a livin'? That's what I mean."

"I am engaged in trade," answered the clerk, haughtily.

"Then you do work for a livin', and so, of course, you're a laborer."

"Sir, men in my business are not laborers—they are merchants."

"What's the difference?"

"I perceive, sir, that you are not accustomed to society. I excuse you on account of your ignorance."

"Ignorance! What do you mean by that?" demanded Mr. Tarbox, in his turn indignant.

Jonathan looked threatening, and as he was physically the Englishman's superior, the latter answered hastily:

"I only meant to say that you were not versed in the requirements and conventionalities of society."

"Is that English?" asked Jonathan, with a puzzled look.

"I believe so."

"Well, I never heard sich jawbreakers before, but, if it's an apology, it's all right. Won't you look at the plow, then?"

"It would be of no use, Mr. Tarbox—I don't know about such things, I assure you. You had better show it to somebody else. My life has been passed in London, and I really am profoundly ignorant of agricultural implements."

As he spoke, he turned away and walked down stairs. Mr. Tarbox followed him with his eyes, ejaculating:

"That's a queer critter. He's over thirty years old, I guess, and he's never sot eyes on a plow! He'd ought to be ashamed of his ignorance."

"Well, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, when his new friend rejoined him, "did you explain your new invention to the Englishman?"

"I was goin' to, but he said he never seed one in the whole course of his life, and didn't take no interest in them. What do you think of that?"

"He can't have been in the country much, I should think."

"He keeps store in London, he says; but he's a poor, ignorant creetur, and he don't want to learn. I wanted to explain all about my invention, but he wouldn't look at it."

"There are other Englishmen who will take more interest in it, Mr. Tarbox—men who live in the country and cultivate the land."

"I hope so. I hope they ain't all as ignorant as that creetur. Do you think that colonel that you're travelin' with would like to look at it?"

"I don't believe he would, Mr. Tarbox. I don't know much about him, but he seems to me like a man that has always lived in the city."

"Just as you say. I'd just as lief explain it to him."

"Are you going to put it in the exhibition?"

"Yes; I've got it packed in my trunk in pieces. I'm going to put it together on the other side, and take it along with me."

This was not the last conversation Frank had with Mr. Tarbox. He always listened with sympathy to the recital of the other's plans and purposes, and Jonathan showed a marked predilection for the society of our young hero. Without knowing it, Frank was making a friend who would be of value in the future.