The fisher-boy's home, as we have said, was built upon the beach, and was but one of a dozen similar abodes, where dwelt as many boys, who, like Bob, earned their living by fishing and ferrying. They all made it a point to be in the harbor at half-past six in the morning, and at five in the evening; and, when Bob pushed off from the beach, he soon found himself in the midst of a small fleet of boats, of all sizes and descriptions, whose ragged crews were bent on the same mission as himself. These boys were mostly the sons of sailors and fishermen; some of them, like Bob, looking forward to the day when they should be the masters of fine vessels; while the majority, with no care for the morrow, were content to follow the occupations of their fathers, and were willing to remain fishermen all their lives. Bob was, perhaps, the poorest one among them, as fortunes were reckoned in Fishertown—which was the name given to that part of the village where the fishermen lived. Their boats constituted their only wealth, and a boy's fortune was measured by the size and condition of his craft. The boys were all good judges of boats, and there was not one among them who did not laugh whenever Bob made his appearance in the harbor. On the evening in question, when he came up with the little fleet, he was greeted with a chorus of shouts and yells that would have made most boys angry.

"Here comes Bobby Jennings in his washing-tub!" shouted one of the ferry-boys, as Bob sculled slowly past him. "Clear the track!"

Although the term "washing-tub" does not give one a very good idea of the appearance of the fisher-boy's scow, it was, perhaps, the most appropriate name that could have been applied to her, for she bore but very little resemblance to any thing in the shape of a boat that had ever been seen about the village. She was built of heavy planks, which Bob had picked up at the upper end of the harbor; and, having no plane with which to dress them down to an equal thickness, he had been obliged to use the boards as he found them; consequently, one side of the scow was heavier than the other; and this made her "tip" considerably, as if she was always on the point of capsizing. The fisher-boy had made an attempt to shape the stem and stern exactly alike, but, having nothing but a dull ax to work with, he had only succeeded in giving the Go Ahead a very homely model, for the bow was long and slanting, and the stern stood almost straight up and down in the water. Of the planks that formed the bottom, some were thick and others thin, and the joints were caulked with rags and bits of rope which Bob had picked up about the wharves. This unwieldy craft was propelled by an oar worked over the stern; and, although she made but poor headway under sail, she could be pushed through the water at an astonishing rate of speed, especially when the sight of a passenger on the wharf induced the fisher-boy to put forth all his power of muscle.

"Yes, sir!" shouted another of the ferry-boys, "here comes Jennings and his lumber-yard!"

"Well," said the fisher-boy, good-naturedly, "if you think you can beat this lumber-yard, this is a first-rate chance to try it."

But the boy very wisely declined to accept the challenge. He had seen the Go Ahead make remarkably fast time, and he did not like to risk the disgrace of being beaten.

As the boats were all moving along leisurely, Bob soon took the lead, and presently he rounded the pier, and entered the harbor.

"Every body I meet has something to say about my boat!" said he to himself. "I don't wonder that the workmen refuse to patronize me, for she is a rough-looking craft, that's a fact. If I couldn't swim like a duck, I should almost be afraid to get into her myself; for she looks as if she was just about to turn over. The water that runs in through the bottom doesn't trouble me any, because I go barefooted; but, if I was rich, and could afford to wear fine boots, I believe I should hesitate about taking passage in a craft like this. I really begin to believe that it was more by good luck than good management, that I ever made a cent with her. I must think up a plan to get a new boat; now, that's settled."

Bob sculled slowly to the middle of the harbor, where he stopped and sat down in his scow to wait for a passenger. A short distance from him was a steamer, which was just getting ready to start on her regular trip to Boston. The first bell had been rung, and the gang-plank was crowded with passengers who were hurrying on board, and with visitors, who were making haste to get ashore. As the fisher-boy sat watching the steamer, his oar idly dangling in the water, and his thoughts busy with the question which, for the last three months, had been uppermost in his mind, he happened to glance toward the opposite side of the harbor, and saw a gentleman walking uneasily up and down the wharf, stopping now and then to wave his hat, to attract the attention of some of the ferry-boys.

"Yes, sir; comin', sir! Be there directly, sir!" shouted a voice behind the fisher-boy, which the latter knew belonged to Sam Barton. "I'm comin' like a steamboat, sir!"

The words were hardly out of Sam's mouth, however, before he became aware that his old rival was ready to contest the ownership of the two cents' passage money, which the gentleman was waiting to pay to the boy who should carry him across the harbor; for Bob had jumped to his feet, and was sending his clumsy scow through the water at a rate of speed that soon left Sam behind. The latter, however, never once thought of giving up the race, for he was one who tried to profit by his experience. He had told the fisher-boy that he had learned that a nice, clean boat would go a long way toward securing custom, and he was in hopes that when the passenger on the wharf saw his fine yawl, drawn up along-side Bob's scow, he would do as others had done—take passage with him, and leave the fisher-boy to look elsewhere. This was a favorite trick of Sam's, and by it he gained a great deal of custom.

"Jump in, sir!" said Bob, as he ran the Go Ahead along-side the wharf.

"Out o' the way, there, Bobby Jennings!" shouted Sam. "Here comes the boat the gentleman's been a waitin' for. He wants cushions to set down on."

But the man's actions indicated that he had not been waiting for Sam Barton, for, without a moment's hesitation, he sprang down into Bob's scow, exclaiming:

"I'll give you a silver half-dollar if you will put me on board that steamer before she leaves the wharf. Do your best, now."

The fisher-boy did not need any orders to "do his best," after his passenger had promised him a half dollar for putting him on board the steamer. He opened his eyes in astonishment at the mention of so large a reward, and so did Sam Barton, who wondered that the gentleman should choose a leaky, dirty craft, when he might just as well have had a clean, dry boat, with "cushions to set down on."

Bob lost no time in pushing off from the wharf, and when he got fairly started, he sent the Go Ahead through the water in a way that made the ferry-boys wonder. But the harbor was wide, and when the fisher-boy was half way across, the steamer's bell rang for the second time.

"Hurry up, boy!" said the passenger, nervously. "I must go out on that boat. Catch her, and I'll give you a dollar."

Bob drew in a long breath, shook off his hat, and redoubled his exertions at the oar, and, to his delight, he succeeded in running under the stern of the steamer, and drawing up along-side the wharf, just as the last bell was ringing, and the order had been given to haul in the gang-plank.

"Here you are, boy," exclaimed the passenger. "You are a capital oarsman, and the next time I come to Newport and want a ferry-boy, I shall remember you." As he spoke, he thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out some money, which he handed to Bob.

"Hurrah for me!" said the fisher-boy, "my fortune is safe."

Being deeply interested in the success of his passenger, he did not examine his fare, but stood with one hand holding the Go Ahead along-side the wharf, and the other clutching the two pieces of money. He saw the gentleman spring upon the gang-plank just as the sailors had begun to haul it in. Reaching the steamer in safety, he turned and gave Bob an approving nod, and then disappeared up the stairs that led to the deck.

"He's all right," said the fisher-boy, wiping his forehead with his shirt sleeve, "and so am I. If I could get a passenger like that every day, it wouldn't be long before I would go to sea."

Bob seated himself in the stern of his scow, panting hard after his long race, and jingled the money in his closed hand. He had not yet looked at it, but he knew that the gentleman had kept his promise, for he could feel the two half-dollars with his fingers. He had not owned a great deal of money of that description, and he did not think he could be deceived.

"How much did he give you, Bobby?" inquired Sam Barton, pulling up along-side the scow. "A feller can't scare up a passenger like that every day, an' I'm sorry I didn't beat you in the race."

"I am not," said Bob, "you don't know how much good this dollar will do me!"

"A dollar!" exclaimed Sam. "Did he give you a whole dollar?"

"Yes, sir, two silver half-dollars. See there!" said Bob, opening his hand. "Don't they look—"

The fisher-boy suddenly paused, and gazed first at the money, and then at his companion, who stood with eyes and mouth open, the very picture of astonishment. Instead of two silver half-dollars, Bob held in his hand two twenty-dollar gold pieces.

"Bobby Jennings!" exclaimed Sam, who was the first to recover from his surprise, "ain't me an' you the luckiest boys in Newport? I got a hundred dollars fur haulin' a feller out of the water, an' now you get forty dollars in gold, fur bringin' a passenger across the harbor. You can throw away that ar ole scow now, Bobby, an' buy my skiff. I'll sell her to you fur twenty dollars, an' any body who has seed her, will tell you that she's cheap at that. Is it a bargain?"

The fisher-boy did not answer; indeed, he did not seem to be aware that Sam was speaking to him. He sat looking at the two bright pieces of gold, as if he had suddenly lost all power to turn his eyes from them.

"I say, Bobby, is it a bargain?" repeated Sam.

This question seemed to bring the fisher-boy to his senses. He hastily put the money into his pocket, shoved the Go Ahead from the wharf, and catching up his oar, he started in hot pursuit of the steamer, which was now moving slowly down the harbor. He very soon discovered, however, that it was useless to think of overtaking her, and seeing his passenger walking up and down the deck, he dropped his oar, and began to shout and swing his hat around his head to attract the man's attention. In this he was successful; for the passenger waved his hand in reply, as if he thought that Bob was congratulating him on reaching the steamer in time.

"Hold on!" screamed the fisher-boy. "Come back here, sir! You have paid me too much!" and he pulled the money out of his pocket and held it up, as if he hoped that, even at that distance, the man could see and recognize it. But the latter evidently could not be made to understand, for he again waved his hand, and then resumed his walk; while Bob stood in his scow and watched the steamer as she rounded the pier, and shaped her course down the bay.

Sam Barton had watched all these movements in surprise. When he saw that Bob was endeavoring to overtake the steamer, in order to return the money which his passenger had paid to him by mistake, he caught up his oar and followed after him, urging him to keep silent. If Bob heard him, he did not heed his advice, for not until he became convinced that it was impossible to catch the steamer, or to make the man understand him, did he cease to pull and shout with all his might.

"Bobby Jennings, have you gone clean crazy?" demanded Sam, as he sculled up along-side the fisher-boy, who stood gazing after the steamer, as if he hoped she might yet come back, and give him an opportunity to return the gold pieces. "What do you want to give that ar money back fur?"

"Why, it isn't mine," answered Bob.

"It ain't your'n!" repeated Sam. "I'd like to know what's the reason. Didn't that feller give it to you with his own hands? In course he did; an' that's why it belongs to you."

"But he made a mistake," said Bob.

"That's his own lookout, an' not your'n," returned Sam. "Keep it, say nothin' to nobody, throw away that ar ole scow, an' buy my skiff. Then you'll be well fixed, an' can begin to make money. That feller will never miss it, 'cause when you see a man who carries twenty dollar gold-pieces loose in his pockets, these hard times, it's a sure sign that he knows where to get more when they are gone. Where be you goin'?" he added, as the fisher-boy got out his oar, and sculled away from the spot.

"I am going home," was the answer. "I am going to give this money to mother, before I lose it."

"Well, now, Bobby Jennings," exclaimed Sam, "if ever I see a feller who was clean crazy, I see one now. You'll always be a fisherman, you'll always live in a little shantee on the beach, an' you don't deserve nothin' better. The world owes you a livin', an' the easier you make it the smarter you be. You'll never have another chance like this."

"I can't help that!" replied Bob. "I've always been honest, and I always intend to be."

Sam could not stop longer to remonstrate, for he saw one of his "regular customers" standing on the wharf. He sculled off to attend to him, muttering to himself: "Never mind, Bobby Jennings! I want one of them gold pieces, an' I'm bound to get it."