It is very probable that the fisher-boy did not overhear Sam's threat; if he did he was not frightened from his purpose, for, true to his determination, he carried the money home, and gave it to his mother for safe keeping.

"The gentleman told me that he would come back to Newport," said Bob, when he had related his story, "and that he would hunt me up when he wanted a ferry-boy; so I know that I shall have a chance to return the money to him. But I wish he hadn't made that mistake, mother. It will be six o'clock before I can get back to the wharf, and I am almost certain that I can't earn money enough to save my fifteen dollars. It is very hard to be poor."

"Yes, it is hard, sometimes," replied his mother; "but dishonesty is worse than poverty."

After the fisher-boy had seen the money put carefully away, he hurried back to his scow, and, pulled toward the harbor. When he arrived there, he found that most of the workmen had already been ferried across, and he secured only one solitary passenger, who, upon being placed safely upon the wharf, drew in a long breath and exclaimed:

"I bless my lucky stars that I am on solid ground once more. A man had better take a few lessons in swimming, before he risks his life in a tub like that."

Bob received his two cents' passage money without making any reply, and then sculled slowly toward the place where the ferry-boys had congregated, to count their cash, and compare notes. He was the most unfortunate one among them. Sam Barton was feeling very jubilant over a dollar and a half he had earned since morning; and the smallest boy in the harbor was proudly exhibiting forty cents to his admiring companions—the proceeds of his day's work.

"How much have you got, Bobby?" called one of the boys.

"I had only one passenger to-night," was the reply.

"Serves you jest right!" exclaimed Sam Barton. "I sha'n't feel the least bit sorry fur you, if you never get another customer. A chap who will throw away such a chance as you had to-day, hadn't ought to make any money. He took a feller across the harbor," added Sam, turning to his companions, "an' got forty dollars in gold fur it. He might jest as well have kept the money as not; but he had to take it home and give it to his mother! Never mind, Bobby Jennings! I'll be even with you one of these days."

"You'll be even with me!" repeated the fisher-boy. "What have I done to you?"

"You had oughter give me one of them pieces of gold for my skiff," returned Sam; "but you didn't do it. I'll pay you off for that. I'll take every passenger away from you that I can."

"I can't help that. The harbor is as free to you as it is to me."

"If you'll buy my skiff," continued Sam, "I'll let you alone. If I see you goin' fur a customer, I won't trouble you."

"I can't buy your boat, because I havn't got the money. Those gold pieces do not belong to me."

"They do, too!" exclaimed Sam. "That's only an excuse of your'n for keepin' 'em. If you don't pay me twenty dollars fur my skiff, you sha'n't run any craft on this yere harbor."

Bob was a good deal astonished at this declaration, but he made no reply, for Sam was a bully, and he did not wish to irritate him. As to running any boat besides Sam's skiff on the harbor, the fisher-boy thought he should do as he pleased about that, although he knew that, if his rival chose to do so, he could make him a great deal of trouble. If the forty dollars in gold had belonged to him, he would gladly have given half of it for the skiff; but the money had been paid to him by mistake, and he had no right to use it.

"What do you say, Bobby Jennings?" demanded Sam, as he picked up his oar and sculled slowly away from the spot. "I'll give you one more chance, an' if you don't make a bargain with me, you'll always be sorry for it. I am listenin' with all the ears I've got."

"Well, if you are," exclaimed the fisher-boy, springing up in his scow, and extending his hand toward Sam, as if to give more emphasis to his words, "you can hear me repeat what I have already said to you a half-a-dozen times, that I have no right to touch that money, and I'm not going to do it. I've always been honest, and I always intend to be; so, you'll have to look somewhere else for a customer. I hope I have spoken plainly enough this time."

"All right," replied Sam. "If you ever git rich by actin' the dunce that ar way, jest let me know it. Let's go home, fellers."

The fisher-boy did not feel called upon to make any reply to these remarks. He got out his oar and followed slowly after his companions, wondering how a boy could be so unreasonable as Sam had shown himself to be, and trying his best to determine what the bully would decide to do in the matter. Being well acquainted with him, Bob knew that he was not above doing a mean action, and he was afraid that, assisted by some of his particular friends, he might attempt to take revenge on him.

Sam had every thing pretty much his own way in the harbor. Besides being a great fighting character, ready, at a moment's warning, to thrash any of the ferry-boys who acted contrary to his desires, he was an excellent oarsman, and any boy against whom he cherished a grudge found it up-hill work to make ferrying a paying business. On the other hand, his particular friends always secured plenty of customers. If Sam saw a passenger standing upon the wharf, instead of attending to his wants himself, he would say to one of his companions: "There's a chance fur you to make some money. Be lively, now, an' I'll see that nobody troubles, you;" and in this way, when the bully felt particularly good-natured and generous, he could put coppers into the pockets of any of the ferry-boys. Bob Jennings very seldom received any such favors at Sam's hands. Indeed, from some cause or another, he was not a favorite in Fishertown. The ferry-boys, as a general thing, were a "hard set," and Bob's feelings and aspirations were so different from theirs, that he did not care to associate with them any more than was necessary. This led the ferry-boys to believe that he thought himself better than they were—that he was very much "stuck-up," and that he needed "bringing down a peg or two." More than that, the fisher-boy did not believe in the principles which Sam pumped into him at every possible opportunity. He had had several stormy debates with the bully, on these points, and he had always been beaten. Sam could talk faster than Bob, and, besides, he always had ready an unanswerable argument. "Bobby Jennings," the bully would say, "look at you, an' then look at me. You believe that a feller hadn't oughter take any thing that he don't make by hard work, while I say that he had oughter use his wits, an' make his livin' the easiest way he can; an' the easier he makes it, the smarter he is. Now, who's the best off in the world? You've got only that leaky ole scow, that I wouldn't give fifteen cents fur, an' I own this yawl, which is painted up nice, and furnished with cushions fur my passengers to set down on. It's worth every cent of sixty dollars. Then I've got a skiff worth twenty dollars more. Now, who's the richest man? I am, in course; an' that's what comes of bein' sharp."

The fisher-boy did not know how to answer this argument, but still his faith in the old saying, which he had so often heard repeated by his mother—that "Honesty is the best policy"—was not shaken. He knew that, with Sam, being "sharp" meant being dishonest. It meant slipping around in a boat, of a dark night, and picking up any little thing that happened to be lying on the wharf, such as lumber, pieces of cordage, bits of iron, and even articles of freight, if any were exposed. That was what Sam meant by "being sharp;" but Bob, who had been taught to call things by their right names, pronounced it stealing. This, of course, made the bully very angry, and it was one reason why he so cordially disliked the fisher-boy. The latter, however, could get along very well without any assistance from Sam Barton. He had established a reputation, and he determined to render himself worthy of it. If he told one of his customers that a fish weighed five pounds exactly, and that it was fresh, the man never stopped to inquire: "Are you sure that you are not trying to cheat me, now?" but paid his money, took his fish, and went away satisfied. If there was any thing Bob was proud of, besides his skill as an oarsman, it was this reputation for honesty. His companions might make sport of his boat, or call him a ragamuffin, and he would bear it all good-naturedly, but let one of them hint that he was a poor boatman, or that he was not as honest as he ought to be, and the fisher-boy was aroused in an instant. This was the reason he had spoken so sharply to Sam, when the latter proposed that Bob should buy his skiff. He was angry; and he was troubled, too—not by the threats the bully had made, but by the thought that Sam Barton, or any one else, should, for an instant, have believed him mean enough to make use of the money which had come into his possession by accident.

"No, sir," said Bob to himself, "I won't do it. My motto hits this case exactly; and I'll stick to it, if I never get a better boat than this old scow."

Sam Barton was troubled also; but his feelings were very different from Bob's. He was angry with the fisher-boy because he had refused to give him one of the twenty-dollar gold pieces for his skiff, and, having promised to "get even" with him, he was thinking how he should go to work to put his threat into execution. By the time he reached home, he had decided upon a course of action, and when he had run the bow of his yawl upon the beach, and the fisher-boy had passed on out of hearing, he intimated to his companions that he had something very important to say to them. As soon as their boats had been secured, the ferry-boys gathered about their leader and waited for him to speak. They were a rough-looking set of fellows—ragged and dirty, barefooted and sunburned—and if Bob could have seen them at that moment, it might have induced the belief that Sam was really in earnest when he threatened to be revenged upon him.

"That ar Bobby Jennings has played me a mean trick," said the bully, "an' I jest aint a-goin' to stand it: he's goin' to give back them gold pieces as soon as he sees that man ag'in, when he knows all the while that I want to sell him my skiff. Now, aint that a mean trick, boys?"

"In course!" answered all the boys at once; but it is difficult to see how they reached this conclusion, unless it was because they were afraid of Sam.

"So do I call it a mean trick," continued the latter, shaking his fists in the air, and growing angrier every moment. "I say that ar Bobby Jennings is the meanest feller on this ere beach. He's so stuck up that he won't go round with us of nights, an' we aint a-goin' to let no feller stay here who thinks himself better than we be. We're goin' to run him away from here, now; we'll make Fishertown too hot to hold him."

"How will we do it?" asked one of the boys.

"Easy enough. In the first place, I want all you fellers to watch him, an' take every passenger, away from him that you can. Don't let him take a man across the harbor from this time on. In the next place, that ole scow of his'n is the only thing he's got to make a livin' with, an' some dark night we'll slip up to his shantee, run her out into the bay, an' sink her."

"Then he'll get another, somewhere."

"That's jest what I want him to do. Can't you see through a ladder? He can't live without a boat, no more'n he could live without his head, and when he finds that his ole scow is gone, mebbe he'll buy my skiff. If he does, we'll let him alone. Remember, now: watch him close, an' take all his passengers."

Sam, having nothing further to say just then, dismissed his companions, who walked off threatening vengeance against the fisher-boy.