WALKING TO BOSTON.—SUSPECTED TO BE RUNAWAYS.—FIND A SHIP AND SIGN ARTICLES.

We had a good sixty miles to walk, yes, sixty-five of them, from our homes to Boston. There was a stage coach which ran daily each way, but it was five miles from our house to the nearest point of the turnpike road, on which the stage traveled. We were too poor to afford such a magnificent conveyance, and therefore had arranged to walk the entire distance. In addition to our bundles or packs which I had already described, David having an outfit exactly like mine, we had provisions enough, as we hoped, to last until we reached Boston, and a cash capital of a little over five dollars each. We were strong lads, and capable of a great deal of exertion, and we figured out that we would walk the distance in two days, begging the privilege of sleeping in a barn during the intervening night. I left home immediately after breakfast, which was served an hour earlier than usual, in order to give me a good start. It was the same at David's house, and it was not yet seven o'clock before we were on the road. We got along all right for ten or twelve miles, meeting perhaps a dozen people in wagons or on foot, and just stopping long enough to "pass the time of day." Our first adventure was with a man in a wagon and accompanied by a boy of about our age. The man spoke to us rather gruffly, asked who we were, and where we were going.

We told him our names and our fathers' names, where we lived, and the rest that the reader knows.

"I don't think you're telling the truth," said the man.

"We have told you the exact truth," I answered, "and my friend David will say the same thing."

"Of course he would do so," was the answer, "but that won't make it true. I believe you're a pair of runaway apprentices, and I'm going to arrest you!"

"We are nothing of the sort," I answered, "we have never been apprenticed to anybody, and we're not running away."

"We'll see about that," was his reply, "get into the hind part of my wagon, and come back to the village."

David and I exchanged glances momentarily, and each shook his head. David said, in a low whisper, "We won't go. It will lose us too much time."

Thereupon I spoke up and answered, "We don't want to ride in your wagon back to the village or anywhere else, and we won't do it. We will keep on our road, and if you choose to bring the sheriff to arrest us you may do so. We warn you beforehand, that we shall demand that our expenses shall be paid if you find out that we have told the truth."

"Get into the wagon, I say. Do as I tell you!"

David was about to speak up, when I shook my head and warned him to be silent. I briefly replied, "Good-day, sir," David doing the same, and we proceeded on our journey.

The man called after us two or three times. In fact, he got down from his wagon, throwing the reins into the hands of the boy that accompanied him. We quickened our pace, and I suppose he realized that he would have a very difficult task to coerce two able-bodied youths of seventeen into entering his wagon against their wills. At all events, he did not follow us, and, looking over my shoulder, I saw him remount his wagon-seat and proceed on his way.

Perhaps I ought to explain that it was the custom of that time to apprentice, or bind out, boys to learn trades. According to law and practice, a boy was bound to serve his master for seven years, in return for learning the trade and being fed and clothed during the time of his apprenticeship. Sometimes the apprentice received wages for his services during the last year, or the last two or three years, of his time; and sometimes a premium was paid by the apprentice or on his behalf. A good deal depended on the character of the trade in which he was engaged, and also upon the excess or scarcity of boys wishing to learn trades.

The man who stopped us was fairly justified in suspecting that we were runaway apprentices, as it was in no ways unusual for boys who had been bound out and thought that they were badly treated, to run away from their masters. Usually they went in pairs, and they also directed their steps to the nearest important seaport, for the double reason that they could more easily avoid recapture, and at the same time find employment of some sort. The great majority of the boys of that time had, like David and myself, a longing for the sea, and it was quite natural for any one meeting us on the road to conclude that we were what the man supposed us to be when he endeavored to stop us.

We kept steadily on our way and met with no further trouble. When we judged, by the position of the sun and also by the distance we had traveled that it was past the hour of noon, we sat down by the bank of a brook at the roadside, opened our packs, and took out our dinner. We had ravenous appetites from our long walk, and the cold meat and bread which had been prepared for us was quickly eaten. We washed it down with water from the brook, and after resting for perhaps half an hour, went on.

About sunset we reached a good-looking house on the right-hand side of the road, and perhaps a hundred yards away from it. Somewhat timidly we approached, going around to the side door, and not venturing to make our call at the front one. A stern-looking man came out, and before we spoke he eyed us with apparent suspicion. Evidently he was like the man on the road and took us for runaway apprentices; at all events his manner had very little welcome in it and I thought it best to explain at once who we were.

"We are the sons of Samuel Crane and William Taylor of Pembroke," I said. "We are on our way to Boston, with our fathers' consent, to go to sea, and we ask the privilege of sleeping in your barn to-night if you have no objection. If you want us to do any work to pay for our lodging, we are ready to do it, or we will pay in money if you insist."

The idea of paying for sleeping in a barn seemed to hit him on the funny side, as the sternness of his features relaxed, and a smile played about them. In reply to my statement and request he said,—

"Looks to me very much as though you youngsters were running away from your masters. Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yes, sir," I replied; "we are telling you the exact truth. We have no papers about us to prove who we are, but we give you our words that we are not runaways at all, but just what we claim to be."

"Let me see what you have in that bundle," said the man. "I want to be sure you haven't taken anything that doesn't belong to you."

I felt a flush of anger as he made this suggestion, and was about to reply rather tartly to the intimation that we might have stolen something. But the consciousness of my innocence of any wrong-doing, and, furthermore, the knowledge that the contents of our packs would prove it, restrained me. I said not a word, but undid my bundle and spread the contents before his eyes.

He gave a rapid glance at the articles displayed, and said in a sort of undertone, "New clothes, new stockings, new shirt; nothing else; all right." Then addressing himself to us directly, he said,—

"Boys, I believe just what you've told me. No runaway apprentice carries a pack like that. You are welcome to sleep in my barn; no, you sha'n't do that, you shall sleep in the house! You're hungry, and will want some supper; come right in."

"Thank you, sir," I said; "our mothers put up something for us to eat, enough to last us to Boston, provided we are economical. So we can eat our supper out here under the trees, and will sleep wherever you tell us to."

"Oh, nonsense, boys, come into the house and eat supper here. Save your provisions for to-morrow, and then you can eat just as hearty a dinner as you want to on the road without fear of starvation."

We thanked him and accepted his invitation. We had a good supper, and after it sat and talked with the farmer perhaps for an hour or more, told him our plans, and all about ourselves and families. The farmer and his wife were very kind to us; they told us they had two children, a boy about our age, and a girl two or three years younger. Both of them were away on a visit to some relatives in a neighboring town, and I fancied that the farmer and his wife were rather glad of their absence, lest we might have aroused in their boy a desire to follow our example.

We found that we had walked a little more than half the entire distance from our homes to Boston; if we traveled at the same rate we would reach Boston at sunset of the next day. As we were leaving the house of our hospitable friend in the morning, after a good breakfast, for which and the supper and lodging he would take no compensation, he suggested to us that we had better stop outside of Boston three or four miles, so as to enter the city in the morning.

"Your best way of going into Boston is through Charlestown," he said. "When you get about three miles this side of Boston look out for a red house on the left of the road, with a clump of trees around it, and ask if that is where Mr. Johnson lives. Tell him you spent the night with me, my name is Samuel Bickford, and I recommended you to him. He may have the same suspicion of you as I had, and you can satisfy him just as you satisfied me as to your character, and you can convince him that you passed the night at my house by describing the place and the folks in it."

We thanked him very kindly for his advice, and promised that if it ever came in our way we would certainly make a return for his hospitality. I little thought at that time that the opportunity would ever arrive, and certainly I did not, in my wildest dreams, imagine the way in which it would come about.

As I look back now to our reception at this house, I take great credit to David and myself that we made such a favorable impression on our host.

It was then about seventeen years since the close of the Revolutionary War, and during all this time the country had been overrun by idle fellows who served in the army, and after the disbandment of the troops took to a wandering, and, in many cases, a dissolute, life. They tramped along the principal highways, and, in fact, over pretty nearly all the roads of New England. They begged their food and lodging, though more frequently they stole the lodging outright, as they slept in barns without troubling themselves to ask the privilege of doing so.

As the years rolled on their number decreased, but at the time of which I write they were quite numerous, and in winter filled the jails and poor-houses to over-flowing. Like ourselves, they had an aversion to winter travel, but started out in the spring. You will remember that we left home in the spring, and consequently were beginning our journeys at the same time as these tramping idlers began theirs.

They pretended to be seeking work, but were careful never to find it. In summer they wanted a job at shoveling snow, and in winter professed to be hay-makers. People living along the highways had suffered much from the beggary and depredation of this class of individuals, and consequently it is more the wonder that our host so readily accepted our story and gave us the hospitality of his house. It must have been that the frank and honest faces of David and myself served as our passports on that occasion.

We found Mr. Johnson's house without difficulty, were received at first in the same suspicious manner as on the night before, and afterwards with the same open-handed hospitality. In the morning we walked rapidly into Boston, and, not knowing where to go, headed straight for the water-front and the ships that lay there.

As we crossed the bridge from Charlestown to Boston, our curiosity was roused at the sight of the vessels anchored in the harbor or lying at the piers. We had never before seen a ship; the largest floating craft of any kind that had ever greeted our eyes were the row-boats on the Merrimac River, and the cargo-boats that plied occasionally between the falls along that stream. Neither kind of craft was numerous, and all were the merest pigmies compared with the vessels we saw after we reached Boston.

As we stood looking at a ship at the head of one of the wharves, a man came up and spoke to us. He asked who we were, and where we had come from; to both of which questions we promptly replied. Then he said,—

"I suppose you've come to Boston to find a ship, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir." I answered; "that's what we've come for. Can you tell us of a ship that is going to sea right away?"

"Yes, I can," he answered; "this ship right here, the Washington, is going to sail just as soon as she can get a crew. How old are you?"

We told our ages, and added that we knew nothing about ships at all, but thought we could learn.

"Oh, you'll learn quick enough," he answered, "there's no fear of that. I'll go aboard with you, and see if the captain will take you along. Come ahead, boys, this way, come along."

He started in the direction of the ship, which was tied up to the wharf, and we followed. He led us up the gang-plank, and very quickly we found ourselves standing on the deck of what seemed to us a colossal craft.

"Stay here a minute," said our new-found friend, "while I find the captain;" and away he went in search of that individual.

Very soon he returned and took us aft to the captain's room. The captain questioned us very sharply, and he did not impress either of us favorably. After a good many questions he seemed satisfied, and said he would take us as green hands. Then he called the mate of the ship to accompany us to the shipping office, where we "signed articles," and then went with the mate to the ship again.

The man who had first accosted us disappeared when he introduced us to the captain, and we did not see him again until he came on board with a sailor who was considerably under the influence of liquor. The man proved to be a runner for the ship, or rather for the shipping office that had undertaken to supply the Washington with a crew. Two likely lads like ourselves were prizes for him, but he did not consider it worth his while to say so.

The mate showed us where we were to sleep, and small as had been the garrets in which we slept at home, they were palatial compared with our new quarters. We were in the forward part of the vessel, and each of us had a narrow bunk that was built up against the sides. There was just room enough in each bunk to lie there comfortably; turning over was a matter of difficulty, and David said that the best way to turn over was to turn out and then get in the other way.

Then the mate went with us to a shop not far away, where we were rigged out with sailors' suits, which he said would be charged against us on the ship's books. "Anything you want," said he, "on the voyage, you will get out of the slop-chest, and be charged with it in the same way."

The clothing we had taken off was made into bundles, and then we started with the mate back to the ship again. On our journey from the ship to the shop we followed him; but on the return he kept us in front, and so near that he could grasp either of our collars at the same time. He had been quite good-natured and pleasant spoken, but now that we had been shipped and were dressed as sailors, he was very gruff, and ordered, rather than requested us. When we got on board the ship he was all right again.

I didn't understand it then, but did afterward. You see that, the moment we got into those new clothes, we were in possession of ship's property, and if we had run away there would have been a loss of the value of the goods. It was the mate's duty to see that we didn't run away, and he carried it out fully.

When we got on board we were set at work clearing up things about the ship. Her deck was covered with lumber, and, though her hold was nearly full of cargo, packages, barrels, and boxes continued to arrive at frequent intervals. As fast as they came they were lowered into the hold, and before sunset the space below was crowded to its full capacity, and the hatches were put on. In our work we had nothing to do with the cargo, but were put in charge of a good-natured sailor named Bill Haines, who was to show us how to perform our duties. We got along with him very well, but when night came we were heartily tired, and after a supper of stewed beef and potatoes, with dry biscuit, we went to our bunks and slept soundly. No, I can't say that we slept soundly, but we would have done so had we not been disturbed repeatedly during the night by the arrival of other members of the crew, the majority of them in a condition of greater or less intoxication.

Then, too, the place was badly ventilated, and the air was very foul. I compared it with our garrets at home, with thin cracks that allowed the wind to blow in upon us, and the comparison was not at all in favor of the ship. I had a headache in the morning, and so had David; but a few whiffs of the air on deck made us all right again.