TIM AND TIP

HARPER’S YOUNG PEOPLE’S SERIES

New Large-type Edition

HARPER & BROTHERS
PUBLISHERS

[TIM SHOWS THE MARKS OF CAPTAIN BABBIGE’S WHIP]

TIM AND TIP

or

The Adventures of a Boy
and a Dog

BY

JAMES OTIS

Author of “Mr. Stubbs’s Brother,”
“Toby Tyler,” Etc.

ILLUSTRATED

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

TIM AND TIP

Copyright, 1883, by Harper & Brothers

Copyright, 1911, by James Otis Kaler

Printed in the U. S. A.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

TIM AND TIP

TIM AND TIP

OR,

The Adventures of a Boy and a Dog

Chapter I.
TIM’S FLIGHT.

“Strayed.—A boy from the home of the subscriber; and any one returning him will be suitably rewarded. Said boy is about eleven years old, has short, light hair, a turned-up nose, and face very much tanned. When last seen he had on a suit of blue clothes considerably faded and worn, and had with him a yellow dog, with a long body, short legs, and a short tail. The boy answers to the name of Tim, and the dog to that of Tip. Any information regarding the runaway will be liberally paid for. Address Captain Rufus Babbige, in care of this office.”

“There, Tim,” said the man who had been reading the advertisement aloud from the columns of a country newspaper to a very small boy, with large, dark eyes, and an exceedingly dirty face, who was listening intently, “you see that Rufe Babbige don’t intend to let you get away as easy as you thought, for he’s willing to pay something for any news of you, though I’ll be bound he won’t part with very much money.”

“But he always said he wished I’d have sense enough to die,” replied the boy, trying to choke down the sob of terror which would rise in his throat at the idea of being thus advertised for as though he were a thief; “an’ it don’t seem to me that there’s been a day but what he or Aunt Betsey have given me a whippin’ since my mother died. Look here!”

As he spoke the boy pushed the ragged coat sleeves up from his thin arms, showing long discolorations which had evidently been made by a whip-lash.

“It’s all over me just like that, an’ I don’t see what he wants Tip an’ me back for, ’cause he’s always said he wished he was rid of us.”

“It’s a shame to treat a boy that always behaved himself as well as you did like that,” said the proprietor of the country store into which the runaway had entered to purchase a couple of crackers, “an’ I don’t see what the folks up in Selman were thinking of to let him abuse you so. I don’t approve of boys running away, but in your case I think the only fault is that you didn’t run sooner.”

“But now that he’s put it in the paper he’ll be sure to catch me, for I’m only six miles from Selman;” and the big tears began to roll down the boy’s cheeks, marking their course by the clean lines they left on the dirty face.

“Anybody that knows him wouldn’t any more think of sending you back to him than they would of cutting your hand off,” said the man, as he shook his fist savagely in the direction Captain Babbige was supposed to be.

“But what does he want us for, when he’s always wanted to get rid of us?” persisted the boy, stooping down to caress a very queer-looking dog, whose body seemed to have been stretched out, and whose legs looked as if they had been worn down by much running.

“I reckon I can tell you why he wants you, Tim, and when you get older it’ll do you some good to know it. He’s your uncle, an’ your legal guardian, an’ I’ve been told by them that knows that he’s got quite a sum of money belonging to you, which would all be his if you should die. Some day when you are of age you come back here and claim it; but don’t you let him get hold of you again now.”

“Indeed I won’t,” replied the boy, trembling at the thought of the fate which would be his if he should be so unlucky as to fall into the captain’s clutches again.

“Run away from here so far that he can’t find you, and when you get a place where you can go to work be as good a boy as I’ve always known you to be, and you’ll come out of this trouble by being a good, honest man. Here’s a couple of dollars for you, and I only wish it was in my power to take you home with me and keep you. But Rufe Babbige would soon break that up, and the best thing you can do is to trudge off as fast as possible.”

The boy tried to thank the kind-hearted shopkeeper, but the tears were coming so fast, and the big sob in his throat had got so far up toward his mouth, that he could not utter a word.

Just then a customer entered the store, and he hurried away at once, closely followed by the odd-looking dog, who displayed, in his way, quite as much affection for the boy as the boy did for him.

Down through the one street of the little village, out on to the country road, the two walked as if they were already foot-sore and weary; and when at last they came to where the road wound along through the woods Tim sat down on a rock to rest, while Tip huddled up close beside him.

“It’s kinder too bad to be called such names in the papers, ain’t it, Tip?” said the boy, speaking for the first time since they had left the store, “an’ I think he ought to be ’shamed of hisself to talk so about you. It ain’t your fault if your legs is short an’ your tail gone; you’re worth more’n all the dogs in this world, an’ you’re all that I’ve got to love me, an’ we’ll never go back to let Captain Babbige beat us any more, will we, Tip?”

Just then the dog, which had been chewing some blades of grass, got one in his nose, a mishap which caused him to sneeze and shake his head vigorously; while Tim, who firmly believed that Tip understood all that was said to him, looked upon this as a token that the dog agreed to what he had said, and he continued, earnestly:

“I know just as well as you do, Tip, that it wasn’t right for us to run away, but how could we help it? They kept tellin’ us we was in the way an’ they wished we’d die, and everybody that was kind to us told us we’d better do just what we have done. Now we’re off in the big, wide world all by ourselves, Tip, an’ whether the cap’en catches us or not, you’ll love me just as much as you always have, won’t you, for you’re all I’ve got that cares for me?”

The dog was still busy trying to settle the question about the grass in his nose, and after that was decided in his favor he looked up at his young master and barked several times, as if expressing his opinion about something, which the boy interpreted as advice.

“Well, I s’pose you’re right, Tip—we had ought to go along, for if we don’t we sha’n’t even find a barn to sleep in, as we did last night.”

As he spoke Tim arose wearily from his hard seat, his legs stiff from long walking, and trudged along, while Tip followed as closely at his heels as it was possible for him to get.

It was nearly sunset, and as he walked on it seemed as if he was getting farther into the woods, instead of coming out at some place where he could find shelter for the night.

“Looks kinder lonesome, don’t it, Tip?” and Tim choked back a sob as he spoke. “I don’t want to sleep out here in the woods if I can help it; but it wouldn’t be half so bad if one of us was alone, would it?”

In this fashion, keeping up a sort of a conversation—if it could be called such where one did all the talking and the other wagged his short stump of a tail—the two journeyed on until it was almost too dark to distinguish objects a short distance ahead.

Only once since the store-keeper had given him the two dollars had Tim thought of what he had said regarding Captain Babbige’s having money of his, and then he put it out of his mind as an impossibility, for surely, he thought, he would not have scolded so about what he and his dog ate if Tim had had any property of his own.

“I guess we shall have to sleep in the woods, Tip,” said Tim, disconsolately, as the trees appeared to be less thick together, but yet no signs of a house; “but it won’t be much worse than what Aunt Betsey calls a bed good enough for boys like me.”

Just at that instant Tim was frightened out of nearly all his senses, and Tip started on a barking match that threatened to shake his poor apology of a tail from his thin body, by hearing a shrill voice cry out:

“Look here, feller, where are you goin’ this time of night?”

Chapter II.
SAM, THE FAT BOY.

Tim stopped as quickly as if he had stepped into a pool of glue which had suddenly hardened, holding him prisoner, and peered anxiously ahead, trying to discover where the voice came from.

“Didn’t know there was anybody ’round here, did yer?” continued the voice, while the body still remained hidden from view.

Again Tim tried to discover the speaker, and, failing in the attempt, he asked, in a sort of frightened desperation, “Who are you, anyhow?”

“Call off yer dog, an’ I’ll show yer.”

These words made Tim feel very much braver, for they showed that the speaker as well as himself was frightened, and he lost no time in reducing Tip to a state of subjection by clasping him firmly around the neck.

“Now come out; he wouldn’t hurt a fly, an’ it’s only his way to bark when he’s kinder scared.”

Thus urged, the party afraid of the dog came out of his place of hiding, which was none other than the branches of a tree, by simply dropping to the ground—a proceeding which gave another shock to the nerves of both Tim and Tip.

But there was nothing about him very alarming, and when Tim had a full view of him, he was inclined to be angry with himself for having allowed so short a boy to frighten him. He was no taller than Tim and, as near as could be seen in the dim light, about as broad as he was long—a perfect ball of jelly, with a face, two legs, and two arms carved on it.

It was impossible to gain a good view of his face, but that did not trouble Tim, who was only anxious to learn who this boy was, and whether he might be sufficiently acquainted with Captain Babbige to send him news of the runaway.

The new-comer did not appear to be in any hurry to begin the conversation, but stood, with his hands in his pockets, eying Tim as though he was some strange animal who might be expected to cut up queer antics at any moment.

“Hullo!” said Tim, after he thought the fat boy had looked at him quite as long as was necessary.

“Hullo!” was the reply.

“Where did you come from?”

“Outer that tree there,” replied the boy, bravely, as he pointed to the place where he had been hiding.

“Yes, I saw you come out of there; but that ain’t where you live, is it?”

“No.”

“Where do you live?” And Tim was beginning to think that it required a great deal of labor to extract a small amount of knowledge from this fat party.

“Oh, I live over the hill, about half a mile down the road. Got anything good to eat?”

The question seemed so unnecessary and out of place, considering all the circumstances, that Tim took no notice of it, but asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Sam what?”

“I dunno, but I guess it’s Simpson.”

“Well, you’re funny if you ain’t sure what your name is,” said Tim, thoughtfully, forgetting his own troubles in his curiosity about this queer specimen. “What makes you think your name’s Simpson?”

“’Cause that’s my father’s name.”

By this time Tim had released his hold of Tip’s neck, and the dog walked around Sam on a sort of smelling tour, very much to the boy’s discomfort.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Tim, “he won’t bite you. He’s the best and quietest dog in the world if you only let him alone.”

“I’ll let him alone,” replied Sam, still in doubt as to Tip’s good intentions. “I’ll let him alone, an’ I wish he’d let me alone.”

“He’s only kinder gettin’ acquainted, that’s all. Say, do you s’pose your father would let me sleep in his barn to-night?”

“I dunno. What do you want to for?”

“’Cause I ain’t got any other place.”

If Sam hadn’t been so fat he would probably have started in surprise; but as it was he expressed his astonishment by a kind of grunt, and, going nearer to Tim, he asked, “Where do you live?”

“Nowhere. Me an’ Tip are tryin’ to find some place where we can earn our own livin’,” replied Tim, in doubt as to whether he ought to tell this boy his whole story or not.

“Ain’t you got any father or mother?”

“No,” was the sad reply. “They’re both dead, an’ me an’ Tip have to look out for ourselves. We did live with Captain Babbige, but we couldn’t stand it any longer, an’ so we started out on our own hook.”

“Where do you get things to eat?”

“We’ve got some money to buy ’em with.”

“How much have you got?”

“I had two cents when I left Selman, an’ Mr. Sullivan, that keeps a store down to the mills, gave me two dollars.”

“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” said Sam, eagerly, as his eyes sparkled with delight. “Jest the other side of my house there’s a store, an’ we can go down there an’ get two big sticks of candy, an’ have an awful good time.”

Tim reflected a moment. He knew that he ought to keep his money; but Sam’s idea seemed such a good one that the thought of the pleasure which would come with the eating of the candy was too much for his notions of economy; therefore he compromised by saying, “I will, if you’ll let me sleep in your barn.”

Sam quickly agreed to that—in order to get the candy he would probably have promised to give the entire farm away—and the three—Sam, Tim and Tip—started off, the best of friends.

But before they had gone very far Sam stopped in the middle of the road, saying, mournfully, “My! but I forgot all about the cow!”

“What cow?”

“Father sent me down here to find old Whiteface, an’ I forgot all about her when I saw you.”

“Well, why don’t you find her now? Me an’ Tip will help you.”

“But it’ll take so long, an’ before we get back the store will be shut up,” objected Sam, who stood undecided in the road, as if he had half a mind to leave old Whiteface to her fate while he made sure of the candy.

“Never mind if the store is shut up,” said Tim, earnestly. “We can get the candy just as well in the morning, an’ perhaps we’ll find her so quick that there’ll be plenty of time.”

“Will you buy the candy in the mornin’ if you don’t to-night?”

“Yes, I will, honest.”

“Cross your throat.”

Tim went through the ceremony of crossing his throat to make his promise more solemn, and search was made for the cow.

Up to this time it was plain that Sam did not feel any great amount of love for or confidence in Tip; but when, after a few moments’ search, his loud bark told that he had discovered the missing cow, his future was assured, so far as Sam Simpson was concerned.

“Now, that’s somethin’ like,” he said, after they had started homeward. “When you’ve got such a dog as that, all a feller’s got to do is to set down an’ send him after ’em. It’s the awfullest hateful thing in the world to go off huntin’ cows when you don’t want to.”

Tim had many and serious doubts as to whether Tip could be depended on to go for the cows alone; but he did not think it best to put those doubts in words, lest he should deprive his pet of his new-found friend.

It was only a ten minutes’ walk to Sam’s home, and when the cow had been led to her stall Tim proposed that Sam should ask permission for him to sleep in the barn.

“There’s time enough for that when we come back,” was Sam’s reply, the thought of the candy he was to have in case they reached the store before it was closed for the night driving all else from his mind. “Come on; we’ll catch Mr. Coburn if we hurry.”

Now, Tim would much rather have had the question settled as to his sleeping quarters before starting out for pleasure; but Sam was so eager for the promised feast that he felt obliged to do as he said, more especially since it was through his influence that he hoped to receive the favor.

Naturally Sam Simpson was not a quick-motioned boy; but no one could have complained of the speed with which he went toward Mr. Coburn’s store that night, and Tim found it hard work to keep pace with him.

The store was open, but the proprietor was just making preparations for closing. The candy, placed in two rather dirty glass jars, was in its accustomed place, and beamed down upon them in all its sticky sweetness, delighting Sam simply by the view to such an extent that he could hardly keep his two feet upon the floor.

With a gravity befitting the occasion and the amount of wealth he was about to squander, Tim asked to be allowed to see the goods he proposed to buy, in order to make sure they were of the proper length.

Old Mr. Coburn rubbed his glasses carefully, wiped his face as a sort of preface to his task, and set about making this last sale of the day with the air of a man who knows he is called upon to deal with very exacting customers.

It was fully five minutes before Tim could settle the weighty question of whether it was better to buy a stick of peppermint and one of lemon, and thus by dividing them get two distinct treats, or to take both of one kind, and thus prevent any dispute as to whether he had made a just and equal division.

[“PEPPERMINT OR LEMON?”]

While this struggle was going on in the purchaser’s mind Sam fidgeted around, standing first on one foot and then on the other, watching every movement Tim made, while Tip searched over every portion of the store, very much to Mr. Coburn’s annoyance.

The decision was finally made, but not before Mr. Coburn hinted that he could not afford to burn a quart of oil in order that his customers might see how to spend two cents, and, with a peppermint stick in one hand and a lemon stick in the other, Tim left the store, followed by Sam and preceded by Tip.

To make a fair division of the sweet feast was quite as great a task as the purchase had been, and it was begun in the gravest manner.

The two sticks were carefully measured, and by the aid of Sam’s half-bladed jack-knife, broken at the proper place. A large rock by the side of the road served as a seat, and there the two boys munched away as slowly as possible, in order that the feast might be prolonged to the utmost.

Tip sat close by, watching every mouthful in a hungry way, but refusing the portion Tim offered him.

Now that the feast was fast fading away into only a remembrance, the thought of where he was to spend the night began to trouble Tim again, and he asked, anxiously, “Sure your father will let me sleep in the barn?”

Before the candy had been purchased the fat boy had been perfectly sure Tim could sleep in his father’s barn; but now that the dainty was in his possession he began to have some doubts on the subject.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he said, his mouth so full of candy that Tim could hardly understand him. “Father an’ mother will be in bed when we get home, an’ it won’t be any use to bother ’em. You come right up-stairs to bed with me, an’ we’ll fix it in the morning.”

“I’d rather ask them, an’ sleep in the barn,” said Tim, not half liking this plan.

“But they’ll be asleep, an’ you can’t,” was the quiet reply.

“Then I’d rather go in the barn anyway.”

“Now see here,” said Sam, with an air of wisdom, as he sucked the remaining particles of candy from his fingers, “I know father an’ mother better’n you do, don’t I?”

“Yes,” replied Tim, glad that Sam had made one statement with which he could agree.

“Then you do jest as I tell you. We’ll creep up-stairs like a couple of mice, an’ in the morning I’ll fix everything. Mother wouldn’t want you to sleep in the barn when you could come with me as well as not; an’ you do as I tell you.”

It did not seem to Tim that he could do anything else, and he said, as he slid down from the rock, “I’ll do it, Sam, but I rather you’d ask them.”

Sam, content with having gained his point, walked silently along, with Tim by his side, and followed by Tip, who acted as if he knew he was going out to spend the night without a proper invitation.

When they reached the house not a light was to be seen, and the three crept up-stairs, not quite as softly as mice, but so quietly that Mr. and Mrs. Simpson did not hear them.

That night Sam, Tim, and Tip lay on one bed, and neither one of them lost any sleep by thinking of their possible reception in the morning.

Chapter III.
TIP’S INTRODUCTION TO MRS. SIMPSON.

On the following morning Tim and Sam were awakened very suddenly by a confused noise, which appeared to come from the kitchen below, and which could not have been greater had a party of boys been engaged in a game of leap-frog there.

A woman’s screams were heard amid the crashing of furniture as it was overturned, the breaking of crockery, and the sounds of scurryings to and fro, while high above all came, at irregular intervals, the yelp of a dog.

This last sound caused Tim the greatest fear. A hasty glance around the room had shown him that Tip, who had been peacefully curled up on the outside of the bed when he last remembered anything, was no longer to be seen, and, without knowing how it could have happened, he was sure it was none other than his pet who was uttering those cries of distress.

In a few moments more he learned that he was not mistaken, for Tip rushed into the room, his tongue hanging out, his stub of a tail sticking straight up, and looking generally as though he had been having a hard time of it.

Before Tim, who had at once leaped out of bed, could comfort his pet, a voice, sounding as if its owner was sadly out of breath, was heard crying, “Sam! Sam! Sammy!”

“What, marm?” replied Sam, who lay quaking with fear, and repenting the fact that his desire for candy had led him into what looked very much like a bad scrape.

“Did a dog just come into your room?”

“Yes, marm.”

“Throw something at him and drive him out.”

For an instant Sam clutched the pillow as if he would obey the command; but Tim had his arms around Tip’s neck, ready to save him from any injury, even if he was obliged to suffer himself.

“Why don’t you drive him out?” cried Mrs. Simpson, after she had vainly waited to hear the sound of her son’s battle with the animal.

“Why—why—why—” stammered Sam, at a loss to know what to say, and trembling with fear.

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No, marm,” was the faltering reply.

“Then why don’t you do as I tell you?”

“Why—why, Tim won’t let me,” cried Sam, now so frightened that he hardly knew what he did say.

“Why, what’s the matter with the boy?” Tim heard the good woman say; and then the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs told that she was coming to make a personal investigation.

Sam, in a tremor of fear, rolled over on his face and buried his head in the pillow, as if by such a course he could shelter himself from the storm he expected was about to break upon him.

Tim was crouching in the middle of the floor, his face close down to Tip’s nose, and his arms clasped so tightly around the dog’s neck that it seemed as if he would choke him.

That was the scene Mrs. Simpson looked in upon after she had been nearly frightened out of her senses by a strange dog while she was cooking breakfast. She had tried to turn the intruder out-of-doors; but he, thinking she wanted to play with him, had acted in such a strange and at the same time familiar manner, that she had become afraid, and the confusion which had awakened the boys had been caused by both, when neither knew exactly what to do.

Mrs. Simpson stood at the room door looking in fully half a minute before she could speak, and then she asked, “What is the meaning of this, Samuel?”

Sam made no reply, but buried his face deeper in the pillows, while the ominous shaking of his fat body told that he was getting ready to cry in advance of the whipping he expected to receive.

“Who is this boy?” asked the lady, finding that her first question was likely to receive no reply.

Sam made no sign of life, and Tim, knowing that something must be said at once, replied piteously, “Please, ma’am, it’s only me an’ Tip.”

Sam’s face was still buried in the pillows; but the trembling had ceased, as if he was anxious to learn whether his companion could extricate himself from the position into which he had been led.

“Who are you, and how did you come here?” asked Mrs. Simpson, wonderingly.

Tim turned toward the bed, as if he expected Sam would answer that question; but that young man made no sign that he had even heard it, and Tim was obliged to tell the story.

“I’m only Tim Babbige, an’ this is Tip. We was tryin’ to find a place to sleep last night, when we met Sam, an’ after we’d found the cow we went down to the store an’ bought some candy, an’ when we come back Sam was goin’ to ask you to let me sleep in the barn, but you was in bed; so he said it was all right for me to come up here an’ sleep with him. I’m awful sorry I did it, an’ sorry Tip acted so bad; but if you won’t scold we’ll go right straight away.”

Mrs. Simpson was by no means a hard-hearted woman, and the boy’s explanation, as well as his piteous way of making it, caused her to feel kindly disposed toward him. She asked him about himself; and by the time he had finished telling of the death of his parents, the cruel treatment he had received from Captain and Mrs. Babbige, and of his desperate attempt at bettering his condition, her womanly heart had a great deal of sympathy in it for him.

Then Tim added, as if it was the last of his pitiful story, “Me an’ Tip ain’t got anybody who cares for us but each other, an’ if we don’t get a chance to work, so’s we can get some place to live, I don’t know what we will do.” Then he laid his head on the dog’s nose, and cried as though his little heart were breaking, while Tip set up a series of most doleful howls.

“You poor child,” said the good woman, kindly, “you’re not large enough to work for your living, and I don’t know what Mr. Simpson will say to your being here very long; but you shall stay till we see what can be done for you, whatever he says. Now, don’t cry any more, but dress yourself, and come down-stairs and help me clean up the litter the dog and I made. Sam, you lazy boy,” she added, as she turned toward her half-concealed son, “get up and dress yourself. You ought to be ashamed for not telling me last night what you were about.”

Then, patting Tim on the head, the good woman went down-stairs to attend to her household duties.

As soon as the sound of the closing door told that his mother had left the room Sam rolled out of bed, much as a duck gets out of her nest, and said triumphantly to Tim, who was busy dressing, “Well, we got out of that scrape all right, didn’t we?”

Tim looked up at him reproachfully, remembering Sam’s silence when the affair looked so dark; but he contented himself with simply saying, “Yes, it’s all right till we see what your father will say about it.”

“Oh, he won’t say anything so long as mother don’t,” was the confident reply; and the conversation was ended by Tim going down-stairs to help Mrs. Simpson in repairing the damage done by Tip.

Before he had been helping her very long he showed himself so apt at such work that she asked, “How does it happen that you are so handy at such things?”

“I don’t know,” replied Tim, bashfully, “’cept that Aunt Betsey always made me help her in the kitchen, an’ I s’pose it comes handy for a feller to do what he must do.”

By the time Sam came down-stairs the kitchen presented its usual neat appearance, and he was disposed to make light of his mother’s fright; but she soon changed his joy to grief by telling him to go to the spring for a pail of water.

Now, if there was one thing more than another which Sam disliked to do, it was to bring water from the spring. The distance was long, and he believed it was unhealthy for him to lift as much weight as that contained in a ten-quart pail of water. As usual, he began to make a variety of excuses, chief among which was the one that the water brought the night before was as cool and fresh as any that could be found in the spring.

Tim, anxious to make himself useful in any way, offered to go, and then Sam was perfectly willing to point out the spring, and to generally superintend the job.

“Tim may go to help you,” said Mrs. Simpson, “but you are not to let him do all the work.”

Sam muttered something which his mother understood to mean that he would obey her, and the boys left the house, going through the grove of pine-trees that bordered a little pond, at one side of which, sunk deep in the earth, was a hogshead, into which the water bubbled and flowed from its bed under the ground.

But Sam was far more interested in pointing out objects of interest to himself than in leading the way to the spring. He showed Tim the very hole where he had captured a woodchuck alive, called his attention to a tree in which he was morally certain a family of squirrels had their home, and enlarged upon the merits of certain kinds of traps best calculated to deceive the bushy-tailed beauties.

Tim did not fancy this idea of idling when there was work to be done; and as soon as he saw the spring he hurried off, in the middle of a story Sam was telling about a rabbit he caught the previous winter.

“What’s the use of bein’ in such a rush?” asked Sam, as, obliged to end his story, he ran after Tim. “Mother don’t want the water till breakfast’s ready, an’ that won’t be for a good while yet. Jest come over on this side the pond, an’ I’ll show you the biggest frog you ever saw in your life; that is, if he’s got out of bed yet.”

“Let’s get the water first, an’ then we can come back an’ see everything,” said Tim, as he hurried on.

“But jest come down here a minute while I see if I can poke him out of his hole,” urged Sam, as he picked up a stick and started for the frog’s home.

Tim paid no attention to him; he had been sent for water, and he did not intend to waste any time until that work had been done. He leaned over the side of the hogshead to lower the pail in, when Sam shouted, “Come here; I’ve found him!”

But Tim went on with his work; and just as he had filled the pail, and was drawing it up, he heard a cry of fear, accompanied by a furious splashing, which he knew could not come from a frog, however large he might be.

Dropping his pail, at the risk of having it sink beyond his reach, he looked up just in time to see a pair of very fat legs sticking above the water at that point where the frog was supposed to reside, and to hear a gurgling sound, as if the owner of the legs was strangling.

For a single moment Tim was at a loss to account for the disappearance of Sam, and the sudden appearance of those legs; but by seeing Tip run toward the spot, barking furiously, and by seeing the stick which was to have disturbed the frog in his morning nap floating on the water, he understood that Sam had fallen into the pond, without having had half so much fun with the frog as he expected.

Tim, now thoroughly frightened, ran quickly toward his unfortunate companion, calling loudly for help.

When he reached the bank from which Sam had slipped the legs were still sticking straight up in the air, showing that their owner’s head had stuck fast in the mud. By holding on to the bushes with one hand, and stretching out the other, he succeeded in getting hold of Sam’s trousers, at which he struggled and pulled with all his strength. Although it could hardly be expected that so slight a boy as Tim could do very much toward handling so heavy a body as Sam’s, he did succeed in freeing him from the mud, and in pulling him to the surface of the water.

After nearly five minutes of hard work, during which Tip did all he could to help, Tim succeeded in pulling the fat boy into more shallow water, where he managed to get on to his feet again.

A mournful-looking picture he made as he stood on the bank, with the water running from every point of his clothing, while the black mud in which he had been stuck formed a cap for his head, and portions of it ran down over his face, striping him as decidedly as ever fancy painted an Indian.

He was a perfect picture of fat, woe, and dirt, and if he had not been in such peril a few moments before Tim would have laughed outright.

He was evidently trying to say something, for he kept gasping for breath, and each time he opened his mouth it was filled with the mud and water that ran from his hair.

“What is the matter?” asked Tim, anxiously. “Art you hurt much?”

“No—no,” gasped Sam; “but—but I saw the frog.”

This time Tim did not try to restrain his mirth; and when Mrs. Simpson, who had been startled by Tim’s cries for help, arrived on the spot, she found nothing very alarming. Master Sam received a severe shaking, and was led away to be cleaned while Tim and Tip were left to attend to the work of bringing the water.

At breakfast—where Sam ate so heartily that it was evident he had not been injured by his bath—the question of what should be done about allowing Tim to remain was discussed by Mr. and Mrs. Simpson.

The farmer said that a boy as small as he could not earn his salt, and it would be better for him to try to find a family who had no boys of their own, or go back to Captain Babbige, where he belonged. He argued, while Tim listened in fear, that it was wrong to encourage boys to run away from their lawful protectors, and was inclined to make light of the suffering Tim had told about.

Fortunately for the runaway, Mrs. Simpson believed his story entirely, and would not listen to any proposition to send him back to Selman. The result of the matter was that Mr. Simpson agreed to allow him to remain there a few days, but with the distinct understanding that his stay must be short.

This was even more than the homeless boy had expected, and he appeared so thankful and delighted at the unwilling consent that the farmer began to think perhaps there was more in him than appeared on the surface, although he still remained firm in his decision that he must leave the farm as soon as possible.

Chapter IV.
TIM’S START IN LIFE.

During the first day of Tim’s stay at the Simpson farm he was careful to help in every kind of work, and many were the praises he won from Mrs. Simpson, who held him up as an example to Sam until that young man almost felt sorry he had brought him there.

At night Tim went with Sam for the cow, and here it was that Tip made a most miserable failure, so far as showing that he was a valuable dog was concerned.

Sam, remembering how easily the dog had found the cow the night before, wanted to wait by the bars and let Tip go in and bring her out, and Tim was obliged to tell him that his pet had not been trained to do that.

Then Sam put on an injured air, as if his mistake had come from something Tim had said, rather than being an idea from his own rather thick head.

That night the boys and the dog went again to Mr. Coburn’s store; not because Tim proposed to spend any of his two dollars, but because there was a great fascination about the place for Sam. He delighted to lounge around there, at a time when he ought to have been in bed, listening to the conversation of older loafers, believing he was gaining wisdom and an insight into the ways of the world at the same time.

On that particular night there were not so many of the noble army of loafers present as usual, and the conversation was so dull that Mr. Coburn found plenty of time to question Tim as to every little particular about himself.

Tim saw no reason why he should gratify the store-keeper’s curiosity, and perhaps let some one know his story who would think it his duty to send information to Captain Babbige, so he contented himself by simply saying that he had come there in the hope of getting some work to do.

“Want to work, do yer?” asked a stout man, with a very red face and gruff voice, who had been listening to the conversation.

“Yes, sir,” replied Tim, a trifle awed by the gruffness of the voice.

“What can you do?” and the red-faced man now turned to have a better view.

“’Most anything, sir.”

“Where are yer folks?”

“My father an’ mother are dead,” said Tim, sadly, as he stooped to pat Tip’s head in a loving way.

“Well, now, see here,” and the man took Tim by the arm, as if he was about to examine his muscle: “I’m the captain of a steamboat that runs out of the city, and I want just such a boy as you are to work ’round at anything. I’ll give you three dollars a month and find you. What do you say to it? Will you come?”

Tim was not exactly certain what the gruff-voiced man meant when he said he would pay him so much money and “find him,” and he hesitated about answering until he could understand it.

Mr. Coburn thought it was the wages that prevented a speedy acceptance of the brilliant offer, and he hastened to show his friendliness to the captain by saying:

“Such offers as them don’t grow on every bush, sonny, an’ you had better take it. I’ve known Captain Pratt a good many years, an’ I know he will treat you just as if he was your father. Three dollars is a good deal of money for a little shaver like you.”

Tim looked at Sam for a moment doubtfully, and then he thought of what Mr. Simpson had said about his remaining at the farm.

“Can I take Tip with me?”

“Oh, that’s your dog, is it? He hain’t a very handsome one; but I suppose you can find a chance for him somewhere on the boat—yes, you can take him.”

“Then I’ll go with you.”

“All right. I shall start from this store to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. Will you be here?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tim, and then he beckoned Sam to go out. He had made up his mind suddenly, and now that it was too late to draw back he wanted to talk the matter over, and hear what Sam had to say about it.

There was no need for him to have feared that Sam did not look with favor upon the plan, for before they were out of sight of the loungers in the store that young man burst out in an envious tone:

“Well, you are the awfullest luckiest feller I ever heard of! Here you’ve gone an’ got a chance to run a steamboat, where you won’t have anything to do but jest sail ’round wherever you want to. I wish it was me that was going.”

If Tim had been in doubt before as to the wisdom of the step he was about to take, he was perfectly satisfied now that Sam was so delighted with it, and he began to think that perhaps he had been fortunate.

Mr. Simpson did not seem to think the opening in life which had been so suddenly discovered for Tim was so very brilliant, and Mrs. Simpson actually looked as if she felt sorry. But, as neither of them made any objection to it, or offered the boy a home with them, there was nothing to prevent him from carrying out the agreement he had made.

At a very early hour on the following morning Tim was up and dressed. Sam’s glowing pictures of the happy life he was about to lead had so excited him that he was anxious to begin it at once, and his sleep had been troubled by dreams of life on a steamboat under all kinds of possible and impossible circumstances.

Mr. Simpson gave him twenty-five cents as a nest-egg to the fortune he was about to make; and when Mrs. Simpson packed a generous lunch for him he choked up so badly that it was only with the greatest difficulty he could thank her for her kindness.

“Be a good boy, and never do anything to be ashamed of,” was the good lady’s parting charge, and he answered:

“I’ll try hard, so’s you sha’n’t be sorry you was so good to me.”

Sam walked toward the store with him, while as lonely and envious a feeling as he ever knew came over him as he thought of all the things Tim would see, simply because he had neither home nor parents, while he, who had both, was obliged to remain where he could see nothing.

“I wish it was me that was goin’,” he said, with a sigh of envy.

“If I had as good a home as you’ve got I wouldn’t want to go away,” replied Tim, gravely; and yet Sam had talked so much about the charms of the life he was so soon to lead that he had already begun to look upon himself as a very fortunate boy, and was impatient to begin his work at once.

The walk to Mr. Coburn’s store was not a long one; and although they were there fully half an hour before the time agreed upon, they found Captain Pratt ready and waiting for them. In fact, it seemed almost as if he feared his new boy, however unimportant the position he was to occupy, would not keep the agreement he had made.

“I’m glad to see you on hand early, for it’s a good sign,” and the captain’s face was wreathed in what he intended should be a pleasing smile, but which really was an ugly grimace.

Tim hardly knew what reply to make, for that smile caused him to feel very uncomfortable; but he managed to say that he would always try to be on time, and the captain, in the excess of his good nature, gave him such a forcibly friendly slap on the shoulder that his teeth chattered.

In order to reach the city from the four corners where Mr. Pratt lived it was necessary to ride four miles in a carriage, and then take the steam cars.

An open wagon was the mode of conveyance; and as the driver was quite large, while Captain Pratt was no small party, there was no other way for Tim to ride save curled up in the end, where he could keep a lookout for Tip, who was, of course, to follow on behind as fast as his short legs would permit.

When everything was ready for the start, and Captain Pratt was making some final business arrangements with Mr. Coburn, Sam bade Tim good-bye.

“You’re awful lucky,” he said, as he clambered up on the wagon, where he could whisper in his friend’s ear; “an’ if you see any place for me on the steamer, send word right up—you can tie a note on Tip’s collar an’ send him up with it—an’ I’ll come right down.”

Sam would have said more, but the horse started; he nearly tumbled from his perch, and Tim’s journey to the city had begun.

It seemed to Tim that Captain Pratt changed as soon as they started. Instead of keeping up the idea of fatherly benevolence, which he had seemed to be full to running over with, he spoke sharply, and did not try to avoid hurting the boy’s feelings.

If, when the wagon jolted over the rough road, the boy’s head came in contact with his arm, which was thrown across the back of the seat, he would tell him to keep down where he belonged; and if he heard Tim’s heels knocking against the axle, he would scold him for not holding them up.

Between this sudden change in the kind captain’s ways and his fear that Tip would not be able to keep up with the wagon, Tim was feeling rather sad when the depot was reached.

During the ride on the cars Captain Pratt took very little notice of Tim, and when they arrived at the depot he simply said:

“Here boy, go down to Pier 43, and tell the steward of the Pride of the Wave that I’ve hired you, and get to work.”

Tim had no more idea of where Pier 43 was than he had of the location of the Cannibal Islands, but he started out with a great show of pluck, yet with a heavy heart.

With Tip following close at his heels, Tim walked some distance without seeing either wharves or water, and then he inquired the way.

The first gentleman to whom he spoke was a stranger in the city, and knew no more about it than he did; the second directed him in such a confusing way that he went almost opposite to where he should have gone; but the third one gave him the directions so clearly that he had no farther trouble in reaching the desired place.

The Pride of the Wave was not a large boat, and to any one accustomed to steamers would have seemed very shabby; but to Tim she appeared like a veritable floating palace, and it was some time before he dared to venture on board of her.

Finally he saw one of the deck hands, who, despite his dirty clothes, did not appear to be awed by the magnificence of the boat, and Tim asked him where he should find the steward.

The man told him to go below, and, with Tip still close at his heels, he went down the brass-covered stairs to the cabin, which was lined with berths on either side, wondering at all he saw, until he almost forgot why he was there.

He was soon startled out of this state of wonderment, however, by hearing a gruff voice shout:

“Now, then, youngster, what do you want?”

“I want to see the steward,” replied Tim, in a voice which could hardly be heard.

“I’m the steward. Now what else do you want?” replied the party who had spoken first, and who was a little, old, rather pleasant-faced man, with a voice about six sizes too large for his body.

Tim repeated the captain’s words as nearly as he could remember them, and the steward looked him over carefully, with just the faintest show of pity on his face.

“You don’t look as if you’d stand it very long to work for the captain of this boat; but that’s none of my business. Whose dog is that?”

“That’s Tip: he’s mine.”

“You’d better take him ashore. The captain ain’t over and above fond of dogs, and he won’t be likely to fall in love with one as ugly as that.”

“But he told me I could find a place for him somewhere on the boat,” said Tim, quickly, alarmed even at the suggestion that he part with Tip.

“Did he tell you so before or after he hired you?”

“Before I agreed to come he said I could keep Tip with me,” replied Tim, wondering at the question.

“Then he’ll forget he ever said so; and if you think anything of the dog, you’d better leave him on shore.”

“But I can’t,” cried Tim, piteously, his eyes filling with tears. “Tip’s the only relation I’ve got, an’ there’s no place where he could go.”

Tim’s distress touched the man’s heart, evidently, for he said, after a moment’s thought:

“Then you must find some place on board where the captain won’t be likely to see him, for he would throw him overboard in a minute if he took the notion. Come with me.”

The steward led the way to the bows of the boat, where the freight was stored, and after looking about some time, pointed out a little space formed by some water barrels.

“You’d better tie him in there for a while, and then, if you are going to stay very long on the boat, give him away.”

“But the captain said I might keep him with me,” cried Tim, fearing to leave Tip in so desolate a place.

“Well”—and now the steward began to grow impatient—“you can try keeping him with you if you want to run the risk, but I promise you the captain will make quick work of him if he sees him.”

Tim hesitated a moment, and then, stooping down, he kissed Tip on the nose, whispering to him:

“I wouldn’t leave you here if I could help it, Tip; but be a good dog, an’ we’ll have it fixed somehow pretty soon.”