I believe I lay in bed that night with my eyes wide open, seeing, as if in a waking dream, the whole of the eventful life I had pictured out for myself ­a glorious career of adventure in a land of imaginary beauties ­ a land built up out of recollections of Robinson Crusoe’s island, Sir Edward Seaward’s narrative, The Conquest of Peru, and The Lives of the Buccaneers, with a little Arabian Nights’ Entertainments dashed in by way of pickles or spice.  All these formed themselves into a glowing series of scenes ­a sort of panorama of the future, and I lay and watched in imagination the glorious prospect of river and forest, mountain and plain, where I was going to win fame and fortune, in a series of wonderful adventures, such as had never before fallen to the lot of man.

You will not be surprised to hear that I got up the next morning feverish and unrefreshed, and I felt quite envious of Tom when I saw him holding his shortly-cropped bullet head under the spout of the pump in the back yard, waggling the handle awkwardly as he had what he called “a sloosh.”

For he looked so hale and hearty and fresh, as he looked up on hearing my step, and cried out to me ­

“Lay hold o’ the pump-handle, Mas’r Harry, and work it up and down a bit, it’s awkward to do all by yourself.”

I felt quite spiteful as I took hold of the polished old handle and worked at it, meaning to give Tom a regular ducking; and I sent the pure cold well-water gushing out as he held his head under, letting the stream come first upon his poll, then upon one ear, then upon the other, and backing away at last to where he had hung his rough towel upon a hook in the wall, to seize it and begin to scrub.

“Oh, I say, Mas’r Harry, it’s ’evinly,” he panted, as he rubbed away.  “Just you try it.  Seems to make the strength go rattling through you like.  Have a go:  I’ll pump.”

I hesitated for a moment, and then, feeling that the cold shock would perhaps clear my heated brain, I threw off my cap and necktie, stripped my jacket from my shoulders, and, rolling up my sleeves, thrust my head under the spout, and the next moment was panting and gasping, and feeling half drowned and confused, as Tom sent the water streaming out with liberal hand.

“Now then, what Tom-fool’s game’s this?” said a voice, as I withdrew my head and held out my hand for the towel; “washing the folly out of your head, Harry?”

“No, father,” I said quietly, as I rubbed away, feeling a refreshing glow thrill through me as the reaction set in.  “I was trying to freshen myself up after lying awake all night thinking of my future.”

“Then you are still harping on that project?” he said quickly.

“Yes, sir; I have quite made up my mind to go.”

“What, and leave a quiet sensible business in search of a mare’s nest?”

“Don’t be angry with me, father,” I said.  “I know all about the business, and what a struggle you have had for years just to get a bare living.”

“Well, boy, that’s true,” he said with a sigh.

“I know, too, how things are getting worse and worse, and that the large London works and competition make the business poorer every year.”

“They do, my lad, they do,” he said more quietly.  “But I had hoped that you would grow into a clever industrious man, and set the poor old business on its legs again.”

“I’d try and be clever, father,” I replied, “and I know I could be industrious, but my two arms would be of no use to contend against machinery and steam.”

He shook his head.

“I’ve thought about it for long enough now, father,” I said; “and I can see well enough that there’s no chance of improving our little business without capital, and that if that is not to be had it must get smaller and smaller every day.”

“Why, Harry, my boy,” he said, as we strolled down now into our bit of garden, “I didn’t think you could see so far into a millstone as that.”

“Oh, father!” I cried warmly, “do you think I have never felt miserable and discouraged to see what a fight it has been with you to make up your payments month after month?”

“I never thought you gave a bit of heed to it, my lad,” he said warmly, as he held out his hand, and took mine in a hearty grip.  “I’ve misjudged you, my boy; I’ve misjudged you.  I didn’t think you had so much thought.”

“Oh, father!” I cried, “why, all my wandering thoughts have had the aim of getting on in life, and for a long time past it has seemed to me that England’s growing too full of people fighting against one another for a living; and I felt that some of us must go out and try afresh in another place.”

“Like the bees do, when they swarm, my lad,” said my father, looking down at one of the old straw hives, with its pan turned over the top to keep off the rain.  “Well, perhaps you’re right, Harry ­perhaps you are right.  I won’t fight against it, my boy.  I only wish you luck.”

“Father!” I cried, and I was about to say something else, but it would not come, try how I would; and I stood there holding by his hand in the garden, while he looked me in the face with a calmer, more gentle look than I had seen in his eyes for some time past.

He was the first to break the silence, and then he clapped me on the shoulder in a hearty, friendly way.

“There’s mother making signs that breakfast’s ready, my boy.  Come along in.”

We went in and took our places at the table so quietly that my mother’s hands began to tremble so much that she could hardly pour out the tea.

“What have you been doing, Harry, to make father so cross?” she said at last.

“Nay, nay, mother, nothing at all,” said my father quickly.  “It’s all right.  Harry and I have been coming to a bit of an understanding ­ that’s all.  We haven’t been quarrelling a bit.”

“Are you sure, dear?” said my mother dubiously.

“Sure? ay!” cried my father.  “Why, Harry and I were never better friends.”

“Indeed, no,” I cried excitedly.

“You are both keeping something back from me,” she cried, with her hands trembling and the tears coming into her eyes.

“Oh, no, we won’t keep anything back from you, mother,” said my father kindly.  “Harry and I have been talking about his plans.”

“Not for going away?” said my mother; “don’t say that.”

“But I must say it,” said my father.  “Harry is quite right.  I didn’t like it at first; but, as he says, there are too many of us here, and he is going to seek his fortune in a foreign land.”

“Oh, my boy, my boy!” she cried.

“Same as your brother Reuben did,” said my father.  “Come, come, old lady, courage!  We must look this sort of thing in the face.”

“And I’ll go out there, mother and see if Uncle Reuben will help me.  If he can’t, I’ll try for myself, for I will get on; and some day, if I don’t come back a rich man, I’ll come back with a sufficiency to make the old age of both you and my father comfortable.  Trust me, I will.”

For some few minutes there was very little breakfast eaten; but at last my father roused us up, talking quite cheerfully, and evidently trying to reconcile my mother to my going, and then we went on with the meal.

“So Tom wants to go with you, does he?” said my father.  “Well, he’s a good, hard-headed sort of fellow, and likes you, Harry.  He’d better go.”

“But isn’t he likely to lead poor Harry into mischief?” said my mother.

“No; he’s more likely to act as ballast and keep him from capsizing if he carries too much sail.  Tom’s all right.”

My mother accepted the inevitable in a very short time, and soon began to talk as mothers do ­that is to say, homely mothers ­for almost as soon as she had wiped her eyes she exclaimed ­

“Why, Harry, my dear, you must have at least six new shirts.”

“Must I, mother?” I said smiling.

“Yes, my son, and of the best and strongest stuff.  I’m glad to say that I’ve just finished a couple of pairs of strongly-knitted stockings.”

And from that hour, I believe, my mother was happy in her task of getting ready my sea-chest, putting in no end of pleasant little surprises for me, to be ready when I was in the far-off land.

Tom, too, was not forgotten, poor fellow, for he had no one to take tender notice of him.

“And it don’t matter a bit, Mas’r Harry,” he cried cheerily, “I don’t want a lot o’ things.  One clean shirt and a pocket-comb ­that’s about all a chap like me wants.”

But he was better provided than that, and at last, before a couple of months had passed away, our farewells were said and we started for Liverpool, in low spirits with our partings, but full of hope and eager ambition, since at the great western port we were to take our passage in one of the great steamers for the West Indies, where we would have to change into a smaller trading vessel which would take us on to Caracas.

“No soap-boiling out there, Mas’r Harry,” cried Tom cheerily; and he gave a long sniff as if to get some of the familiar old smell into his nose.

“No, Tom,” I replied quietly.  “We are going to begin a new life now;” for the future looked to me a far more serious affair than I had imagined before in the midst of my sanguine aspirations and rather wild and dreamy ideas.