are they?”
“First, he can’t afford the expense.”
“What is the second?”
“I have no desire to go.”
“That is the most important. If you really desired to go, I think you could borrow money enough somewhere, for you are acknowledged to be an excellent scholar.”
“Thank you for the compliment; but it is no disappointment to me not to go, though it is to my father. He is a regular bookworm, you know.”
“I know that he is not practical.”
“Come, Guy, let us have our game of checkers,” said Tom. “Let me see, I beat you last time.”
“Then it is my turn to beat you now.”
The boys played for an hour and a half, then Guy rose to go.
“What is your hurry? It is early yet.”
“That is true, but father is nervous, and he doesn’t like to have me out after half past nine o’clock. I left him writing his sermon for Sunday.”
“Why don’t you offer to help him, Guy?” asked Tom, with a smile.
“I did.”
“Really and truly?” said Tom, laughing.
“Yes; really and truly.”
“I suppose,” remarked Miss Todd, “he did not accept your offer?”
“No; he thought that what I would write would not be edifying.”
“If you would write a sermon, Guy, I would go to hear it,” said Tom.
“And I, too,” added his sister, the teacher.
“Then I should be sure of a congregation of two. Well, I will think of it.”
Guy took his hat to go.
“I will walk with you part way,” said Tom. “It is pleasant out, and I shall sleep the better for a walk.”
“I shall be glad of your company, Tom.”
When they were outside, Tom said, “I had an object in proposing to walk with you to-night, Guy. There is something I wanted to tell you.”
“Go ahead, Tom.”
“I think it is something you ought to know. I was walking home from singing school the other evening, when I came up behind Deacon Crane and another member of the church, Mr. Job Wilkins. I didn’t hear the first part of the conversation, but as I came within hearing I heard Deacon Crane say: ‘Yes, Brother Wilkins, I have thought for some time that the best interests of the church required that we should have a younger minister, who would stir up the people and draw in a larger number.’”
Guy flushed with indignation.
“Deacon Crane said that?” he ejaculated. “Why, he pretends to be one of father’s best friends.”
“I think it is a pretense,” said Tom.
“Poor father! If he should hear this it would almost break his heart. He is so fond of the people here.”
“It is a shame; but don’t worry too much over it. I am sure the majority of the parish don’t wish any change.”
In spite of this assurance, Guy went home in a sober frame of mind.
CHAPTER II
WHAT GUY FOUND IN THE BLUE CHEST
Mr. Fenwick was only forty-eight years old, but his sedate and scholarly manner gave him an appearance of being several years older.
It came to Guy as a shock that his father should be considered too old by his parish, and that there should be any movement in favor of a younger minister. He knew that his father was dependent on his salary, having very little property. A change would be disastrous to him.
“I wish I were rich,” he thought, “so that I could relieve father from any anxiety about money matters. It is lucky I don’t want to go to college, for if I did, it would be a good many years before I could even support myself.”
The next morning, after breakfast, Guy thought of his sailor uncle, and the curiosity again seized him to find out the contents of the chest up in the attic.
He went up the narrow stairs leading to the garret, and found himself in a large room covering the entire extent of the house, for the attic had never been finished off or divided into chambers. There were piles of old papers and magazines in one corner, old mildewed garments hanging from nails in the rafters, and two or three old rusty trunks.
But none of them attracted Guy’s attention. He was looking for his uncle’s chest.
At last he found it—a typical sailor’s chest, painted blue, showing signs of wear, for it had accompanied his uncle for years.
Guy’s face lighted up, and he hurried toward it.
He thought it might be locked, but he was glad to find that the lock seemed to have been broken, so that he had no difficulty in lifting the lid and examining the contents.
There was nothing unusual about these. They consisted of the plain outfit of a sailor.
There were one or two books. One of them was a Bible, which had been presented to his uncle George by his mother at the time he left home on his first voyage.
Guy lifted it carefully, for he had been taught to reverence the Bible. Then he saw underneath, an envelope of large size, unmarked on the outside.
Opening this, he found a large sheet of paper, folded lengthwise, with writing upon it. Lying inside was a smaller piece of paper, also written over, the handwriting being that of his uncle George.
This Guy read first. The contents interested him exceedingly.
The paper is subjoined.
What I am writing here may or may not be of interest or value, yet it may prove of importance to those who may read it, though it is possible this will not be till after my death. Last year (from the date Guy saw that it was the year before his death) among my mates on the good ship Cyprus was a dark, thin man, the darkest in complexion, I think, that I ever met outside the negro race.
No one on board knew him, nor did any of us get well acquainted with him, for he was very silent and reserved, and did not care to make friends or confidants. Yet he did his duty well. No fault could be found with him. He did not become a favorite, as he did not care to talk or be sociable with the rest of the sailors. We could not help respecting him, however, as one who strictly minded his own business, and never in any way interfered with others.
This man’s name was Antonio Smith, or Tony, as we should have called him if we had been sufficiently intimate. The two names did not go well together, and one day I asked him why it was that he had two such names.
“It is easily explained,” he said. “My father was an Englishman, named Smith, but my mother was an Italian woman.”
“That
