en it became necessary to discuss questions more nearly
affecting myself. I had been removed from school temporarily, but it
was decided, after much consideration, that I should not return, the
decision being left, in a manner, in my own hands.

The Captain wished to carry out his son's intention and send me to
college, for which I was nearly fitted; but our means did not admit of
this. The Captain, too, could ill afford to bear the expense, for his
losses by the failure of the New Orleans business had been heavy. Yet he
insisted on the plan, not seeing clearly what other disposal to make of
me.

In the midst of our discussions a letter came from my Uncle Snow,
a merchant in New York, generously offering me a place in his
counting-house. The case resolved itself into this: If I went to
college, I should have to be dependent on Captain Nutter for several
years, and at the end of the collegiate course would have no settled
profession. If I accepted my uncle's offer, I might hope to work my
way to independence without loss of time. It was hard to give up the
long-cherished dream of being a Harvard boy; but I gave it up.

The decision once made, it was Uncle Snow's wish that I should enter
his counting-house immediately. The cause of my good uncle's haste was
this--he was afraid that I would turn out to be a poet before he could
make a merchant of me. His fears were based upon the fact that I had
published in the Rivermouth Barnacle some verses addressed in a familiar
manner "To the Moon." Now, the idea of a boy, with his living to get,
placing himself in communication with the Moon, struck the mercantile
mind as monstrous. It was not only a bad investment, it was lunacy.

'We adopted Uncle Snow's views so far as to accede to his proposition
forthwith. My mother, I neglected to say, was also to reside in New
York.

I shall not draw a picture of Pepper Whitcomb's disgust when the news
was imparted to him, nor attempt to paint Sailor Ben's distress at the
prospect of losing his little messmate.

In the excitement of preparing for the journey I didn't feel any very
deep regret myself. But when the moment came for leaving, and I saw my
small trunk lashed up behind the carriage, then the pleasantness of the
old life and a vague dread of the new came over me, and a mist filled my
eyes, shutting out the group of schoolfellows, including all the members
of the Centipede Club, who had come down to the house to see me off.

A