The salt marsh bounding a part of the mill-pond where their boat lay was tramped into a quagmire. The boys were wont to fish there at high water, and so many feet treading on the spot reduced it to a very soft condition. It was over this miry marsh that they proposed to build a wharf. The evening was soon there, and the boys, too, upon their rogues" errand. They surveyed the pile of stones, and found it ample for their purpose, though it appeared to be a formidable piece of work to remove them.
"Two of us can"t lift and carry some of them," said Fred.
"Then three of us will hitch on and carry them," replied Benjamin.
"They must all be worked into a wharf this evening. Let us begin--there is no time to lose."
"The largest must go first," suggested John. "They are capital stones for the foundation. Come, boys, let us make quick work of it."
So they went to work with a will and "where there"s a will there"s a way," in evil as well as good. It was unfortunate for Benjamin that he did not hate such an enterprise as much as he did candle-making. If he had, he would have given a wide berth to the salt marsh and the wharf project. But neither he nor his companions disliked the evil work in which there was sport. We say that they worked with a will; and their perseverance was the only commendable thing about the affair.
Sometimes three or four of them worked away at a stone, rolling it along or lifting, as necessity required. Then one alone would catch up a smaller one, and convey it to the wharf at double-quick. Half their zeal, tact, and industry, in doing this wrong, would have made the candle-trade, or any other business, a success.
The evening was not quite spent when the last stone was carried away, and the wharf finished,--a work of art that answered their purpose very well, though it was not quite as imposing as Commercial Wharf is now, and was not calculated to receive the cargo of a very large Liverpool packet.
"A capital place now for fishing!" exclaimed Fred. "It is worth all it cost for that."
"It may cost more than you think for before we get through with it,"
suggested John. "We sha"n"t know the real cost of it until the owner finds his stones among the missing."
"I should like to hear his remarks to-morrow morning, when he discovers his loss," remarked Benjamin; "they will not be very complimentary, I think."
"I am more anxious to know what he will do about it," responded John.
"We shall find out before long, no doubt," said Benjamin. "But I must hurry home, or I shall have more trouble there than anywhere else.
Come, boys, let us go."
They hastened to their homes, not designing to divulge the labors of the evening, if they could possibly avoid interrogation. They knew that their parents would disapprove of the deed, and that no excuse could shield them from merited censure. Not one of their consciences was at ease. Their love of sport had got the better of their love of right-doing. And yet they were both afraid and ashamed to tell of what they had done. They were at home and in bed and asleep about as early as usual.
Twenty-four hours pa.s.sed away, during which Benjamin"s fears had increased rather than diminished. He was all the while thinking about the stones--what the owner would say and do--whether he would learn who took his stones away. His conscience was on duty.
It was evening, and Mr. Franklin took his seat at the fireside.
Benjamin was reading, the unattractive tallow candle furnishing him light.
"Benjamin," said Mr. Franklin, after a little, "where were you last evening?"
If his father had fired off a pistol he could not have been more disturbed. His heart leaped into his throat. He thought of the stones.
He knew something was up about them--that trouble was ahead.
"I was down to the water," Benjamin replied, with as much coolness as he could muster.
"What were you doing there?"
"Fixing up a place for the boat." He suspected, from his father"s appearance, that he would have to tell the whole story.
"Benjamin, see that you tell me the truth, and withhold nothing. I wish to know exactly what you did there."
"We built a wharf."
"What did you build it with?"
"We built it of stones."
"Where did you get your stones?"
"There was a pile of them close by."
"Did they belong to you?"
"No, sir."
"Then you stole them, did you?"
"It isn"t stealing to take stones."
"Why, then, did you take them in the evening, after the workmen had gone home? Why did you not go after them when the workmen were all there? It looks very much as if you thought taking them was stealing them."
Benjamin saw that he was fairly cornered. Such a catechetical exercise was somewhat new to him. The Westminster a.s.sembly"s Catechism never put him into so tight a place as that. Bright as he was, he could not discover the smallest hole out of which to crawl. It was a bad sc.r.a.pe, and he could see no way out of it except by telling the truth. We dislike very much to say it, but, judging from all the circ.u.mstances, he would have told a lie, could he have seen a place to put one in.
But there was no chance for a falsehood. He was completely shut up to the truth. He saw that the wharf cost more than he estimated--that stealing stones violated a principle as really as stealing dollars. He was so completely cornered that he made no reply. His father continued:
"I see plainly how it is. It is the consequence of going out in the evening with the boys, which I must hereafter forbid. I have been willing that you should go out occasionally in the evening, because I thought it might be better for you than so much reading. But you have now betrayed my confidence, and I am more than ever satisfied that boys should spend their evenings at home, trying to improve their minds. You are guilty of an act that is quite flagrant, although it may have been done thoughtlessly. You should have known better after having received so much instruction at home."
"I did know better," was Benjamin"s frank confession, determined to make a clean breast of it.
"And that makes your guilt so much the greater. Will you learn a lesson from this, and never do the like again?"
"I promise that I never will."
Thus frankly Benjamin confessed his wrong-doing; and, in mature life, he often referred to it as his "_first wrong act_" from which he learned a lesson for life. It was another way of _paying too dear for a whistle_. What the whistle was to him at seven, the wharf of stones was to him at twelve years of age--sport. The first was innocent sport, however; the last was guilty.
It appears that the workmen missed their stones when they first reached the spot in the morning, and soon discovered them nicely laid into a wharf. The proprietor was indignant, and set about learning who were the authors of the deed. In the course of the day he gained the information he sought, and very properly went to the parents of each boy with his complaint. In this way the boys were exposed, and received just rebuke for their misdemeanor. Benjamin was convinced, as he said of it many years thereafter, "that that which is not honest could not be truly useful."
VIII.
BECOMING PRINTER-BOY.
At the time Benjamin was in the candle-factory his brother James was in England learning the printer"s trade. He spent several years there, until he had mastered the business, intending to return to Boston and establish that trade. He returned about the time that Benjamin was concluding his disgust with candle-making, and was well under way at the time he abandoned the cutler"s trade. James brought press, type, and all the _et ceteras_ of a complete outfit with him from England.
"How would you like to learn the printer"s trade with your brother James?" inquired his father, a short time after Benjamin left the cutler"s shop. "I have been thinking it over, and I really believe that you have more qualifications for it than you have for any other trade. Your love of learning will have a better chance there, too."
"How is that?" answered Benjamin. "I do not quite see in what respect I am better qualified to be a printer than a cutler."
"Well, you are a good reader, and have an intellectual turn, being fond of books; and a printing office must have more opportunities for mental improvement than the shop of a cutler. A type-setter can be acquiring new and valuable ideas when he is setting up written articles."
"If that is so I should like it well; and I should think it might be as you say," Benjamin answered. "I might have a better chance to read."