OLIVER OPTIC

NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED

NEW YORK THE MERSHON COMPANY PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1896, By LEE AND SHEPARD

IN MEMORY OF

MY NEPHEW,

WILLIAM PARKER JEWETT

Who Died January 4, 1884,

TO WHOM

WAS ORIGINALLY DEDICATED

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

"The Boat Club" was written and published more than forty years ago, and was the first juvenile book the author had ever presented to the public. Young people who read it at the age of eighteen have now reached threescore, and those who read it at ten have passed their half-century of life. The electrotype plates from which it has been printed for more than a generation of human life have suffered so much from severe wear that new ones have become necessary, and they must be replaced. This condition affords the author the opportunity to revise the work, in fact, to make a new book of it; and the old boat must be reconstructed and launched again. The author has something to say on what suggests itself as a memorial occasion when something historical may be said. First, it is proper that old things should be respected and honored, and therefore is presented the—

ORIGINAL PREFACE

OF "THE BOAT CLUB."

The author of the following story pleads guilty of being more than half a boy himself; and in writing a book to meet the wants and the tastes of "Young America," he has had no difficulty in stepping back over the weary waste of years that separates youth from maturity, and entering fully into the spirit of the scenes he describes. He has endeavored to combine healthy moral lessons with a sufficient amount of exciting interest to render the story attractive to the young; and he hopes he has not mingled these elements of a good juvenile book in disproportionate quantities.

Thus was laid the foundation of the writer's life-work for young people, after an initiation of over twenty years as a teacher in the schools of Boston, in all grades from usher to principal. Even then he had not the remotest idea of becoming an author; he never definitely prepared himself for such a profession; and, as he has often stated it, he "blundered into the business of writing books for the young," though he had had considerable experience in story-writing for magazines and newspapers.

This beginning has been followed by ninety-six volumes in sets of six volumes or more, and two others, the whole of the ninety-eight books being for young people. To these may be added the number of bound yearly volumes of magazines for juveniles of which the writer has been the editor for thirty-two years, making one hundred and thirty volumes of this kind, besides half a dozen or more for adults, to say nothing of nine hundred stories, long and short, for periodicals. This is the literary record of the author in the seventy-fifth year of his age; and being still in fair physical condition, it is possible that more may be added to the number.

This is an introduction to the republication of "The Boat Club," and this book suggested what has been written so far. It occurs to me that some venerable person who read the book in childhood may have a desire to know how it happened to be written, and possibly some others may wish to know something of the motives which have animated the writer for the long term in which he has been engaged in producing books for juvenile readers. In a speech made by the author in 1875, at the dedication of a branch of the Boston Public Library in Dorchester, which had become a part of the city, the desire of the venerable personage and the wishes of the other inquirers were fully answered; and perhaps they cannot be better satisfied than in reading a portion of this address, given after the writer had been introduced by the Mayor of Boston:—

Though not to the manner born, Mr. Mayor, I have resided in Dorchester during the greater portion of my life; and this church has been my "religious home" for more than twenty-five years. I confess that it seems very strange to me to be introduced to an audience gathered within these walls by the Mayor of Boston. In presenting me to this large audience, you have called me by a name by which, perhaps, I am better known than by my real name. I am willing to acknowledge that I have written a great many stories for young people. And here I wish to say—what may perhaps surprise some of this audience—that I fully approve of and indorse all that Mr. Greenough, the President of the Board of Trustees of the Library, has said in his very able and instructive address, in regard to a proper supervision of the reading of the girls and boys. It was only the other day that one of the ablest and most successful masters of the public schools in this part of the city told me that he did not regard the establishment of public libraries in our towns and cities as wholly a benefit and a blessing to the communities, for the reason that some of them supply the young with books of doubtful tendency. I am glad, therefore, to know that the management of our public libraries and the selection of the books are in the hands of those who are fully awake to the responsibilities of their important positions.

Mr. Mayor, the mention by you of the name under which I have been in the habit of writing suggests that I may say now what I had on my mind, but did not intend to utter on this occasion. In one of the wall pews which were on my left before this church was remodelled, as a teacher in the Sunday-school connected with this parish, I had a class of boys. It was more than twenty-five years ago, and some of those boys have passed away from earth; but the others are now, as men of middle age, engaged in the active duties of life. I well remember how I looked into their faces, Sunday after Sunday, and how I endeavored to give them the good word that would help them along safely in their career of existence. I gave them the best I had to give, for I was interested in them. My interest made me desire to do more for them; and I thought I might write a story that would influence and benefit them. I had it in my mind to print a small pamphlet of sixty pages, and dedicate it to the boys of my Sunday-school class, putting all their names upon the page. The plot and plan of the story were clear in my mind; and the moral of it, which was not to be paraded in set terms, was even more clearly defined than the plot and plan.

Circumstances prevented the carrying out of this purpose, and the story was not written at that time. Several years afterwards, my publishers, after the issue of a tolerably successful book of mine for grown-up people,—for I had written a great many stories, though none for young people,—asked me to write a juvenile book. I assured them I could not do it; I had never attempted anything of the kind. The publishers insisted, and finally I promised to see what I could do. I had but little faith in my ability in this direction; but the plot and plan of the story I had arranged for my Sunday-school class came back to me, and I went to work upon it. The result of my efforts was "The Boat Club."

When I began to write stories for the young I had a distinct purpose in my mind. How well I remember the books I read, unknown to my parents, when I was a boy! They were "The Three Spaniards," "Alonzo and Melissa," "The Mysteries of Udolpho," "Rinaldo Rinaldini," "Freemantle the Privateersman," and similar works, not often found at the present time on the shelves of the booksellers, though I am sorry to say that their places have been filled with books hardly less pernicious. The hero of these stories was a pirate, a highwayman, a smuggler, or a bandit. He was painted in glowing colors; and in admiring his boldness, my sympathies were with this outcast and outlaw. These books were bad, very bad; because they brought the reader into sympathy with evil and wicked men. It seemed to me that stories just as interesting, just as exciting if you please, could be written, without any of the evil tendencies of these harmful books. I have tried to do this in the stories I have written for young people. I have never written a story which could excite the love, admiration, and sympathy of the reader for an evil-minded person, a bad character. This has been my standard; and however others may regard it, I still deem it a safe one. I am willing to admit that I have sometimes been rather more "sensational" than I now wish I had been; but I have never made a hero whose moral character, or whose lack of high aims and purposes, could mislead the reader.

But, Mr. Mayor, I hope you will pardon the egotism of these remarks; for I did not prepare myself to say what I have said, and I was rather surprised into it by your mention of my book name.

With the same apology to my readers of the present day for reproducing this speech, and for saying so much about myself, I wish to allow a young gentleman to state the influence upon himself of these books. He is the son of a distinguished literary man whose works live after him, and who was for several years United States Consul at Glasgow and Edinburgh. I insert here the young man's letter, which I received in Florence, Italy, in 1870.

Boston, Sept. 9, 1870.

Mr. Adams:

Dear Sir,—I heard some one remark the other day, that, however high a man might stand in the estimation of his fellow-men, there would be times when it would be pleasant for him to know that he had been of some especial benefit to one or more individuals. The remark reminded me of you, and of the immense advantage which your writings had been to me; and I thought that possibly it might give you pleasure to know that to you—together with a good mother's judicious management—I owe all my taste for reading.

Until I was about ten years of age, I perfectly detested the idea of taking a book into my hands. At about this time my mother procured "Poor and Proud," which she commenced reading to me; and finding me a good deal interested, she contrived to stop reading at one of the most interesting points in the story, when, giving me the book, she said that perhaps I would like to read on and see what came next. And I read on and on, becoming more and more interested in the story, until I had finished the book. Seeing me interested in your works, others were procured for me; and in reading those I often met with something which would rouse in me a desire to read history, until at last a taste for reading was formed, which a lifetime will not gratify. Thus you see I have especial reason for gratitude that you should ever have written stories for boys. Not that I believe myself to be the only one, but one of the many who have been benefited in the same way.

Hoping that you may find your visit to the Old World both pleasant and profitable, and wishing you a safe return, I remain, sir,

Yours truly,

G. Frank Underwood.

G. F. Rank.

I have received hundreds of similar letters, containing substantially the same testimony. In December of the year this letter came to me, I was confined to my hotel in England by a London fog one day; and in the first daily paper I picked up in the reading-room I was surprised to find myself "written up" in terms that made me blush; but the article pleased me because it contained the same idea my young friend had embodied in his letter.

Gratefully remembering my friends of over forty years' standing, and with a hearty recognition of those of more recent years, I return to them all my most sincere thanks for their generous appreciation of the work of my lifetime, and for their continued kindness to me from the first appearance of "The Boat Club" to the present time. I heartily wish them all continued health, prosperity, and happiness; and I do so in the sincere belief that I have never morally harmed any of my readers, but have added pleasure as well as moral and intellectual profit to their lives.

WILLIAM T. ADAMS "Oliver Optic"

Dorchester, October 9, 1896

CONTENTS.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE BOAT CLUB

OR

THE BUNKERS OF RIPPLETON

CHAPTER I

THE FOURTH OF JULY COMING

"How much money have you got, Frank?" asked Charles Hardy of his friend Frank Sedley.

"Four dollars and seventy-five cents."

"That is more than twice as much as I have. Won't you have a glorious time?"

It was the evening of the third of July, and the two boys were counting the money they had saved for Independence. Captain Sedley, the father of Frank, had promised to take him and his friend to Boston to attend the celebration; and they had long looked forward to the event with the liveliest anticipations of pleasure.

"I don't know, Charley," replied Frank Sedley, as he slid the money into his purse; "I was thinking of something else."

"What, Frank?"

"I was thinking how poor the widow Weston is, and how much good this money I am going to throw away on fire-crackers and gingerbread would do her."

"Perhaps it would."

"I know it would."

"But you are not going to spoil our fun by giving it to her, are you?"

"There are a great many boys who will have no money to spend to-morrow—Tony Weston, for instance," continued Frank.

"Tony is a good fellow."

"That he is; and his mother has a terrible hard time of it to support herself and her son and daughter."

"I suppose she has. Why don't you ask your father to help her?"

"He does help her. He gives her wood and flour, and a great many other things; and my mother employs her to do sewing. She is willing to work."

"And Tony works too."

"He is too young to do much; but he loves his mother, and tries to do all he can to lighten her burden."

"He makes a dollar a week sometimes."

"I was thinking just now that I would give Mrs. Weston the money I had saved for Independence."

"Pooh! Frank."

"It would do her a great deal of good."

"What is the use of going to Boston, if you have no money?" asked Charles, who was not a little disturbed by this proposed disbursement of the Fourth of July funds.

"I can stay at home, then."

"That wouldn't be fair, Frank."

"Why not?"

"You not only rob yourself of the fun, but me too."

"I really pity the poor woman so much that I cannot find it in my heart to spend the money foolishly, when it will buy so many comforts for her."

"Your father will give you some money for her."

"That isn't the thing."

"What do you mean?"

"You went to meeting last Sunday?"

"Yes."

"And heard the sermon?"

"Some of it," replied Charles, smiling.

"You remember the minister spoke of the luxury of doing good; of the benefit one gets by sacrificing his inclination for the good of others, or something like that; I can't express it as he did, though I have the idea."

Frank paused, and looked earnestly into the face of his friend, to ascertain whether he was likely to find any sympathy in the heart of Charles.

"I do remember it, Frank. He told a story to illustrate his meaning."

"That was it. I don't very often mind much about the sermon, but somehow I was very much interested in that one."

"And so you mean to give your money to the widow Weston, just to see how you will feel after it," added Charles with a laugh.

"No; that isn't it."

"What is it, then?"

"I will give it to her because I really feel that she needs it more than I do. I feel a pleasure in the thought of sacrificing my inclination for her happiness, which is more satisfactory than all the fun I anticipate to-morrow."

"You'll be a parson, Frank."

"No, I won't; I will do my duty."

"Have you made up your mind?"

"We can have a good time at home."

"Pooh!"

"I shall give my money to the widow Weston, at any rate."

Charles Hardy could not but admire the generosity of his friend, though he found it difficult to abandon the thought of the pleasure he anticipated in spending the Fourth in Boston. He stood in silent thought a few moments, and then spoke.

"Well, Frank," said he, "if you have determined to give your money to the widow, I shall follow your example."

"But, Charley, I didn't mean to influence you. I will even go to Boston with you, though I have no money."

"I will give my money to the widow. I think you are right."

"Good, Charley! I like you for it."

"I have two dollars and a quarter," continued Charles, taking the money from his pocket.

"We shall make up just seven dollars. How it will rejoice the heart of the poor woman!" exclaimed Frank with enthusiasm.

"So it will. But don't you think your father will make it up to us, when he finds out how generous we have been?"

Frank looked into the face of his companion with an expression of painful surprise on his countenance.

"I don't want him to do so."

"Why not?"

"It would rob the action of all its merit. If you give your money with the hope of having it restored to you, I beg you not to give it at all. I have abandoned all thoughts of having any money to spend to-morrow."

"And not go to Boston?"

"No."

"What will your father say when you tell him you are not going? He will want to know the reason."

"I will tell him day after to-morrow."

"He will want to know to-morrow."

"I can persuade him to wait. Shall we go over to-night, and give the money to Mrs. Weston?"

"Yes; if you like."

"Wait a moment, and I will go into the house and ask my father to let me stay out till nine o'clock this evening."

Frank bounded lightly over the green lawn to his father's house, near which the conversation took place.

Rippleton, the scene of my story, is a New England village, situated about ten miles from Boston. It is one of those thriving places which have sprung into existence in a moment, as it were, under the potent stimulus of a railroad and a water privilege. Twenty years ago it consisted of only one factory and about a dozen houses. Now it is a great, bustling village, and probably in a few years will become a city. Trains of cars arrive and depart every hour, as the Traveller's Guide says; and a double row of factories extends along the sides of the river. It has its banks, its hotels, its dozen churches, and its noisy streets—indeed, almost all the pomp and circumstance of a great city.

About a mile from the village was the beautiful residence of Captain Sedley—Frank's father. He was a retired shipmaster, in which capacity he had acquired a handsome fortune. His house was built within a few rods of Wood Lake—a beautiful sheet of water, nearly three miles in length, and a little more than a mile in width. On the river, which formed the outlet of this lake, the village of Rippleton was situated; and its clear waters turned the great wheels of the factories.

Captain Sedley had chosen this place in which to spend the evening of his days, because it seemed to him the loveliest spot in all New England. The glassy, transparent lake, with its wood-crowned shores, its picturesque rocks, its little green islands, indeed, everything about it was so grand and beautiful, that it seemed more like the creation of an enthusiastic imagination than a substantial reality. The retired shipmaster loved the beautiful in nature, and his first view of the silver lake and the surrounding country enabled him to decide that this spot should be his future habitation. He bought the land, built him a fine house, and was as happy as a mortal could desire to be.

But I beg my young reader not to think that Captain Sedley was happy because he lived in such a beautiful place, and had such a fine house, and so much money at his command; for a beautiful prospect, a costly dwelling, and plenty of money, alone, cannot make a person contented and happy. The richest men are often the most miserable; a bed of down may be a bed of thorns; and a magnificent mansion will not banish the gnawings of remorse.