One must be a
good merchant as well as a good skipper.
The coast trade from port to port along the North Atlantic shore
must be fostered and coaxed like a stumbling baby. The tentacles of
the hated railroad reach to many of the Cape ports. Yet everybody
knows that a cargo properly stowed in a seaworthy craft reaches
market in much the better condition than by rail, though perhaps it
is some hours longer on the way.
There were docks, too, at which Tunis Latham could pick up
well-paying freights which would have to be carted over bad roads to
the nearest railway station. And there were always full or part
cargoes to be had at Boston for certain single consignees along the
Cape, which would pay a fair profit on the upkeep of the schooner.
Medford Latham had lost almost all his fortune before he died so
unhappily, leaving only the homestead and small farm to his son. The
son, Captain Randall Latham, had lost the ship _Ada May_ and every
cent he possessed. Tunis had only his great uncle's legacy to begin
on, and he had waited for that until he was thirty.
In the morning the young man arose early, for the tide was then low,
and started forth with basket and clam hoe on his arm. Aunt Lucretia
had promised him, by a smiling nod, a mess of fritters for dinner if
he would supply the necessary clams.
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