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                        CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE

                           A Story for Boys


                         BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.

            AUTHOR OF "FRANK'S CAMPAIGN," "ERIE TRAIN BOY,"
                   "ADRIFT IN NEW YORK," ETC., ETC.


                               NEW YORK
                            HURST & COMPANY
                              PUBLISHERS




                               PREFACE.


In deference to the expressed wishes of some of his young friends,
the author has essayed a story of the sea, and now presents "Charlie
Codman's Cruise," as the third volume of the Campaign Series. It will
be found more adventurous than its predecessors, and the trials which
Charlie is called upon to encounter are of a severer character than
befell Frank Frost or Paul Prescott. But it will be found that they
were met with the same manly spirit, and a like determination to be
faithful to duty at all hazards.

Though not wholly a stranger to the sea, the author is quite aware of
the blunders to which a landsman is exposed in treating of matters and
a mode of life which, at the best, he must comprehend but imperfectly,
and has endeavored to avoid, as far as possible, professional
technicalities, as not essential to the interest of the story.

With these few words he submits the present volume to his young
readers, hoping for it a welcome even more generous than has been
accorded to "Frank's Campaign" and "Paul Prescott's Charge."




                       CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE.




                                  I.

                        CHARLIE AND THE MISER.


Charlie Codman turned out of Washington into Bedford Street just as the
clock in the Old South steeple struck two. He was about fourteen, a
handsome, well-made boy, with a bright eye and a manly expression. But
he was poor. That was evident enough from his clothes, which, though
neat and free from dust, were patched in several places. He had a small
roll of daily papers under his arm, the remains of his stock in trade,
which he had been unable wholly to dispose of.

Some of my readers may know that the Latin School and English High
School are kept in the same building. At two o'clock both are
dismissed. Charlie had scarcely passed the school-house when a crowd
of boys issued from the school-yard, and he heard his name called from
behind. Looking back he recognized a boy somewhat smaller than himself,
with whom he had formed an acquaintance some time before.

"Where are you bound, Charlie?" asked Edwin Banks.

"I'm going home now."

"What luck have you had this morning?"

"Not much. I've got four papers left over, and that will take away
about all my profits."

"What a pity you are poor, Charlie. I wish you could come to school
with us."

"So do I, Eddie. I'd give a good deal to get an education, but I feel
that I ought to help mother."

"Why won't you come some time, and see us, Charlie? Clare and myself
would be very glad to see you at any time."

"I should like to go," said Charlie, "but I don't look fit."

"Oh, never mind about your clothes. I like you just as well as if you
were dressed in style."

"Perhaps I'll come some time," said Charlie. "I'd invite you to come
and see me, but we live in a poor place."

"Just as if I should care for that. I will come whenever I get an
invitation."

"Then come next Saturday afternoon. I will be waiting for you as you
come out of school."

Charlie little thought where he would be when Saturday came.

Shortly after the boys separated, and Charlie's attention was arrested
by the sight of an old man with a shambling gait, who was bending
over and anxiously searching for something on the sidewalk. Charlie
recognized him at once as "old Manson, the miser," for this was the
name by which he generally went.

Old Peter Manson was not more than fifty-five, but he looked from
fifteen to twenty years older. If his body had been properly cared
for, it would have been different; but, one by one, its functions had
been blunted and destroyed, and it had become old and out of repair.
Peter's face was ploughed with wrinkles. His cheeks were thin, and the
skin was yellow and hung in folds. His beard appeared to have received
little or no attention for a week, at least, and was now stiff and
bristling.

The miser's dress was not very well fitted to his form. It was in
the fashion of twenty years before. Grayish pantaloons, patched in
divers places with dark cloth by an unskilful hand; a vest from which
the buttons had long since departed, and which was looped together
by pieces of string, but not closely enough to conceal a dirty and
tattered shirt beneath; a coat in the last stages of shabbiness; while
over all hung a faded blue cloak, which Peter wore in all weathers. In
the sultriest days of August he might have been seen trudging along in
this old mantle, which did him the good service of hiding a multitude
of holes and patches, while in January he went no warmer clad. There
were some who wondered how he could stand the bitter cold of winter
with no more adequate covering; but if Peter's body was as tough as
his conscience, there was no fear of his suffering.

Charlie paused a moment to see what it was that the old man was hunting
for.

"Have you lost anything?" he