I had made him promise to come and see
me when we parted in San Diego; he had got a directory of Boston,
found the street and number of my father's house, and, by a study
of the plan of the city, had laid out his course, and was
committing it to memory. He said he could go straight to the house
without asking a question. And so he could, for I took the book
from him, and he gave his course, naming each street and turn to
right or left, directly to the door.
Tom had been second mate of the Pilgrim, and had laid up no mean
sum of money. True to his resolution, he was going to England to
find his mother, and he entered into the comparative advantages of
taking his money home in gold or in bills,-- a matter of some
moment, as this was in the disastrous financial year of 1837. He
seemed to have his ideas well arranged, but I took him to a
leading banker, whose advice he followed; and, declining my
invitation to go up and show himself to my friends, he was off for
New York that afternoon, to sail the next day for Liverpool. The
last I ever saw of Tom Harris was as he passed down Tremont Street
on the sidewalk, a man dragging a hand-cart in the street by his
side, on which were his voyage-worn chest, his mattress, and a box
of nautical instruments.
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