"I saw the yacht leave the pier," said Billy. "She sure was a dandy, wasn't she?"
"Never saw finer lines than her's," agreed Landon. "You're sure you don't mind gettin' that word to Swanson now, Billy?"
"Not a bit. I'll run in to his dock tonight, an' tell him."
"Good. There, thank goodness this job of pluckin's done at last.". Landon rose, rubbed his cramped legs and gathered the stripped ducks up by the necks. "We'll leave the rest to Erie," he chuckled. "This is about as far as she ever lets me go. Comin' in?"
Billy shook his head. "I've got a skiff to paint 'fore three o'clock this afternoon," he said, "so I best get busy. Tell Erie not to ferget to blow the fog-horn when the ducks are done."
Landon went on slowly to the kitchen. With his hand on the door-latch he paused and a smile lit his seamed face. Above the clatter of dishes came a girl's sweet soprano:
"Her voice was low and sweet,
And she's all the world to me,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me down and dee."
"I knowed it," whispered the man, softly. "I knowed the old songs would come back ag'in. Billy must have had somethin' to do with it; I'll bet a cookie he had!" He opened the door gently and entered. He placed the ducks on the table and softly withdrew again.
* * * * *
It was late afternoon when Billy stepped into his punt and with swift, strong strokes sent it skimming toward the duck-ponds. At the point where the shore curved abruptly he lifted his hat and waved to the man and girl watching him from the pier.