"He's waving at you, Ann," John McNeil, who had joined the girls, said, coming up behind her. "Wave at him." And she did and laughed as he swung his limp and tattered hat.
"Where do you suppose that kind grow?" Nance asked. "He looks like a giant scarecrow, but he's had lessons in manners, the identical same kind Mentor Graham tells about."
It took but a short time to reload the boat. As she started on her way the cheers died, and most of the crowd went up the hill to the village.
"Let's stay to see the last of it," Ann said to Nance.
"You want him to wave at you some more," John McNeil said to Ann. "Well, go ahead—you'll never see him again."
The boat sailed on. To those on board who looked back a few moments later, the mill and dam were resolving themselves into an indistinct patch of gray and brown, against which a bit of pink, waving something white, stood out. As a farewell answer to the waving of the white, the mellow music of the boat horn came floating back.
The sun went down behind the forests bordering the smoothly flowing Sangamon; the crude craft passed from view.
And yet once again the mellow tones of the primitive horn came floating back over the forest and across the river.
"What a good sound!" Ann exclaimed. "It's soft as the first shadows, and it's strong."