"'Twasn't a willow," said Ed Mason, as we walked through the lane one morning, "'twas a piece of elm."
"'Twas a willow," I retorted.
"How do you know?"
"'Cos Charley Carter told me."
"He don't know anything 'bout it."
"Yes, he does, too! Fred Noyes told him, and Peter Bailey told him, and Cap'n Bannister told him."
Ed was silent.
The name of Captain Bannister was potent. He lived in a house on this very lane,—a small, red-faced man with black hair. He had been a sailor, it was said, but he was a farmer now, so far as he had any occupation at all. He had no family and no servants, and he dwelt alone with a fluctuating number of cats.
His house was painted white,—spotless and shining. It was without blinds, and so dazzling as to make you sneeze when you looked at it. The path up to his front door was lined, not with the usual white-washed rocks, but with large white sea-shells from some foreign country. Back of these were double rows of cinnamon pinks, the Captain's joy and pride.