"The water wouldn't all go out," asserted Ed Mason, "'cos there's a place, back of the Court House, where there ain't any bottom."
"That ain't in this pond," Jimmy corrected, "it's over in Davenport's."
But Ed stuck to his opinion.
"It is here. An' there was a volcano here once, an' when the volcano dried up, the pond came."
We looked with considerable interest toward the site of the extinct crater. But all was placid blue water now, and whatever might be concealed beneath the surface remained a secret.
Our duty was not the less clear, and we set out to build a dam that should keep in the water, volcano or no volcano, bottomless pit or not.
On the terrace above us sat an old man, who watched our proceedings, chewed tobacco vigorously, and whittled small sticks. We had seen him, sitting on the same bench, in the morning. Indeed, he had been there for days, perhaps weeks, past, until he had become a fixture in the landscape.
Ed Mason climbed the terrace to get another armful of stones for the dam. As he was returning, the old man called Ed to him, and offered, as a gift, a little musket whittled out of soft pine. The stones were laid down promptly, the gift accepted, and the two engaged in conversation. Jimmy and I could not hear what was being said, but we observed the incident of the little musket, and our interest in the dam waned. We went up the terrace to see if there were any more muskets to be distributed.