“No, I’m not,” retorted Ned. “You can have it, truly you can.”
“Sa-a-ay!” gasped Tom. “I don’t know how I can ever pay you back——”
“Oh, shucks!” scoffed Ned. “’Tisn’t anything. Besides, Hal thought of it first. He’s the fellow to thank.”
“Well,” said Tom, “anyhow, whenever you come around and want it you can have it again. I’ll just keep it for you.”
The scull-boat being settled, the boys chattered and planned about other things; and they talked as fast and as excitedly as though Ned was leaving the next day, instead of the next month. So much had to be discussed and arranged.
That night, Ned dreamed that he came down to breakfast and lo, his father told him to hurry, because they were all packed and ready to start; and there in the front yard was the scull-boat, heaped with household goods, and waiting. His mother and father and Maggie got in, and then when he followed he had scarcely any room. Off moved the scull-boat, down the street, with him trying to stick on; and into the river it glided—and just across the river, where the swimming-beach used to be, was Chicago. Faster sped the boat, and now one of his legs dangled in the water, and next both, and next he was slipping, slipping, slipping, and with one last despairing clutch he was left behind! He swam after the boat as hard as he could, but his clothes pulled him down, and nobody noticed him—until suddenly dear old Bob was there in the water beside him, and catching hold of Bob’s stiff tail he was towed, at the rate of a mile a minute, back to Commodore Jones’ fish-market.
But when he woke up, it wasn’t so!
The remaining weeks were busy ones for Ned. He had so many things to do, as farewells. Strange to say, all his friends envied him because he was going, and he envied them because they were staying! Only, he did not let on how he felt; it is rather nice to be envied, you see! Yet deep in his heart he wished that he might have a while longer in Beaufort, where he knew everybody and where there was so much fun.
At last his final trips down the river, and up the river, and across the river, and to the flats, and everywhere else, had been made. He had shaken hands with Commodore Jones—who took pipe from mouth long enough to say: “Well, good luck to you, boy!”—and had patted the scull-boat—who said nothing—good-bye for a space. At last all the chores and errands of “moving” had been done. The furniture had been stored, to be shipped later, the house was bare and empty, and it was high time they got out, for another family was waiting to get in.
The Millers slept, that night, at a neighbor’s; and in the morning they left.