“I don’t like to.”
“Well, get Uncle Isaac to. He will ask in a moment; indeed, if there’s a special reason, I’ll warrant he knows it now.”
“What seems more singular to me,” said Charlie, “is, that after telling how much he thought of Arthur’s father and mother, how much he was willing to do for his children, even to cut the last piece of bread in two, that he don’t do something—build him a vessel. I have got out board and ceiling plank at the mill, and deck plank all sawed out. It would be a capital time now to get a frame and set her up this fall, let her season through the winter, finish her in the summer, and rig her before cold weather.”
“Benjamin,” said Uncle Isaac (as they shot into a thickly wooded cove to rest their backs, on their way home from a fowling excursion), laying his paddle across the float, and leaning both elbows on it, “why don’t you take these boys home? they want to go.”
“Do they want to go?”
“To be sure. Isn’t it natural they should want to see their parents and friends, after being at death’s door?”
“But their parents know they are comfortable, and they hear from each other every week.”
“That isn’t like seeing them. There’s another thing; the boys want to build a vessel for this young man, and so does Ben.”
“Ben wants to, does he?”
“Yes.”