Then he got up.
“Going?”
“Might as well.”
The commodore drew out a watch.
“Twelve minutes after three p.m. Monday, the twelfth of September, in the year of our Lord, 1813,” he said. “You are all witnesses of the time the ball was opened?”
“We are.”
“Good-by, Bob.”
“Oh, let’s go with him a way!”
“Might be interesting,” from Clarence sardonically.
“It might. Least we can do is to see him start on his way rejoicing.”