The schoolhouse flag was flapping in the wind. The scarred wooden pillars of its portico were hidden with bunting. Simmons's front displayed a row of little banners, each bearing a letter—the letters spelled “Welcome Home.” Tad's barber shop was more or less artistically wreathed in colored tissue paper. There, too, a flag was draped over the front door. Yet not a single person was in sight.
“For goodness' sake!” cried the bewildered captain. “What's all this mean? And where is everybody. Have all hands—”
He stopped in the middle of the sentence. They were at the foot of Whittaker's Hill. Its top, between the Atkins's gate and the Whittaker fence, was black with people. Children pranced about the outskirts of the crowd. A shout came down the wind. The horses, not in the least fatigued by their long canter, trotted up the slope. The shouting grew louder. A wave of youngsters came racing to meet the equipage.
“What—what in time?” gasped Captain Cy. “What's up? I—”
And then the town clerk seized him by the arm. Peabody shook his other hand. Bos'n threw her arms about his neck. Bailey stood up and waved his hat.
“It's you, you old critter!” whooped Asaph. “It's YOU, d'you understand?”
“The appropriation has gone through,” explained the lawyer, “and this is the celebration in consequence. And you are the star attraction because, you see, everyone knows you are responsible for it.”
“That's what!” howled the excited Bangs. “And we're goin' to show you what we think of you for doin' it. We've been plannin' this for over a fortni't.”
“And I knew it all the time,” squealed Bos'n, “and I didn't tell a word, did I?”
“Three cheers for Captain Whittaker!” bellowed a person in the crowd. This person—wonder of wonders!—was Tad Simpson.