“Yes, sir! That was one grand funeral—what with red plush curtains and willow arm-chairs everywhere! And a dining-room fixed up with painted dishes and sparklin’ glass! I sometimes wish how old Cap’n Ball oughter know about that trip—he would have felt better where he is, I’m sure!”
The boys had listened to the sudden ending of Captain Ball’s career without due respect for dynamite and Captain Ed, finding Paul had not been thoroughly frightened by his tale, drove it well home.
“But you wouldn’t have a good time like Captain Ball! You’d be sent home in a box and no yacht and crowd of folks to sail to your funeral! So, just keep behind a tree after this!”
Paul suddenly realised how lonely he must feel if he was instantly killed by a rock and freighted all the way from Maine to New Jersey, and he felt contrite and humble for a full hour after the incident closed.
The rest of the afternoon was given to preparing an old spar for the flag-pole. It was about thirty feet in length so that all the boys worked at the same time in sand-papering and polishing the wood.
“Next time I go over to the Cove I’ll have the blacksmith make a collar to go around the mast-head, and then we’ll have it all ready for the raisin’ bee before your mother comes back.”
“We want everything done and waiting so all we have to do when she comes is to hoist the flag,” added Billy.
The following day Uncle Tom came over and announced that he was ready to start the rifle-range and teach the boys how to handle a gun.
“Did they say we could?” asked Paul, eagerly, his desire to obey in certain ways, tinctured by the tale about Captain Ball.
“Yes, the committee reported favorably providing that I would keep watch of you all and never let you get reckless!”