“Hush!” cautioned Cora. “Listen to what he says.”
Denny was evidently in a talking mood, and was living the past over again.
“If only Grandfather Lewis were here, what tales he could tell, too,” Denny went on. “And there’s one tale I’d be glad to listen to. He could tell where the land papers were. If only I could find ’em everything would be all right, and the factory men—ha! we could laugh in our sleeves at ’em. Laugh in our sleeves! Ha! Ha! No, we could laugh in their faces, so we could; couldn’t we?”
He held up the oar, speaking to it as one might to a favorite dog.
Denny swung it above his head, as though testing its weight as a club.
“’Twas so he swung it the night of the storm—the night he saved my life!” murmured Denny. “My, what a night that was! What a night!”
He seemed lost in recollection for a moment, and then resumed his self-communion.
“’Twas so he held it—held it out to me in the smother of foam and spray when I was goin’ under. And what was it he said?
“‘Grab holt!’ says he. ‘Grab holt and I’ll pull you in. Don’t be afraid, the oar is strong!’ And so it is—a grand, strong oar. As strong as old Len Lewis himself. What a grand old man he was! A fine old man!
“But he’s gone, and we all have to go. I’ll have to go with the rest, I suppose. But before I do go I wish I could find them land papers. What in the world did Grandfather Lewis do with ’em anyhow?