“Figuring out your glider?” Charlie asked.
Harry creased a sheet of paper into an arrowy form and shot it through the trees. “Look at that go, will you, Charlie?” He went and picked it up and brought it to Charlie to burn. Then he wandered off, his hands in his trousers pockets. He passed Morrel, who was on sentinel duty at the edge of the grove.
“What’s the matter, old man?” said Morrel. “You look lonesome.”
“Come on down to the village,” said Harry. He knew Morrel couldn’t go, but he asked to be sociable.
In Port Henry, he jumped upon the bench in Marty’s boat-yard. “Got those paregoric ribs ready?” said he.
Marty looked at him suspiciously, as if he were beginning to see through some involved swindling game. “Thought you was comin’ down in yer boat to-morrer.”
“So we are, but I’m in a hurry to see one of them.”
“Well, there they be,” said Marty, with lofty contempt. “You’re daft if you go into this aeroplane business.”
“I know it,” said Harry, “but I can’t help it; I was born that way. Can I take one of these along?”
“Guess that’ll be all right,” drawled Marty.