“But, look here, you three-ply goop,” interrupted Ned, “Miss Comfort wouldn’t want to live on a tumble-down old ferry-boat!”
“How do you know?” asked Laurie. “Have you asked her?”
“But—but she’d be afraid, Laurie,” protested Polly. “I’m sure I should! Suppose it floated away or—or sank—”
“Suppose it spread its wings and flew on top of the court-house,” answered Laurie sarcastically. “It couldn’t float away because it would be moored to the bank, and it couldn’t sink because there wouldn’t be enough water under it. Now, just listen a minute until I get through. Of course I know that the scheme sounds funny to you folks because you haven’t any imagination. As for saying that Miss Comfort wouldn’t live in the Pequot Queen, you don’t know anything of the sort. I’m blamed certain that if I was—were Miss Comfort I’d a lot rather live in a nice clean boat tied to the bank than go to the poor-farm!”
“Well,” said Polly dubiously, “you’re a man.”
“A man!” jeered Ned.
“Well, you know perfectly well what I mean,” said Polly. It was evident that Polly wanted very much to be convinced of the practicability of the plan, and her objection had been almost apologetic. Mae, taking her cue from her friend, awaited further enlightenment in pretty perplexity.
“Miss Comfort has enough to furnish it with,” continued Laurie. “At least, Polly said she had taken a lot of stuff with her.” Polly nodded vigorously. “All we’d have to do would be to board up about four windows on each side of the cabin, put some shades or curtains at the others, put a new lock on the door, run a stove-pipe through the roof—”
“Perfectly simple and easy,” said Ned. “Go on, son.”
“That’s about all. That cabin’s big enough for her to live in comfortably, big enough for a stove and bed and table and chairs—and—and everything. Then, there’s the roof, too. Why, she could have a roof-garden up there, and a place to dry her clothes—”