“Oh, they’ll probably build a new bridge or start a ferry,” replied Bee pessimistically. “Let’s sit down here and meditate.”
A flat rock, sprinkled with half-rotted needles from a hemlock tree that grew beside it, afforded an excellent seat. Behind them was the grove; in front the slope of the hill, more abrupt here than elsewhere and covered with coarse grass and bay-berry bushes. Wherever a rock cropped out a little colony of Christmas ferns grew precariously. Just above the beach ran a tangle of sedge and low bushes; wild cherry, sweet fern, sheep laurel; interspersed with weeds and blackberry briars. To the left, half-way down the slope, one lone tree, dwarfed and misshapen, rustled a few leaves in the soft breeze.
“We’ll name this Lookout Rock,” said Bee. “You get a dandy view from here, don’t you?”
Before them lay mile on mile of blue ocean, asparkle in the afternoon sunlight, dotted here and there with a white sail or a trail of smoke.
“Old Verny picked out a pretty good place to build his house, didn’t he?” asked Hal. “Do you know where it stood, Jack?”
“No, I don’t. Somewhere on the ocean side, probably. Perhaps right below where we’re sitting.”
“Was it pulled down or what happened to it?”
“They say the sheriffs or revenue men or whoever they were burned it down when they arrested the old chap. I suppose that explains why there isn’t any of it left. I’ve never seen even a timber of it.”
“I suppose those rocks out there,” said Bee, pointing to the right, “are The Tombstones.”
“Yes, and many a schooner has piled up there, too,” answered Jack. “Father used to say that on a very calm day you could look down between Big Tombstone and Little Tombstone and see the ribs of a ship. I never saw them, though. Usually it’s too rough.”