"What things?"
"Why, Man-alive, the flags, the arches, the triumph, a proper American triumph to welcome a proper American hero! Davy Crockett himself is going to give the oration, being an ex-Congress man. He says you died a greater death than his."
"Death?" He laughed. "Dead? Bet you a castor I'm not! I never been so much alive before."
"What's a castor?"
"A pelt, a beaver pelt, of course!"
"I never heard tell of pelt. Yes, you may have your arm there until we pass the bushes. Then you must try to act respectable. This isn't wild west here."
"You say I'm dead."
"Me, too," she answered cheerily. "Thanks be, that's over"—her face turned grave—"that bad dream we called life. See, here's our town—the dearest, sweetest place. Listen. It's the Grand Army band."
"What's that?"
"Grand Army of the Republic, of course. Your dad is trying to start branches down on earth, only the people are too stupid. He thinks this Mexican war may wake 'em up a bit. Now take your arm from my waist, or they'll see."