And Larry is in no small degree comforted. How could it be otherwise with that loyal child-heart standing up to him so bravely in his trial! And finally he tells Courage of a plan, that has come into his mind, to spend the remainder of the summer in the queerest little place that ever was heard of, and he proceeds to describe the little place to her. Courage is delighted with the scheme, and they talk quietly about it for ever so long, till after awhile, right in the midst of a sentence, Courage drops asleep on Larry's shoulder. Then, rather than disturb her, Larry sits perfectly motionless, and at last the noble gray head, drooping lower and lower, rests against the red-brown curls, and Larry is also asleep, while across them both slants a band of marvellous light from the torch of the island statue.
CHAPTER VII.—“THE QUEEREST LITTLE PLACE.”
It's mos' as nice as de boat, an' eber so much like it,” said Sylvia.
“Yes, most as nice,” Courage conceded, “and the next best thing for a man like Larry, who's lived all his life on the water. It looks a sight better than when we came, doesn't it? But hush! Look, Sylvia; isn't that a bite? Have the net ready.”
And Sylvia had the net ready, and in another second a great sprawling crab was landed in the boat beside them, for you must know that mistress and maid are out crabbing on the South Shrewsbury, and are meeting with much better luck than is generally experienced in midsummer weather. Directly over their heads is the queer little place that has recently become their home. That chink there is in the floor of Sylvia's carpetless room, and those wisps of straw are sticking through from Bruce's kennel. To be sure, you have heard nothing of that young gentleman since the day when Courage dried her tears on his coat, but that is only because there have been more important things to tell about. He has, however, been behaving in the most exemplary manner all the while, and has been, as always, Larry's constant companion.
As for the queer little place, you have probably never seen anything at all like it, unless, as is possible, you have chanced to see this very little place itself. It is a house, of course, but wholly unlike other houses. It has several rooms, but they are all strung along in a row, and boasts neither attic nor cellar. There is water under it and water on every side of it; in short, it is on the drawbridge that spans the river between Port-au-Peck and Town Neck, and is what I presume may be called a draw-house. Of the many bridges spanning the inlets threading all that region of sea-board country, this South Shrewsbury Bridge is by far the longest, and therefore the most pretentious.
