“And his lame bowman, if he be well enough,” added Lyndsay. “Thanks.”
“And I shall take my rifle,” said Dick.
“No, unless you go alone,” said Lyndsay.
“All right; we’ll fish for trout, Rose,” cried Jack. “Red Head can hunt beasts in the swamp, and Ned shall sit on a stump and make poetry.”
“Be sure not to be late again, Rose. I was a good deal troubled last night.”
“Yes, Pardy; but my watch has stopped. It got wet through, last night, poor thing! I fear it is utterly ruined. It was not worth much.”
“Never mind, dear,” said Anne. “I will give you one when we get home.” To give was Anne’s great joy.
“For a drowned watch intemperance is the cure,” said Lyndsay: “total immersion in alcohol or whisky is the sole remedy. I never carry one here; it reminds me too much of the minor oppressions of civilization.”
“And, after all,” said Anne, “punctuality is a quite modern virtue.”
“Yes. I think a Quaker in the reign of Anne has the terrible responsibility of the invention of the minute hand. In another century we shall say, ‘You are late six seconds; is this the way you keep engagements?’”