Two weeks later David’s boat was ready for sea. It was launched into the Connecticut from the ways on which the “Oliver Cromwell” grew, was named Lady Fenwick, and, when water-tight, was rowed down the river, past Saybrook and Tomb Hill, and so into the Long Island Sound.
When its owner and navigator went by Tomb Hill, he removed his hat, and bowed reverently. He thought with respect and admiration of the occupant of the sandstone tomb on its height, the Lady Fenwick who had slept there one hundred and thirty years.
With blistered palms and burning fingers David Bushnell pushed his boat with pride up the Pochaug River, and tied it to a stake at the bridge just beyond the sycamore tree, near his father’s door.
“I’ll fetch father and mother out to see it,” he thought, “when the moon gets up a little higher.”
With boyish pride he looked down at the work of his hands from the river-bank, and went in to get his supper.
“David!” called Mr. Bushnell, having heard his steps in the entry-way.
“Here I am, father,” returned the young man, appearing within the room, and speaking in a cheerful tone.
“Don’t you think you have wasted about time enough?”
The voice was high-wrought and nervous in the extreme. He, poor man, had been that afternoon thinking the matter over in a convalescent’s weak manner of looking upon the act of another man.