David Bushnell, smiling still, and taking out a large silver watch from his waistcoat pocket, and looking at it, replied:
“I haven’t wasted one moment, father. The tide was against me, but I’ve rowed around from Pautapoug ship-yard to the sycamore tree out here since two o’clock.”
“You row a boat!” cried Mr. Bushnell, with lofty disdain.
“Why, father, you have not a very good opinion of your son, have you?” questioned the son. “Come, though, and see what he has been doing. Come, mother,” as Mrs. Bushnell entered, bearing David’s supper in her hands.
She put it down. Mr. Bushnell pulled himself upright with a groan or two, and suffered David 81 to assist him by the support of his arm as they went out.
“Why, you tremble as though you had the palsy,” said the father.
“It’s nothing. I’m not used to pulling so long at the oar,” said the son.
When they came to the bank, the full moon shone athwart the little boat rocking on the stream.
“What’s that?” exclaimed both parents.
“That is the Lady Fenwick. I’ve been building the boat myself. You advised me, father, to go to ship-building one morning—do you remember? I took your advice, and began at the bottom of the ladder.”