Alaskan paddles and totem poles were lashed together, and the sharp noses and bright eyes of stuffed foxes from Mandan peered from their paper wrappings as their owners prepared for the last disembarkation.
Near historic Concord the train stopped for a local freight to pull out of the way. Randolph carelessly strolled out to the car platform, and cast his eye along a little stream which was crossed by the track at that point. Something made him start suddenly and beckon to a group of boys who were idling near.
“A silver dollar for the boy that brings me a pond lily before the train starts!” he cried, pointing to the river.
How those boys did scatter, some up stream, some down! One bright little fellow, who had just divested himself for a bath, plunged in and swam lustily for the prize. Another waded in, waist-deep, regardless of clothes. Half a dozen more threw themselves on to a rude raft, capsized it, and scrambling on board again, poled it toward the white beauties, floating serenely on the dark waters of the Assabet.
Randolph stood waiting eagerly, with the dollar in his hand, expecting every moment to hear the signal-whistle for starting. A group of workmen engaged in repairing the bridge left off working and cheered the boys on, laughing, and shouting to the little fellows.
“Go it, Dick! Now, Billy, there’s a big one in front of you—no, to your right, to your right! Hurry, Pat, you’ll get it! Good for you!”
“Off brakes!” rang out the whistle sharply. The train started. Four boys scrambled, panting, up the steep, sandy bank. Randolph jumped on the lowest step of the car and stretched out his hand.
“Here they are, Mister!” and four snowy, perfumed blossoms were thrust by grimy little fingers into his own.
“Catch!” he shouted, throwing out four bright silver quarters for which he had hastily changed the dollar. “Thank you, boys. Good-by!” and the train rolled on.