At that he laughed.
“You may,” said he, “you may. Perchance we may need it again.”
I went out from his presence, vaguely troubled, to find Tom. And before the early sun had set we were gliding down the Wabash in a canoe, past places forever dedicated to our agonies, towards Kentucky and Polly Ann.
“Davy,” said Tom, “I reckon she'll be standin' under the 'simmon tree, waitin' fer us with the little shaver in her arms.”
And so she was.