"
Jed presumed likely that they were. Barbara nodded, sagely. "And
they're officers, too," she said, "I'm sure they are because
they're in the office. Do they call them officers because they
work in offices, Uncle Jed?"
After an hour's walking about they went back to the place where
they had left the boat and Jed set about making the chowder.
Barbara watched him build the fire and open the clams, but then,
growing tired of sitting still, she was seized with an idea.
"Uncle Jed," she asked, "can't you whittle me a shingle boat? You
know you did once at our beach at home. And there's the cunningest
little pond to sail it on. Mamma would let me sail it there, I
know, 'cause it isn't a bit deep. You come and see, Uncle Jed."
The "pond" was a puddle, perhaps twenty feet across, left by the
outgoing tide. Its greatest depth was not more than a foot. Jed
absent-mindedly declared the pond to be safe enough but that he
could not make a shingle boat, not having the necessary shingle.
"Would you if you had one?" persisted the young lady.
"Eh? . . . Oh, yes, sartin, I guess so."
"All right. Here is one. I picked it up on top of that little
hill. I guess it blew there. It's blowing ever so much harder up
there than it is here on the beach."
The shingle boat being hurriedly made, its owner begged for a paper
sail.
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