It's mos' as nice as de boat, an' eber so much like it,” said Sylvia.
“Yes, most as nice,” Courage conceded, “and the next best thing for a man like Larry, who's lived all his life on the water. It looks a sight better than when we came, doesn't it? But hush! Look, Sylvia; isn't that a bite? Have the net ready.”
And Sylvia had the net ready, and in another second a great sprawling crab was landed in the boat beside them, for you must know that mistress and maid are out crabbing on the South Shrewsbury, and are meeting with much better luck than is generally experienced in midsummer weather. Directly over their heads is the queer little place that has recently become their home. That chink there is in the floor of Sylvia's carpetless room, and those wisps of straw are sticking through from Bruce's kennel. To be sure, you have heard nothing of that young gentleman since the day when Courage dried her tears on his coat, but that is only because there have been more important things to tell about. He has, however, been behaving in the most exemplary manner all the while, and has been, as always, Larry's constant companion.
As for the queer little place, you have probably never seen anything at all like it, unless, as is possible, you have chanced to see this very little place itself. It is a house, of course, but wholly unlike other houses. It has several rooms, but they are all strung along in a row, and boasts neither attic nor cellar. There is water under it and water on every side of it; in short, it is on the drawbridge that spans the river between Port-au-Peck and Town Neck, and is what I presume may be called a draw-house. Of the many bridges spanning the inlets threading all that region of sea-board country, this South Shrewsbury Bridge is by far the longest, and therefore the most pretentious.
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The draw, to accommodate the channel of the river, has been placed near the southern end, while at either end of it on the main bridge are gates that swing to for the protection of teams when the draw itself is open. The house also stretches its length along the main bridge toward its southern end.
From the day when the ice goes out of the river to the day when it locks it in again it is David Starr's home, and David is Larry Starr's brother. David's wife has been dead these many years; all his children are married and settled; and David, not wishing, as he says, “to be beholden to ony of 'em,” minds the South Shrewsbury draw. For nine months or thereabouts he stays on the bridge, and then, while the river is ice-bound, retreats to a little house on the main-land, living quite by himself all the while.
And this is the place to which Larry has come with Courage and Sylvia, and lonely old David is glad enough to see them, particularly as Larry proposes to pay a snug little sum weekly, by way of board.
What they will do when cold weather sets in Larry has not yet decided; he fully expects, however, to send Courage to school somewhere in the city, if it take half his savings to do it; but for Larry himself, alas! the darkness is settling down more and more surely. Meantime, Courage and Sylvia do all in their power to cheer him, and everybody, Larry included, tries hard not to think of the on-coming blindness. As for Larry's cabin-boy, Dick, he could not, unfortunately, be included in this new plan, but Courage, at Larry's dictation, wrote him a most promising sort of a reference, and one which succeeded in obtaining him just as promising a situation. And there was one other important matter attended to before they all took final leave of Dick and the dear old lighter. Larry painted out her name from the bow with the blackest of black paint. He would sell his boat if he must, but the Courage Masterson, never!
But while I have been telling you all this, Courage and Sylvia, their crabbing concluded, have tied their boat to the shore, and with a well-filled basket swinging between them, are coming down the bridge. Over against the house Larry sits in the sunshine, smoking his pipe, that is now more of a comfort than ever, and with Bruce at his feet. He hears the children and knows their tread almost the instant they set foot on the roadway, his good old ears seeming kindly bent on doing double service.
“Any luck?” he calls out, as soon as he reckons them within speaking distance.
“Yes, twelve big ones,” answers Sylvia; “but Lor'! Ise don' know nuffin 'bout how to cook things what's alive to start with.”
“David'll tell you how to manage,” laughs Larry, and just then a carriage, crossing over the bridge, comes close upon them. Courage instinctively glances over her shoulder, and straightway dropping her end of the basket, cries out, with what little remaining breath surprise has left her, “Why, Miss Julia!”
“Why, Courage, dear, where did you come from?” and instantly the phaeton is brought to a standstill, and Courage bounds into it, and then there is the report of a kiss loud enough to have started any save the most discriminating of ponies on the wildest of gallops.
“But I thought you were to be on a boat all summer!” exclaims Miss Julia the next minute.
“Yes, I was, but—” and then, feeling that there is something even more important than an immediate explanation, Courage bounds out of the carriage again, that she may lead Larry to Miss Julia, and they of course shake hands very heartily, as two people should who have heard so much of each other. Then Larry and Courage between them explain matters, and Miss Julia in turn tells of her summer home, but a mile away on the Rumson Road, and of how very often she drives over the Shrewsbury Draw.
Meanwhile poor Sylvia has been having an anxious time of it. When Courage so unceremoniously dropped her end of the basket, several of the crabs went scrawling out of it, and, as you know, there is nothing more lively than a hard-shell crab, struggling with all its might to regain its native element. But with the aid of Miss Julia's man, who has sprung down from the rumble to help her, Sylvia does succeed in recapturing four of the runaways, not, alas! however, before two beauties have succeeded in gaining the edge of the bridge, and in plumping themselves back into the water with a splash that must have consumed with envy the hearts of their less fortunate fellows.
At last it is time for Sylvia to be introduced, and, as usual, her beaming face expresses her satisfaction. Then there is a general chatting for a little while longer, in which each bears a hand.
“And how pretty you have made it all!” says Miss Julia, taking up the reins, preparatory to driving on. “I never should have known the place, with the dainty dimity curtains at the windows and these starch boxes full of plants along the rail here; such nice old-fashioned plants, too—geraniums and lemon verbena and that little low plant with the funny name—oh, yes, I remember—portulaca. How long has it taken you to work such a transformation, Courage?”
“Only a week, Miss Julia. We came down last Monday; but then Sylvia and I have worked pretty hard.”
“Of course you have. You're a pair of regular wonder-working fairies, you and your faithful Sylvia. And now I must say good-bye, but not until Larry promises that you shall come, both of you, and spend day after to-morrow with me. I will send John down for you, with the ponies, bright and early, and we'll have such a day of it.”
Larry promised, Miss Julia drove on, and the children looked a delight which was, in very truth, unspeakable.
