builder planned, he went about gathering together fragments.

"Better take enough to build a boat that will carry a seine. 'T won't
cost you a mite more, and might serve you a good turn to have a
sizable craft in a heavy sea some day," said Mr. Hayden.

Now David Bushnell had been wishing that he had some good and
sufficient reason to give Mr. Hayden for wanting the stuff at all, and
here he had given it to him.

"That's true," spoke up David, "but how am I to get all this over to
Pochaug?"

"Don't get it over at all, until it's ready to row down the
Connecticut, and around the Sound. You're welcome to build your boat
at the yard, and, now and then, there will be odd minutes that the men
can help you on with it."

David thanked Mr. Hayden, grew cheerful of heart over the prospect of
owning a boat of his own, and went merrily back to the village of
Pochaug.

Two weeks later David's boat was ready for sea. It was launched into
the Connecticut from the ways on which the "Oliver Cromwell" grew, was
named Lady Fenwick, and, when water-tight, was rowed down the river,
past Saybrook and Tomb Hill, and so into the Long Island Sound.

When its owner and navigator went by Tomb Hill, he removed his hat,
and bowed reverently. He thought with respect and admiration of the
occupant of the sandstone tomb on its height, the Lady Fenwick who had
slept there one hundred and thirty years.

With blistered palms and burning fingers David Bushnell pushed his
boat with pride up the Pochaug River, and tied it to a stake at the
bridge just beyond the sycamore tree, near his father's door.

"I'll fetch father and mother out to see it," he thought, "when the
moon gets up a little higher."

With boyish pride he looked down at the work of his hands from the
river-bank, and went in to get his supper.

"David!" called Mr. Bushnell, having heard his steps in the
entry-way.

"Here I am, father," returned the young man, appearing within the
room, and speaking in a cheerful tone.

"Don't you think you have wasted about time enough?"

The voice was high-wrought and nervous in the extreme. He, poor man,
had been that afternoon thinking the matter over in a convalescent's
weak manner of looking upon the act of another man.

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 Pa