“Now,” he said, slowly, “the question is what have I left aboard that I ought to have fetched ashore and what have I fetched here that ought to be left there? . . .  Hum. . . .  I wonder.”

“What makes you think you’ve done anything like that, Uncle Jed?” asked Barbara.

“Eh? . . .  Oh, I don’t think it, I know it.  I’ve boarded with myself for forty-five year and I know if there’s anything I can get cross-eyed I’ll do it.  Just as likely as not I’ve made the bucket of clams fast to that rope out yonder and hove it overboard, and pretty soon you’ll see me tryin’ to make chowder out of the anchor. . . .  Ah hum. . . well. . . .

    ’As numberless as the sands on the seashore,
       As numberless as the sands on the shore,
     Oh, what a sight ’twill be, when the ransomed host we see,
       As numberless as—­’

Well, what do you say?  Shall we heave ahead for the place where Uncle Sam’s birds are goin’ to nest—­his two-legged birds, I mean?”

They walked up the beach a little way, then turned inland, climbed a dune covered with beachgrass and emerged upon the flat meadows which would soon be the flying field.  They walked about among the sheds, the frames of the barracks, and inspected the office building from outside.  There were gangs of workmen, carpenters, plumbers and shovelers, but almost no uniforms.  Barbara was disappointed.

“But there are soldiers here,” she declared.  “Mamma said there were, officer soldiers, you know.”

“I cal’late there ain’t very many yet,” explained her companion.  “Only the few that’s in charge, I guess likely.  By and by there’ll be enough, officers and men both, but now there’s only carpenters and such.”

“But there are some officer ones—­” insisted Babbie.  “I wonder—­ Oh, see, Uncle Jed, through that window—­see, aren’t those soldiers?  They’ve got on soldier clothes.”

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.