"Alan Hapgood," said his sister, "if you tell any more such
taradiddles, I'll send you home."
"But what if I don't choose to go?" returned Alan. "Mrs. Adams
asked me here to spend the afternoon, and you wouldn't any of you
have known what was going on, if it hadn't been for me."
"You shall stay and tell all the stories you like, Alan," said
Polly, coming to his defence as usual. "And if Molly doesn't like
it, she shall go home, her own self."
"Come, Alan," urged Florence; "tell us another story, a real long
one, to help pass the time."
"Hm! Let's see," mused Alan. "I don't know as I know any. I'll
tell you, I read one a while ago that I liked pretty well, and if
I get hard up, I can put in some of that. How'll that do?"
"Beautifully," said Polly, with enthusiasm. "You do tell such
splendid stories, Alan."
The group in Mrs. Adams's parlor had gathered there for a strange
purpose, that day. An old negro, well-known throughout the town,
had died, two days before, and Alan had discovered, only that
noon, that the man was to be buried with military honors. The line
of march to the cemetery lay past the Adams house, so Mrs. Adams
had asked them all to come there, to watch the solemn pageant.
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