leaping before a ship model. Mark and Alan clutched their foreheads melodramatically, crying, "Hallelujah!" and the curator said, "What's this; what's this? What is this?" looking over his glasses and thrusting a pen behind either ear.
"It's our ship!" Mark explained, not at all clearly.
"Where did it come from?" Alan asked.
"Whose is it supposed to be?" Jane demanded.
"I don't know what all this is," the curator protested, "but I can look in the record. It's a loan, you see—a Boston gentleman—a loan—I can look in the record."
"Do, please!" Jane entreated him, almost pushing him into the office.
He consulted a large and rather ancient day-book which looked as though it might itself have been one of the exhibits.
"Here it is," he announced at last, a good deal flurried by peering Ingrams at his shoulder. "Model, clipper ship. Fortune of the Indies. Loaned by Mr. Henry B. Bolliver, Brimmer Street, Boston, Mass."
"Thank you," said the Ingrams, and then
