wondering, and cautioning against excelsior all over the rug. But there was no excelsior: Bits of tissue paper began to stick up as Mark scrunched out nail after nail and bent back the boards of the lid. The top of a little black stick protruded from it—and then Jane felt her heart give a queer bob that made her feel weak all over.
"Let me! Let me!" she begged. "Oh, it can't be!"
But, as she groped down into the box, her hands knew—all tangled in the packing, but unmistakable—down the tall mast, the moonsail, the skysail, the royal, the topgallant, the topsails, the main course—and at the stern, she knew, a dimly golden scroll on which was carved, Fortune of the Indies, Resthaven.
Even the aunts could not protest at the wild way in which paper flew about the hall now. They stood patting one another's arms and watching the mad young shouting Ingrams uncovering bit by bit the lost model, knocking out the cleats that held it fast. Then Jane untied from the spanker-boom a small envelope, and whipped out the card within.
