For it was such a good-natured busy little place that their hearts were heavy at leaving it.
But that evening John in his gorgeous necktie, his clean paper collar, his new stiff hat, his first store clothes, wearing proudly his father's silver watch and chain, set out to say good-by to Ellen Culpepper, and his mother, standing in the doorway of their home, sighed at his limp and laughed at his strut--the first laugh she had enjoyed in a dozen days.
John and Bob together went up the stone walk leading across a yard, still littered with the debris of building, to the unboxed steps that climbed to the veranda of the Culpepper house.

There they met Colonel Culpepper in his shirt-sleeves, walking up and down the veranda admiring the tall white pillars.

When he had greeted the boys, he put his thumbs in his vest holes and continued his parade in some pomp.
The boys were used to this attitude of the colonel's toward themselves and the pillars.

It always followed a hearty meal.

So they sat respectfully while he marched before them, pointing occasionally, when he took his cigar from his mouth and a hand from his vest, to some feature of the landscape in the sunset light that needed emphatic attention.
"Yes, sir, young gentlemen," expanded the colonel, "you are doing the right and proper thing--the right and proper thing.