Part 7

The narrow eye turned on him. “How much did you say you sold to him?”

“‘Bout four hundred acre, I reckon,” said Andy.

“Five hundred dollars is what he paid you, I believe?” The man’s voice was smooth, and patient.

Andy wriggled a little. “‘Twa ’n’t enough,” he said feebly.

“Well—I don’t know—” The man glanced about him, “I was looking at a house down in the village this morning—eight rooms—good roof—ten acres of land, and barn. I can have the whole thing for six hundred.”

“That’s Gruchy’s,” said Andy quickly, “He wants to move off the Island.”

“He said he wanted to move—that’s the name—Gruchy—I’d forgotten.” The small eyes looked off at the distant glint of water. “In some ways I like that place better than this,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s on the shore—”

“I’ve got a right of way,” said Andy.

“To the shore!” The man’s eyes looked at him an instant, and a little light flicked in them, and was gone.

“It’s down here,” said Andy. He moved over to the right. “Here’s my entrance—and it runs from here straight across to the shore. We never measured it off—I al’ays cut across anywheres I want to. But it’s in the deed—and anybody ’t buys the land ’ll have it.” He looked at the other shrewdly.

“I see—” The real estate man’s gaze followed the right of way across Uncle William’s moor. “I see—Well, of course, that makes a difference—a little difference. It would be foolish to buy on an island and not have access to the shore—I presume you could buy the Gruchy place,” he suggested.

“That’s what I was thinking of,” said Andy, “—unless William wanted to give me a little piece.” His gloomy eyes rested, almost fondly, on the big moor that stretched away under its piled-up clouds.

“Better for business down in the village, I should think,” said the man briskly.

“Yes, it’s better for business,” admitted Andy. “Only I’ve got kind of used to it up here.” His eye sought the house. “I was born in there, you know—and my father lived there and my grandfather.”

The real-estate man’s hand reached to his pocket and found something and drew it out, slowly.

Andy’s eyes rested on it, fascinated.

The man seemed to hesitate. He looked down at the roll in his hand, and half returned it to his pocket. Then he looked again, doubtfully, at the house and barn and chicken-coop. He had turned his back on the right of way and the horizon line above them. “I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Halloran—” His voice was frankly confidential—“I have taken a liking to your place and I’d be willing to pay a little more for it than for some place I didn’t fancy. I’m made like that.” He expanded a little. “Now, value for value, Gruchy’s place is worth twice what yours is—and I know it.” He looked at him narrowly. “But I’m going to offer you a thousand dollars—five hundred down and five hundred the first of the month—if you want to close now.” He fingered the bills a little.

Andy’s eyes grew round. “I’ll have to ask Harr’et,” he said. “She ain’t very well.” He glanced toward a darkened window at the rear of the house—“She’s havin’ neuralgia—off and on—I wouldn’t want to ask her when she has it. She has a bad spell today.” He shook his head.

The other looked at him sympathetically. “I have to go to-night—and I couldn’t be sure I’d want to offer a thousand in the morning—even if I stayed—not if I came across something I like better.” He returned the bills decisively to his pocket.

Andy’s glance followed them. “I don’t really need to ask her.” His glance flickered. “She’s said, time and again, she ’d be glad if I’d sell. She comes from northeast of Digby. I reckon she ’d like to go back.”

“Digby’s a fine place,” said the man. “Well, good day, Mr. Halloran. I’m glad to have met you.” He held out a round hand.

Andy took it without enthusiasm. “I do ’no’ but I might as well sell,” he said feebly.

The other waved it away. “Don’t think of it—not without your wife’s consent—not if you’re accustomed to doing what she tells you.”

“I ain’t,” said Andy indignantly.

“Of course not—I only meant that you ’d be better satisfied—”

“I’m satisfied now,” said Andy. “You pay me the five hundred down, and the place is yours.”

The man cast a cool glance at the house and barn and the white fowl strutting before them. “Well—if you really want to sell—” He drew the roll from his pocket and counted out the bills slowly, handing them to Andy with careless gesture.

Andy’s hand closed about them spasmodically and he looked down at them with half-open mouth and grinned a little.

“Now, if you ’ll sign the receipt—” The man drew a fountain pen from his pocket and wrote a few lines rapidly. “There you are. Sign here, please.”

Andy’s fingers found the place and rubbed it a little and traced his name slowly. He looked at the crumpled bills, and a deep smile filled his face. “Harr’et will be pleased!” he said.

“That’s good!” The real-estate man beamed on him benignantly. “Tomorrow we will draw up the papers, and you can look about you for a place. You ’ll find something to suit, and I sha ’n’t hurry you—Take your time.” He moved off slowly, waving his hands in a kind of real-estate benediction, and Andy stared after him, entranced.

“Oh, by the way—” The man came back. “I wouldn’t say anything about it if I were you—not for a while. There are always people ready to make trouble—and you ’ll be able to buy cheaper if they don’t know you’ve got to buy.” He beamed on him. “Of course, if you have to tell your wife—?”

“I don’t have to,” blurted Andy.

“All the better—all the better. The fewer women know things, the better.” The man smiled genially, and his light, smooth steps bore him away—out of Andy’s sight.

When he had disappeared, Andy looked down at the bills. He drew out from his coat a large rumpled handkerchief and tied the bills skillfully in one corner and thrust it back into his pocket. Then he walked, with firm step, past the darkened window, into the house.

XVIII

THERE was a gathering cloud in the air—brooding, like a storm. Uncle William looked up to it, then he went on dragging his dory down the beach to the water’s edge. A voice sailed through the air, and he paused and looked up. Benjy, coming down the rocky path, was signalling to him violently. Uncle William dropped the dory and stood up. He advanced up the beach and the two men faced each other. Great clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and down behind them the sea boomed.

“Have you heard what’s going on?” demanded Bodet. He was breathing a little grimly.

“I kind o’ got it out of Andy this morning,” admitted Uncle William.

Bodet looked at him in silence.

“I do’ ’no’ why I didn’t get the idee sooner,” went on Uncle William. “Their lumber must have been lying around here fo-five days, now. But you’ve had such a lot of stuff clutterin’ up the dock, that I didn’t take no notice. I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d ’a’ seen it this morning—only Andy looked so kind o’ queer and meachin’ down ’t the dock—that I said plain out to him, I said, ’What you been doing, Andy?’ An’ he had to tell me. He hated to—like pizen. Uncle William smiled a little. I told him he ’d been putty foolish,” he added slowly.

“Foolish!” Bodet fizzed. “It’s a crime! Building a hotel!—up there!” He waved his hand up over the great cliffs.

Uncle William looked up to them with kindly eye. “‘Tain’t a hotel—exactly—”

“Seventy-five rooms,” said Bodet.

“‘Tis a good many,” said Uncle William.

“Traipsing all over the place—I’ll shoot ’em,” said Bodet savagely.

“Shootin’ won’t do any good, Benjy.” Uncle William was mild. “I thought about shootin’ ’em myself—whilst I was bein’ mad this mornin’.”

“They sha ’n’t step on my land—nor yours,” said Bodet. “Do you think I’d have come up here—to the ends of the earth—to be tramped on?”

“Why, no, Benjy—an’ you ain’t goin’ to be tramped on.” Uncle William’s voice was soothing. “But, you see—they’ve got a right to go acrost your land, and across mine.”

Bodet looked at him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and put the handkerchief back. “What do you mean William?” he said.

“Set down, Benjy.” Uncle William found a convenient rock. “It’s in the deed. You see, Andy, he wanted it that way and I never thought much about it, one way or the other—I reckon he wouldn’t ever ’a’ sold it without,” Uncle William added slowly. “Anyway I give it to him, and it runs right by your place—near as I can make out. I’ve been kind o’ thinking about it since I found out.”

Benjy groaned a little.

“I know jest how you feel, Benjy.” Uncle William’s voice held a deep note in in it, “—about rusticators, and havin’ ’em go by your windows, all hours, day and night, a-gabbling and so kind o’ cheerful-like. I do’ ’no’ ’s I could stand it myself.”

“I’m not going to stand it,” said Bodet, “I’ll sell out—leave the Island.”

“Mebbe that’s what he wants—what he’s countin’ on,” said William slowly. Benjy glared at him.

“Don’t you worry, Benjy.” Uncle William looked out to sea where the big waves tumbled under the wind and the whitecaps gathered and bobbed and rode high—“Don’t you holler ’fore you’re hurt. The’ ain’t anybody gone past your windows yet.... I’m figgerin’ on it,” went on Uncle William, “an’ I can’t stan’ it, no more ’n you can—to have ’em a-settin’ on the beach here—” Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly. “‘Twouldn’t be the same place—if I’d got to look up, any minute, and see two-three of ’em settin’, or kind o’ gettin’ into the boats, and squealin’.... It’s partly the clo’es, I reckon,” said Uncle William after a minute, “—the women’s things like men’s—and the men’s like women’s. Can’t tell which from ’tother, half the time. Look up, and see a hat and coat and shoes, mebbe, and think it’s a man and get your mind all fixed for a man—and it turns into a woman.... There was a young man over to Pie Beach one summer,” said Uncle William slowly, “that had a green veil onto his hat. I’d hate to have a young man with a green veil a-settin’ on my beach.”

Bodet snorted.

Uncle William cast a mild eye at him. “They’re nice folks, too—some of ’em,” he said conscientiously, “and they’re always polite. They talk to me real kind—and encouraging.” His eyes rested on the dark horizon line beyond the tumbling waves. “But the’s suthin’ queer about the way I feel when I’m talking with ’em. They’re polite and I’m polite—real polite, for me. But sometimes, when we’re a-settin’ here—as close as you be—and talkin’ real comfortable, I get to feelin’ ’s if I was alongside a chasm—kind of a big, deep place like—and standin’ on tiptoe, shouting to ’em.” Uncle William wiped his forehead. “I gen’ally go out and sail a spell after I’ve talked to ’em,” he added. Bodet laughed ont.

Uncle William smiled. “Now, don’t you mind, Benjy. I’m figgerin’ on it. I reckon we ’ll manage to live along—somehow.”

“The place is his,” said Bodet, “bought and paid for—”

“A thousand dollars,” said Uncle William.

Bodet looked at him—then he groaned softly. “And he ’ll use your land, and mine, for a door-yard—and the beach for a sand-pile. All he needs is land enough to build his hotel on—and he’s got it.”

“Yes, he’s got it,” admitted William, “and they must have quite a piece of building done, by this time—They’re adding on and raising up, Andy said.” Uncle William got to his feet. “I reckon I’ll go take a look at it.” He glanced at the harbor. “No kind o’ day to fish—George Manning working?” he asked casually.

“Yes—he’s working.” Bodet’s tone was a little stiff.

“Um-m—” Uncle William moved off a little distance. He drew his dory up the beach, and pottered about a little. “I was just going out to see to the Jennie,” he said. “But she’s all right—and mebbe it ’ll blow over.” He looked up at the sky. “I o’t to get some things down ’t the store—” He felt in his pockets. “You got any money, Benjy?”

Benjy shook his head. “I can give you a cheque if you want it.” There was a little, quizzical smile with the words.

Uncle William paused, his hand half drawn from his pocket—a light filled his face, and a little laugh. “That ’ll do, Benjy—that ’ll do fust-rate,” he said.

Bodet drew out his cheque book and opened it. “How much do you want!” he asked.

Uncle William paused. He looked at the cliffs, and at the sky—“I might want a considabul,” he said slowly—“Couldn’t you just sign your name down there, Benjy, the way you do, and let me get what I need?”

Bodet looked at him a minute. Then he signed the cheque and handed it to him—a little smile in his eyes. “Tell me what you make it,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” said Uncle William cordially. “I’d tell you now—only I don’t know how much it ’ll cost—what I’m going to buy.” He moved off up the beach.

At the foot of the cliff he paused and looked back. “Mebbe I’ll see Harriet,” he said. “Her temper ain’t good. But she’s firm, and she’s got sense.”

Bodet shook his head. “The thing is tied tight, William. I looked into it before I came down.”

“‘D you see Moseley?” said William. “He could tell ye. He knows the Island—and everybody on it.”

“Yes, I saw him. He said the papers were drawn and signed—two weeks ago—in his office. You’re not dealing with Andy—this time, William.”

“I guess I’ll go see Harr’et,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “And don’t you worry, Benjy. The’ ain’t nobody going to set on your land without you want ’em to—it ain’t right—and it ain’t goin’ to be.”

Uncle William smiled—a great, reassuring smile—and mounted the zigzag path to the cliff. For a minute his figure loomed against the sky at the top. Then it disappeared over the edge, headed toward Andy’s house.

XIX

THE large man came softly along the beach, treading with light, smooth steps.

Uncle William, mending his net, did not look up.

The man paused beside him, and looked about—with pleased, expansive eye.

Uncle William’s glance rested on him.

The man looked down. “Good morning, Mr. Benslow—I’ve come back, you see.”

“I see ye,” said Uncle William.

The man filled his chest. “I’ve come to see how they’re getting on—over at my place. I bought a small piece, of Halloran, you know—You heard about it, I presume?”

“Andy said suthin’ about your wantin’ to buy of him,” said Uncle William discreetly.

“Yes, I bought his house and what land goes with it. It’s small—but there didn’t seem to be much land for sale around here—” He dropped a casual eye in Uncle William’s direction.

Uncle William’s face was placid.

“I’m building a little,” said the man.

“So I heard tell,” said Uncle William.

“It’s a great place,” said the man. His chest expanded a little more. “I shall advertise, of course, and I expect a good class of patrons for this place.” He balanced himself on his toes and looked down on Uncle William benignantly.

Uncle William went on mending his net. His blue eyes squinted at the meshes and his big arms moved hack and forth in even rhythm.

The man looked down at him doubtfully. Then he found a nail keg—a stout one—and sat down. “I want to be on good terms with my neighbors, Mr. Benslow,” he said genially. He was leaning forward a little, toward Uncle William, one arm resting on his knee and the hand spread out toward him.

Uncle William looked at it a minute. Then he pushed up his spectacles and looked out to sea. “The’ ain’t many neighbors round here,” he said, “—jest me and Benjy—and Andy.”

“That’s what I meant,” said the man, “only I’m the neighbor now instead of—Hallo!—There’s Halloran himself. I want to speak to him,” He rose cautiously from his keg and motioned to Andy who was disappearing behind a pile of lumber down on the dock.

Andy came out, a little grudgingly, it seemed, and the man moved forward to meet him.

Uncle William went on mending his net.

When the man returned his face had a reddish look and his voice was a little controlled and stiff. “Halloran tells me you’ve put an injunction on my work up there?” He moved his hand toward the cliff.

Uncle William held up his net and squinted at it. “We-l-l,” he said slowly, “we told ’em they better not do any more building—not till you come.” He looked at him mildly.

There was silence on the beach. The galls sailed overhead and the waves lapped softly, rippling up and back, with little salt washes. Uncle William looked about him with contented gaze. “We don’t really need a hotel on the Island, Mr. Carter—not really,” he said slowly.

The man looked at him a moment. Then he sat down on the keg, adjusting his weight nicely. “I understand your feeling, Mr. Benslow, I understand it perfectly—and it’s natural. But you don’t foresee, as I do, what a hotel will do for this Island. I’ve had experience in these matters, and I can tell you that in three years—” he looked about him proudly, “you wouldn’t know the place!”

Uncle William cast a quick glance at the cliff—“I don’t suppose I should,” he said hastily.

“And as for values—” The man’s hand swept the horizon. “You could sell at your own price. I’m really doing you a favor, Mr. Benslow—” he leaned toward him, “if you had foresight.”

“Yes, I reckon it takes foresight,” said Uncle William. He looked at him mildly. “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—you can’t build no hotel—not up here. You can build down ’t the village, if you want to,” he added.

“In that hole—?” The man looked at him cynically. “Do you think anybody would board in that hole?”

“I shouldn’t want to myself,” admitted William, “but folks are different—some folks are different.”

The man rose to his feet. “I shall be sorry to have any ill feeling with you, Mr. Benslow. But you can’t expect me to sacrifice my plans—not unless you are willing to buy the place yourself.” He dropped a narrow eye on him for a minute.

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Uncle William cordially.

The man smiled a little. “What would you consider it worth?” he asked pleasantly.

“Well—” Uncle William considered, “I do’ ’no’ just what ’tis worth. We paid Andy two thousand for it.”

The man’s mouth looked at him for a minute, then it closed, in a little smile. “You mean you would pay that,” he suggested.

“I mean we did pay it,” said Uncle William stoutly, “—last week. An’ then I told ’em not to drive another nail, or I’d sue ’em!” He was sitting erect now and there was a little glint in the blue eyes. “Set down, Mr. Carter.” He motioned to the nail keg. “I might jest as well tell ye—plain out—so ’s ’t you can understand. Andy didn’t own that place. He ain’t owned it for years. He don’t own stock nor stone on the Island—Don’t own his own boat out there—” Uncle William nodded to the dark boat, rocking beside the Jennie. Andy, on the deck, was busy hauling up the sail and making ready to cast off. Uncle William’s eye rested on him, with a little humorous gleam. “You see, Andy, he got scared, fo-five years ago, ’bout his property. He’s a kind o’ near man, Andy is, and he got the idee he ’d make everything over to Harr’et—to have it safe. So that’s what he done. He give her a paper saying he ’d made it all over to her—everything. Nobody knew it, I guess—except me. And I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if it hadn’t been for one day, when we was out sailin’—We got to talking about one thing and another—and fust thing he knew, he ’d told me. He made me promise not to tell, and I ain’t told—not a soul—not till now.” Uncle William beamed on him. “I reckon ’twon’t do any harm now.”

The man’s gaze was fixed on him. “I shall see what the law has to say about it,” he said quietly.

“Well, I would if I was you,” said Uncle William cordially, “I did, when I bought my piece. I see a lawyer—a good one—and he said my deed wa ’n’t wuth the paper ’twas writ on if Harr’et didn’t give a quit-claim deed—So she give it.”

The man’s gaze was looking out to sea.

Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “It ain’t a just law—anybody can see it ain’t just! How was you going to know ’t Harr’et owns Andy? I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if we hadn’t been sailing that way. And you couldn’t ’a’ known it—You didn’t know,” said Uncle William with conviction.

The narrow eyes turned on him for a minute. “There’s such a thing as law,” he repeated.

“Law’s ticklish,” said Uncle William. “Far as I make out, the man that’s got the most money, beats—after a spell.”

There was silence again. “I suppose you know I paid Halloran five hundred down,” said the man.

“Yes, Andy told me about the five hundred down—and five hundred the first of the month.” Uncle William’s hand sought his pocket. “Andy give that five hundred to me. I reckon he kind o’ hated to hand it to ye.” Uncle William’s eye sought the dark boat that had lifted sail and was creeping out of the harbor. “I told him I’d just as lives give it to you as not—I’d be real glad.” He held out the roll of bills.

The man took them, in thick fingers, and counted them.

Uncle William watched him, with deep, detached eye—“I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Carter—You wouldn’t ever ’a’ been happy here on the Island—not really happy. You see, here on the Island, we gen’ally fish, or cut bait, or go ashore. You ’d like it better to go ashore.”

The man moved away a few steps. “To tell you the truth, I am glad to be out of it,” he said, “I was making your land altogether too valuable—and nothing in it for me.”

“That’s the way I felt,” said Uncle William cordially. “I don’t like things ’t I own to get too val’able. It makes a lot of bother owning ’em.... You ’ll just about get the boat—if you was thinkin’ of going today,” he suggested.

The man looked at him—then he smiled and held out his hand. “Good-by, Mr. Benslow. I think I know a gentleman—when I meet him.”

Uncle William rubbed his hand down his trouser leg and took the one that was held out. “Good-by, Mr. Carter. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again. You won’t be comin’ back to the Island, I suppose. But we ’ll buy your lumber—we can work it in somehow, I reckon.”

The man moved away, and Uncle William returned to his net. Now and then his eyes sought the little dark boat that sailed back and forth against the misty horizon—and a smile crept up to the eyes and lingered in them—a little smile of humor and gentleness and kindly pity and strength.

XX

I'd. let him go, Benjy, if I was you.” Two weeks had gone by and the mackerel continued to run. George Manning had stayed by the house, driving nails with big, fierce strokes and looking out over the harbor with his set face.... The house had come on rapidly—the shingling was done and most of the inside woodwork was up. A new set of men had been put on, to replace the mackerel men, and Manning drove them hard. It had not been easy to get men, or to keep them—with the mackerel schooling red out there in the harbor. But something in Manning’s eye held them to their work.

“I’d let him go, Benjy,” said Uncle

William. The two men stood in front of the new house, looking toward it. “He’s got her closed in tight—” went on Uncle William, “Windows all in. The’ can’t anything happen to her now.... He’s stood by ye putty well,” he suggested craftily—“better ’n I’d ’a’ done—with all that goin’ on out there!” He waved his hand at the water.

Bodet’s eye followed the motion. “I want him for the inside work,” he said.

Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “I know you want him, Benjy. But here on the Island we al’ays kind o’ give and take—Ain’t you been taking quite a spell?” he added gently.

Bodet turned a little. “A contract’s a contract,” he said uneasily.

“Well, mebbe,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s why we ain’t ever had many contracks here on the Island—We’ve al’ays liked to live along kind o’ humanlike.”

Bodet smiled a little. “I’ll let him off,” he said, “—if he ’ll get things along so we can paint—I can look after the painting for him myself—” his chest expanded a little.