Chapter 2

“But you’ll die poor,” said the artist, with a glance about the little room. He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was--with his curious, impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways. “You’ll die poor if you don’t look out,” he said again.

“Yes, I s’pose I shall,” said Uncle William, placidly, “‘thout I make my fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right.” He eyed the tea-kettle critically. “You hand over them glasses and we’ll mix a little suthin’ hot, and then we’ll wash the dishes and go to bed.”

The artist looked up with a start. “I must be getting back.” He glanced at the dark window with its whirling sleet.

“You won’t get back anywheres to-night,” said Uncle William. “You couldn’t hear yourself think out there--let alone findin’ the path. I’ll jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it’s a fust-rate bed; I’ve slep’ on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin’ you’ll be on hand to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass and a teaspoon. I want that biggest there--second one--and a teaspoon. We’ll have things fixed up fust-rate here.”

Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow.

Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and thudded to the ground with heavier crash.

About three o’clock Uncle William’s round face was thrust through the crack of the door. “You can go to sleep all right, now,” he said soothingly. “There wa’n’t but seven bricks left in the chimney, anyhow, and the last one’s jest come down. I counted ’em fallin’.”

IV

The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously. Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and pulling their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of work. The summer was almost done. For weeks--since the night of the big storm--he had worked incessantly. A new light had come over things,--“The light that never was on sea or land,” he called it,--and he had worked feverishly. He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through his eyes, he painted them. They took on color and bigness--simplicity. “They will call it my third style,” said the artist, smiling, as he worked. “They ought to call it the Uncle William style. I didn’t do it--I shall never do it again,” and he worked fast.

But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded. To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things he would like to remember.

He looked again at the man cleaning fish. “Pretty steady work,” he said, nodding toward the red pile.

The man looked up with a grunt. “Everything’s steady--that pays,” he said indifferently.

The artist’s eyebrows lifted a little. “So?”

“Yep.” The man tossed aside another fish. “Ye can’t earn money stan’in’ with your hands in your pockets.”

“I guess that’s so,” said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them merrily.

“There’s Willum,” said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife toward the cliff. “He’s poor--poor as poverty--an’ he al’ays will be.”

“What do you think is the reason?” asked the artist. The tone held respectful interest.

The man looked at him more tolerantly. “Too fond of settin’.”

The artist nodded. “I’m afraid he is.”

“An’ then he’s al’ays a-givin’--a little here and a little there. Why, what Willum Benslow’s give away would ’a’ made a rich man of him.”

“Yes?”

“Yep. I don’t s’pose I know half he’s give. But it’s a heap, Lord knows! And then he’s foolish--plumb foolish.” He rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward. “How much d’you s’pose he give me for that land--from here to my house?” He pointed up the coast.

The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It glowed--a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky. “I haven’t the least idea,” he said slowly.

“Well, you won’t believe it when I tell you;--nobody’d believe it. He paid me five hunderd dollars for it--five hunderd! It ain’t wuth fifty.”

The artist smiled at him genially. “Well--he’s satisfied.”

“But it ain’t right,” said the man, gloomily. He had returned to his fish. “It ain’t right. I can’t bear to have Willum such a fool.”

“I think I’ll go for a sail,” said the artist.

The other glanced at the horizon. “It’s going to storm,” he said indifferently.

“I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Ye better not go.”

“Think not?” He looked again at the harbor. “It’s my last chance for a sail--I’ll watch out.”

“All right. ’T ain’t my business,” said the man. He went on slitting fish.

The harbor held a still light--ominously--grey with a tinge of yellow in its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a telescope in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and swept the bay with it. The grey stillness deepened.

On the beach below, the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle William approached he grunted stiffly. “She’s off the island,” he said. He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water.

Uncle William’s telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat hummed, holding a kind of conversation with itself.

The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing to one side. “Fool to go out--I told him it was coming.”

The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. “I o’t to ’a’ kept an eye on him,” he said humbly. “I didn’t jest sense he was goin’. I guess mebbe he did mention it. But I was mixin’ a batch of biscuit and kind o’ thinkin’ to myself. When I looked up he wa’n’t there.” He slid the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll hev to go after him,” he said.

The other looked up quickly. “How’ll you go?”

Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor. “I’ll take _her_,” he said.

The man laughed shortly. “The _Andrew Halloran_? I guess not!” He shut his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. “I don’t trust her--not in such a storm as that’s going to be.” He waved his arm toward the harbor. The greyness was shifting rapidly. It moved in swift green touches, heavy and clear--a kind of luminous dread. In its sallow light the man’s face stood out tragically. “I won’t resk her,” he cried.

“You’ll hev to, Andrew.” Uncle William bent to the bow of the dory that was beached near by. “Jump in,” he said.

The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his side. “Don’t you make me go, William,” he said pacifically. “You can take the boat in welcome, but don’t take _me_. It’s too much resk!”

“It’s al’ays a resk to do your duty,” said Uncle William. “Jump in. I can’t stand talkin’.” An edge of impatience grazed the words.

The man stepped in and seized the oars. “I’ll help get her off,” he said, “but I won’t go.”

In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William’s face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. “I guess you’ll go, Andrew,” he said; “you wouldn’t want a man drowned right at your door-yard.”

“You can’t live in it,” said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light. Far to the east a boat crawled against it. “It’ll strike in five minutes,” he said.

“Like enough,” said Uncle William--“like enough. Easy there!” He seized the stern of the _Andrew Halloran_ and sprang on board. They worked in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail,--a single reef,--making it fast. “All she’ll stan’,” said Uncle William. He turned to the helm.

Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. “If she’s going out, I take her,” he said.

“You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy,” said Uncle William.

In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.

The light thickened and grew black--clouded and dense and swift. Then, with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in sheets, gray-black planes that shut them in--blinded them, crushed them. Andrew, crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer--hugging the wind with tense grasp. About them, the water flattened like a plate beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second they saw it, a gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle William bent to it, scanning the east. “Hold her tight, Andy,” he yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and his back strained to it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed flat to the big skull, were mere lines. “Hold her tight! Make fast!” he yelled again.

Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened to ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and clouds were all about them--underneath them, and over. The boat, towering on each wave, dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy, crouching on the bottom of the boat, held on like grim death. Then, in a breath the storm was gone. With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam.

Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle, breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east. Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping off the wet. “There she is!” he said in a deep voice. “Let her out, Andy.”

With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef and loosing it to the wind.

The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew past. But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered, monstrous and black.

With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller. “We’ll make it, Andy,” he said quietly. “We’ll make it yet if the _Jennie_ holds out--” Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller, his eyes glued fast.

“Luff her,” he cried. “She’s gone--Luff her, I tell you!” He sprang back, jamming the tiller from him. “Let her out, Andy, every inch!”

The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch. She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping sidewise flight, to the race.

Across the water something bobbed--black, uncertain.

“Look sharp, Andy,” said Uncle William.

Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him, like a husk, in that center of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on it. “Yep,” he said solemnly, “he’s held on--he’s there!”

“Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don’t lose her.” Uncle William’s big arms strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer she came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a moment, and swept away with swift stroke.

The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man’s head, round and smooth, like a boulder, stood out against the black above him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon--thick and nebulous and dizzy.

“Roll him over, Andy,” said Uncle William, “roll him over. He’s shipped too much.”

V

Uncle William sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine deftly in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line of smoke that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work.

Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he glanced at the line of smoke. “_He’s_ gone,” he said, jerking his thumb toward it.

“He’s gone,” assented Uncle William, cheerfully.

Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him, spreading it along the beach. “He’s left _you_ poorer’n he found you,” he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying knots and straightening meshes.

“I dunno ’bout that,” said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff of smoke kindly.

“You kep’ him a good deal, off and on. He must ’a’ e’t considerable,” said Andrew. “And now he’s up and lost your boat for you.” He glanced complacently at the _Andrew Halloran_ swinging at anchor. “You’ll never see _her_ again,” he said. He gave a final toss to the net.

“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William. “Mebbe not.” His eyes were on the horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The blue sky dipped to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William’s eyes returned to his nets.

“How you going to get along ’bout a bout?” asked Andrew, carelessly.

Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. “I shouldn’t need her much more this fall, anyways,” he said. “An’ come spring, I’ll get another. I’ve been needin’ a new boat a good while.”

Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the _Andrew Halloran_. “Got the money?” he asked.

“Well, not _got_ it, so to speak,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I shall have it when the time comes.”

Andrew’s face lightened a little. “What you countin’ on?” he said.

Uncle William considered. “There’s the fish. Gunnion hain’t settled with me yet for my fish.”

Andrew nodded. “Seventy-five dollars.”

“And I’ve got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin’-house--”

Andrew’s small eyes squinted knowingly. “Out o’ season?”

Uncle William returned the look benignly. “We didn’t date the ’count--just lumped ’em, so much a catch; saves trouble.”

Andrew chuckled. “I’ve saved trouble that way myself.” He made a rough calculation. “It won’t make a hunderd, all told. How you goin’ to get the rest?”

“Mebbe I shall borrow it,” said Uncle William. He looked serenely at the sky. “Like enough _he’ll_ send a little suthin’,” he added.

“Like enough!” said Andrew.

“He mentioned it,” said Uncle William.

“He’s gone,” said Andrew. He gave a light _p-f-f_ with his lips and screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away.

Uncle William smiled. “You don’t have faith, Andy,” he said reproachfully. “Folks do do things, a good many times--things that they say they will. You o’t to have faith.”

Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hev suthin’ to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully.

They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby black heads inquiringly in the water and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks.

Andrew’s eyes rested impassively on their gambols. “Wuthless critters,” he said.

Uncle William’s face softened as he watched them. “I kind o’ like to see ’em, Andy--up and down and bobbin’ and sloppin’ and scramblin’; you never know _where_ they’ll come up next.”

“Don’t need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can’t eat the blamed things--nor wear ’em. I tell you, Willum,”--he turned a gloomy eye on his companion,--“I tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things.”

“Mebbe I do,” said William, humbly.

“This one, now--this painter fellow.” Andrew gave a wave of his hand that condensed scorn. “What’d you get out o’ him, a-gabblin’ and sailin’ all summer?”

“I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put into words,” said William, thoughtfully, “what I _did_ get out o’ him.”

“Ump! I guess you couldn’t--nor anybody else. When he sends you anything for that boat o’ yourn, you jest let me know it, will you?”

“Why, yes, Andy, I’ll let you know if you want me to. I’ll be reel pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William.

VI

It was Indian summer. Uncle William was mending his chimney. He had built a platform to work on. Another man would have clung to the sloping roof while he laid the bricks and spread the mortar. But Uncle William had constructed an elaborate platform with plenty of room for bricks and the pail of mortar, and space in which to stretch his great legs. It was a comfortable place to sit and look out over Arichat harbor. Andy, who had watched the preparations with scornful eye, had suggested an arm-chair and cushion.

“I like to be comf’tabul,” assented Uncle William. “I know I do. I don’t like to work none too well, anyhow. Might as well be comf’tabul if you can.”

The platform was comfortable. Even Andy admitted that, when Uncle William persuaded him to climb up one day, on the pretext of advising whether the row of bricks below the roof line would hold. It was a clear, warm day, with little clouds floating lightly, as in summer. Andy had climbed the ladder grumbling.

“Nice place to see,” suggested Uncle William.

Andy peered down the chimney hole. “You will have to take off the top row all around,” he said resentfully.

“Ye think so, do ye? I kind o’ thought so myself. They seemed sort o’ tottery. But I thought mebbe they’d hold. Sit down, Andy, sit down.” He pushed the pail of mortar a little to one side to make room.

Andy edged away. “Can’t stop,” he said. He was searching with his foot for the ladder.

“What you going to do?” demanded Uncle William.

Andy glanced at the sky. “I’m going to take in the _Andrew Halloran_.” He was already on his way down the ladder.

Uncle William pursued him, peering over. “You’ll have to have me to help ye, Andy. Can’t you jest wait till to-morrow--till I get my chimbley done?”

“You’ve been a month now,” said Andy. He was glowering at the bay and the little boat bobbing below.

“I know it, Andy, I know it.” Uncle William was descending the ladder with slow care. “But I don’t want my mortar to freeze, and I’m kind o’ ’fraid of its comin’ off cold again to-night. I was jest goin’ to begin to hurry up. I was goin’ to begin to-day.”

“I can get along without you,” said Andrew, doggedly.

“Why, no, you can’t, Andy. How you goin’ to haul her up?” Uncle William spoke reproachfully.

Andy moved away. “I can do it, I guess.” He was mumbling it to his teeth. “I don’t need anybody’s help.”

With a sigh and a look of affection at the platform and the pail and the blue sky above, Uncle William followed him down the rocky path.

They worked busily all the morning, towing in the _Andrew Halloran_, cleaning her up and stowing away tackle, making her ready for the winter.

In the afternoon Uncle William mounted the roof again. His face, under its vast calm, wore a look of resolve. He looked thoughtfully down the chimney hole. Then he sat down on the platform and took up his trowel. He balanced it on his palm and looked at the pile of bricks. His gaze wandered to the sky. It swept the bay and came back across the moors. A look of soft happiness filled it; the thin edges of resolve melted before it. “Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William, “best kind--” His eye fell on the pile of bricks and he took up one, looking at it affectionately. He laid it in place and patted down the mortar, rumbling to himself.

When Andy came by, half an hour later, three bricks were in place. Uncle William nodded to him affably. “Where goin’, Andy?”

“How much you got done?” demanded Andy.

Uncle William looked at it thoughtfully. “Well, there’s quite a piece. Comin’ up?” he said hopefully.

“It don’t show any.”

“No, it don’t show much--yet. It’s kind of down below.--Think we’re goin’ to have a change?” The tone was full of hopeful interest.

Andy nodded. “Freeze inside of twenty-four hours.”

Uncle William scanned the horizon.

“When you calculatin’ to finish?” asked Andy.

“Well, I was thinkin’ of finishin’ to-night.”

Andy’s gaze sought the sun.

Uncle William took up another brick.

Andy seated himself on a rock. He had done a good day’s work. His conscience was clear; and then William worked better when Andy was around, and Andy took pride in it. “Where’d you get your bricks?” he asked.

Uncle William looked at the one in his hand. “I wheeled them over from the Bodet cellar-place. The’ ’s quite a pile left there yet.”

“They all good?”

“Putty good.” Uncle William was working thoughtfully. “We’ve set by them bricks a good many times, Andy.”

“Yep.”

“You remember the things she used to give us to eat?”

Andy swung about. “Who give us?”

“Old Mis’ Bodet.”

Andy’s eye lighted. “So she did. I’d forgot all about ’em.”

Uncle William nodded. “There was a kind of tart she used to make--”

Andy broke in. A look of genuine enthusiasm filled his eye. “I know--that gingery, pumpkin kind--”

“That’s it. And you and me and Benjy used to sit and toast our toes by the fire and eat it--”

“He was a mean cuss,” said Andy.

“Who Benjy? Why, we was al’ays fond of Benjy!” Uncle William’s face beamed over the edge of the roof. “We was fond of him, wa’n’t we?”

“I wa’n’t,” said Andy, shortly. “He’ lick a feller every chance he got.”

“Yes, that’s so--I guess that’s so.” Uncle William was slapping on the mortar with heavy skill. “But he did it kind o’ neat, didn’t he?” His eye twinkled to his work. “‘Member that time you ’borrowed’ his lobster-pot--took it up when it happened to have lobsters in it, and kep’ the lobsters--not to hev ’em waste?”

Andy’s face was impassive.

“Oh, you was fond of Benjy!” Uncle William spoke cheeringly. “You’ve kind o’ forgot, I guess. And I set a heap o’ store by him. He was jest about our age--twelve year the summer they moved away. I cried much as a week, off and on I should think. Couldn’t seem to get ust to not havin’ him around.”

“Reckon he’s dead by this time?” Andy spoke hopefully. A little green gleam had crept into his eye.

Uncle William leaned over, looking down at him reproachfully. “Now, what makes you say that, Andy? He don’t hev no more call to be dead’n we do. We was both fond of him.”

Andy stirred uneasily. “I liked him well enough, but it ain’t any use talkin’ about folks that’s moved away, or dead.”

“Do you feel that way, Andy? Now I don’t feel so.” Uncle William’s gaze was following a floating cloud. “I feel as if they was kind o’ near us; not touching close, but round somewheres. Now, I wouldn’t really say Benjy Bodet was in that cloud--”

Andy stared at it suspiciously.

“He ain’t really there, but it makes me feel the way he did. I used to get up kind o’ light in the mornin’, ’cause I was goin’ to see Benjy. The’ wa’n’t ever anybody I was so fond of, except Jennie--and you, mebbe.”

Andy’s gaze was looking out to sea. “You was mighty thick with that painter chap,” he said gruffly.

“That wa’n’t the same,”--Uncle William spoke thoughtfully,--“not quite the same.”

The gloom in Andy’s face lifted.

“I’ve thought about that a good many times,” went on Uncle William. “It’s cur’us. You get to know folks that’s a good deal nicer than your own folks that you was born and brought up and have lived and quarreled with,--and you get to know ’em a good deal better some ways--but they ain’t the same as your own.”

Andy’s face had grown almost mild. “I guess that’s right,” he said. “Now there’s Harr’et--I’ve lived with Harr’et a good many year.”

Uncle William nodded. “She come from Digby way, didn’t she?”

“Northeast o’ Digby. And some days I feel as if I wa’n’t even acquainted with her.”

Uncle William chuckled.

Andy glanced at the sun. “I must be gettin’ home. It’s supper-time.” His gaze sought the ridge-pole. The few rows of bricks set above its line gleamed red and white in the sun. “You won’t get that done to-night.” The tone was not acrid. It was almost sympathetic--for Andy.

Uncle William glanced at it placidly. “I reckon I shall. There’s a moon, you know. And this is a pleasant place to set. It ought to be quite nice up here by moonlight.”