Chapter 8

Uncle William shook his head with a slow smile. “I don’t believe I do. I ust to. Lord, yes! I ust to think about folks that was hungry till my stummick clean caved in. I ust to eat my dinner like it was sawdust, for fear I’d get a little comfort out of it, while somebody somewheres was starvin’--little childern, like enough. That was al’ays the hardest part of it--little childern. I ust to think some of foundin’ a’sylum up here on the rocks--sailin’ round the world and pickin’ up a boat-load and then bringin’ ’em up here and turnin’ ’em loose on the rocks, givin’ ’em all they could stuff to eat. And then one night, when I was cal’atin’ and figgerin’ on it, I saw that I couldn’t get half of ’em into my boat, nor a quarter, nor a tenth--jest a little corner of ’em. And then it come over me, all of a sudden, what a big job I’d tackled, and I jest turned it over to the Lord, then an there. And all the next day I kep’ kind o’ thinkin’ about it out here on the rocks--how he’d took a thousand year--mebbe ’t was more; a good long spell, they say--to get the rocks ready for folks to live on--jest the rocks! And like enough he knew what he was plannin’ to do, and didn’t expect me to finish it all up for him in fo’-five years. Since then I’ve been leavin’ it to him more--takin’ a hand when I could, but payin’ more attention to livin’. I sort o’ reckon that’s what he made us for--to live. The’ ’s a good deal o’ fin in it if you go at it right.”

“That’s a great idea, Uncle William,” said the artist.

“It’s comf’tabul,” assented Uncle William. “You get your livin’ as you go along, and a little suthin’ over. Seems ’s if some folks didn’t even get a livin’ they’re so busy doing things.”

He was silent for a while, his blue eyes following the light on the water. “The’ was a man I sailed with once,--a cur’us sort o’ chap,--and when he wa’n’t sober he could tell you interestin’ things. He hadn’t been a sailor al’ays--took to it ’cause he liked it, he said. And he tol’ me a good deal about the goings-on of the earth. Like enough ’t wa’n’t so--some on it--but it was interestin’. He told me ’t the earth was all red-hot once, and cooled off quicker on the outside--like a hot pertater, I s’pose. You’ve heard about it?” He looked inquiringly at the artist.

The artist nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve thought about that a good many times when I’ve been sailin’. I could see it all, jest the way he put it, the earth a-whirlin’ and twirlin’, and the fire and flames a-shootin’ up to the sky, and rocks and stones and stuff a’b’ilin’ and flyin’--” Uncle William’s eye dwelt lovingly on the picture. “I’d seem to see it all jest the way he tol’ it, and then I’d put my hand out over the side of the boat and trail it along in the water to cool off a little.” Uncle William chuckled. “Sometimes it seems ’s if you’d come a million miles all in a minute--rocks all along the shore, good hard rocks ’t you could set on, and the hill up to the sky with grass on it, green and soft, and the water all round. It a’most takes your breath away to come back like that from that red-hot ball he talked about and see it all lyin’ there, so cool and still, and the sun shinin’ on it. I got to thinkin’ ’bout it, days when I was sailin’, and wondering if mebbe the Lord wa’n’t gettin’ _folks_ ready jest the way he did the rocks--rollin’ ’em over and havin’ ’em pound each other and claw and fight and cool off, slow-like, till byme-by they’d be good sweet earth and grass and little flowers--comf’tabul to live with.”

The artist sat up. “Do you mean to say you wouldn’t stop folks fighting if you could?”

Uncle William eyed the proposition. “Well I dunno’s I’d say jest _that_. I’ve thought about it a good many times. Men al’ays _hev_ fit and I reckon they _will_--quite a spell yet. There’s Russia and Japan now: you couldn’t ’a’ stopped them fightin’ no more’n two boys that had got at it. All them Russians and them little Japs--we couldn’t ’a’ stopped ’em fightin’--the whole of us couldn’t hev stopped ’em--not unless we’d ’a’ took ’em by the scruff o’ the neck and thrown ’em down and set on ’em--one apiece. And I dunno’s that’d be much better’n fightin’--settin’ on ’em one apiece.”

The artist laughed out.

Uncle William beamed on him. “You see, this is the way I figger it: Russia and Japan wa’n’t fightin’ so much for anything they reely wanted to _git_. It was suthin’ _in_ ’em that made ’em go for each other, tooth and nail, and pommel so--a kind o’ pizen bubbling and sizzling inside ’em; we’ve all got a little of it.” He smiled genially. “It has to work out slow-like. Some does it by fightin’ and some does it by prayin’; and I reckon the Lord’s in the fightin’, same as in the prayin’.”

The artist looked at him curiously. “Some people call that the devil, you know.”

Uncle William cleared his throat. He picked up a little stone and balanced it thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. Then he looked up with a slow smile. “I ain’t so well acquainted with the devil as I ust to be,” he said. “I ust to know him reel well; ust to think about him when I was out sailin’--figger how to get ahead of him. But late years I’d kind o’ forgot--He’s livin’ still, is he?”

The artist laughed quietly. “They say so--some of them.”

Uncle William’s smile grew wider and sweeter. “Well, let him live. Poor old thing! ’T won’t hurt none, and he _is_ a kind o’ comfort to lay things on when you’ve been, more’n usual, cussed. That’s the _Andrew Halloran_ over there to the left.” He pointed to a dusky boat that was coming in slowly. “That’s his last tack, if he makes it, and I reckon he will. Now, if you’ll go in and start the chowder, I’ll see if he want’s any help about makin’ fast.”

XXII

Andy eased in to the wharf with cautious eye. He threw the rope to Uncle William and busied himself with the sail.

Uncle William peered down upon him. “Got quite a nice mess, didn’t ye?”

“Yep.”

“How’d they run?”

“Cod--mostly.”

“Ye got _some_ halibut.”

“A few.” Andy admitted it grudgingly. His tone implied that the Creator withheld halibut out of pure spite. The ways of the universe were a personal grievance to Andy.

“Quite a nice mess,” said Uncle William. “Goin’ to unload?”

“Nope--wait for the tide.”

“Ye’ll jest about make it,” said Uncle William. He glanced at the sky. “I’ll come down and help ye clean, like enough, after supper.”

Andy climbed up in silence. His somber face appeared above the edge of the wharf. Uncle William looked down on it, smiling. “I’ve got good news for ye, Andy.”

“Huh?” Andy paused half way.

Uncle William nodded. “You’ll be reel tickled about it. I’m goin’ to have a new boat--right off.”

“Ye be?” Andy’s mouth remained open. It took in the sky and the bay and Uncle William’s smile.

“Right off. I knew ye’d be glad.”

The mouth came together. “Where you goin’ to get it?”

“He’s got some money.” Uncle William nodded toward the cliff.

Andy looked. “He’s poor as poverty. He’s said so--times enough.”

Uncle William smiled. “He’s had luck--quite a run o’ luck. He’s been sellin’ picters--three-four on ’em.”

“What’s picters!” said Andrew, scornfully. He scrambled on to the wharf with a backward glance at the _Andrew Halloran_. “You won’t buy no boat off o’ picters, Willum. A boat costs three hunderd dollars--a good one.”

“I was cal’atin’ to pay five hunderd,” said Uncle William.

“You was?” Andy wheeled about. “You wont’ get it out o’ him!” He jerked a thumb at the cliff.

Uncle William chuckled. “Now, ye’ve made a mistake, Andy. He’s got that much and he’s got more.” The gentle triumph in Uncle William’s tone diffused itself over the landscape.

Andy took it in slowly. “How much?” he asked at last.

“Six-seven thousand,” said Uncle William.

“What!” Andy’s feet scuffed a little. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said feebly.

“No, ’t ain’t reasonable.” Uncle William spoke gently. “I was a good deal s’prised myself, Andy, when I found how high they come--picters. Ye can’t own a gre’t many of ’em--not at one time.”

“Don’t want to,” said Andy, caustically.

“No, you wouldn’t take much comfort in ’em,” said William. “_‘T is_ cur’us ’t anybody should want a picter o’ my old hut up there ’nough to pay--how much d’ye s’pose they did pay for it, Andy?”

Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late sun, warm and radiant. “‘T ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he said.

Uncle William’s face fell a little. “Well, I wouldn’t say jest that, Andy.

“Roof leaks,” said Andrew.

“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William, “over ’n the southeast corner, She’s weather-tight all but that.” He gazed at the little structure affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold. The artist’s face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. Uncle William turned to Andy. “A man give him two thousand for it,” he said. There was sheer pride in the words.

“For that?” Andy looked at him for a minute. Then he looked at the house and the bay and the flaming sky. His left eyelid lowered itself slowly and he tapped his forehead significantly with one long finger.

Uncle William shook his head. “He’s as sensible as you be, Andy--or me.”

Andy pondered the statement. A look of craft crept into his eye. “What’ll ye bet he ain’t foolin’ ye?” he said.

Uncle William returned the look with slow dignity. “I don’t speak that way o’ my friends, Andy,” he said gently. “I’d a heap rather trust ’em and get fooled, than not to trust ’em and hev ’em all right.”

Andy looked guilty. “When’s it comin’?” he said gruffly.

“It’s come a’ready,” replied Uncle William; “this mornin’. We’ve been figgerin’ on a new boat all day, off and on. He’s goin’ to give me five hunderd to make up for the _Jennie_.”

“She wa’n’t wuth it!” Andy spoke with conviction. He dropped a jealous eye to the _Andrew Halloran_ rising slowly on the tide.

“No, she wa’n’t wuth more’n three hunderd, if she was that,” admitted Uncle William. “I’m goin’ to take the three hunderd outright and borrow the rest. I’m goin’ to pay you, too, Andy.”

Andy’s face, in the light of the setting sun, grew almost mellow. He turned it slowly. “When you goin’ to pay me, Willum?”

“To-morrow,” answered William, promptly, “or mebbe next day. I reckoned we’d all go down and see about the boat together.”

Andy looked at him helplessly. “Everything seems kind o’ turnin’ upside down,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “What d’ye s’pose it is, Willum--about ’em--picters--that makes ’em cost so like the devil?”

Uncle William looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said slowly. “I’ve thought about that, myself. Can’t be the paint nor the canvas.”

“Cheap as dirt,” said Andy.

“Must be the way he does ’em.”

“Just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and a-daubin’,” sneered Andrew.

“I dunno’s I’d say that, Andy,” said Uncle William, reprovingly. “He sweat and fussed a lot.”

Andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said, jealously. “A thing o’t to be wuth more’n a picter of it. There’s more _to_ a thing.” He struck the solid ground of fact with relief.

Uncle William’s eye rested on him mildly. “Ye can’t figger it that way, Andy. I’ve tried it. A shark’s bigger’n a halibut, but he ain’t wuth much--‘cept for manure.”

“Chowder!” The call rang down from the little house, clear and full.

Both men looked up. “_He’s_ a-callin’ ye,” said Andrew. There was mingled scorn and respect in the tone.

“You come on up to supper, Andy. We can talk it over whilst we’re eatin’.”

Andy looked down at his clothes. “I’m all dirt.”

Uncle William surveyed him impartially. “Ye ain’t any dirtier ’n ye al’ays be.”

“I dunno’s I be,” admitted Andy.

“Well, you come right along, and after supper we’ll all turn to and help you clean.”

The artist looked up as they entered. “How are you, Andy? The fish are running great to-day.”

Andy grinned feebly. “I’ve heard about it,” he said. He drew up to the table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, glancing now and then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite side of the table. It was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a little resentment grazing the edges of it.

XXIII

The noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was in the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling the surface of the water. The artist, from his perch on the rock, looked out over it with kindling eye.

His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the water, and the scudding breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl held his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished in swift delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over--to wait for. Some day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it could slip away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke--he would wait. His eye wandered to the horizon.

A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It was Uncle William, puffing a little and warm. “Hello.” He climbed up and seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun. “I reckoned I’d find ye here. Been doin’ her?” He nodded toward the horizon.

The artist looked into the distance with puzzled eyes. “Her?” He put the word doubtingly.

Uncle William glanced at him sharply. “Don’t you see nuthin’ over there?” He waved a huge arm at the horizon.

The artist looked again and shook his head slowly. “I see a color I’d give my eyes to get.”

Uncle William chuckled a little. “Reckon they ain’t wuth much to ye.” His hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small spy-glass. He slipped the parts into place and adjusted it to his eye. “There!” He handed it to the young man. “See if that’ll help ye any.”

The young man took it, looking out over the bay. “Yes, I see her now. She’s a schooner.” He put down the glass. “Do you mean to say you can see that with the naked eye?”

“Al’ays could.” Uncle William held out his hand again for the glass. “I don’t make her out a schooner, though.”

“She’s two-masted.”

“Yes.” Uncle William’s eye was glued to the glass. “But she’s lighter built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, like enough. You can see her walk--same as if she was a lady--a-bowin’ and bobbin’.” He laid down the glass, a look of pleasure in his face. “She’s comin’ right in, whoever she is. She’ll drop anchor by noon-time.” He glanced at the easel. “You been paintin’?”

“Trying to.”

“‘Bout a thousand dollars’ wuth, I s’pose?”

“Not ten cents’ worth.”

“Sho, now! Is that so?” He got up and looked down at the canvas, bending above it like some genial giraffe. He straightened himself, smiling. “‘Tis kind o’ dobby,” he admitted. “Mebbe you’ll do better to-morrow.”

“Maybe. Was there a letter for me?”

The old man shook his head. “Nary letter.--I reckon ’t ain’t time yet,” he added consolingly.

The young man looked gloomily at the water. “She must be ill.”

“Busy, more likely,” said Uncle William.

“It’s been six weeks.”

“You’re feelin’ putty well,” said Uncle William.

“I shall go down to-morrow,” said the young man. He had begun to gather up his brushes. The hands that lifted them were firm and strong. A clear color ran beneath the tan of his face.

Uncle William watched him with a little smile. “I dunno’s I’d go to-morrow. You could go next week if you don’t hear nuthin’.”

“I shall go to-morrow. I’ve been a fool to wait so long.”

Uncle William’s eye twinkled. “You’ve been gettin’ well,” he said.

“I’m well now.”

“Yes, you’re--Hello, there’s Andy.” He leaned over the edge of the cliff. “What d’ye make her?” he called down.

Andy squinted at the distance. “Coaster,” he announced.

“Come up here and take a look at her.”

Andy climbed slowly up the cliff. “Got your glass?” He took it and fixed the moving speck. “‘T ain’t a coaster,” he muttered. “What you folks been doin’ all the mornin’?”

“Well, I’ve been for the mail and some things, and Mr. Woodworth here he’s been paintin’.”

Andy cast a side glance at the easel. Then he gazed fixedly at the bay. He seated himself on a rock. “It’s time for me to go home,” he said.

No one paid any attention to it--Andy least of all. He sat with one leg swinging over the other, chewing a bit of grass and staring gloomily out to sea. The look of baffled humility in his face made it almost tragic. The artist fell to sketching it under cover of his hand. Uncle William studied the approaching boat. “She’s never been in these waters afore,” he announced. “She’s comin’ in keerful.” No one replied. Andy stared at fate and the artist worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the glass. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the young man, who was working with serene touch--oblivious to the bay. Uncle William looked through the glass again--a long, slow look. Then he slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. “Comin’ in to dinner, Andy?”

Andy looked up mildly. “I reckon Harr’et’s waitin’ for me.” He got slowly to his feet. “You’ve got another done, I s’pose?” He glanced enviously at the easel.

The artist laughed out. “Want to see it?” He withdrew his hand.

Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin crept into this face, and spread. “You’ve made me look kind o’ queer, hain’t you?” He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face.

Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great nose. “It’s Andy!” he said with shrewd delight. “It’s Andy! And it’s the spittin’ image of him!” He pushed up the glasses, beaming upon Andrew.

Andrew returned the look somberly. “It’s a good likeness, you think, do you?”

“Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn’t be better.” Uncle William laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It looks jest as mean as you do--and jest as good, too, Andy.”

Andy cast a glance at the young man. “How long was ye makin’ it?”

“Half an hour, perhaps; while we’ve been sitting here.”

Andy sighed heavily. “Wuth more’n I be, too, I reckon?”

The artist stared at him.

“I mean--” Andy was almost apologetic. “I know they come high--picters. I don’t suppose I could afford to buy it of ye--”

The artist’s face lighted. “Do you want it?”

“Harr’et might,”--cautiously,--“if ’t wa’n’t too high. She’s got an easel for it. She al’ays cal’ated to have me done, and she’d got as fur as the easel.” His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. “Willum says it’s a good likeness.” He spoke with a kind of dubious pride.

“It _is_ good.” The young man’s eye rested on it affectionately. “It’s a ripping good sketch--and you may have it and welcome.”

Andy drew back a step. “You mean--”

“I’ll give it to you, yes.” The artist was holding it out laughingly. “And some day you’ll sit for me again. That’ll be pay enough.”

Andy rubbed his hands carefully on the sides of his trousers. He reached them out for the canvas. “It’s kind o’ wet,” he said. “I’ll have to hold it keerful.” He took it in both hands, beaming upon it with a kind of somber joy. Carrying it at arm’s-length, he bore it away over the rocks. The artist watched the stern, angular figure loom against the sky and dip down over the cliff out of sight.

“I shall do a sketch of him some day that will make us famous,” he said quietly.

“It’s time for dinner,” responded Uncle William.

XXIV

Uncle William set the table, with one eye on the harbor. As he pottered about with the bread and cheese and salmon, a smile widened his round face.

The artist looked up from the brushes he was cleaning at the door. “You look as happy as if you’d had a fortune left you,” he said.

“Well, I’m considabul contented. I gen’ally am, ain’t I?” he added quickly.

“So-so,” admitted the young man. “You’re shiftless, that’s what’s the matter with you.”

Uncle William gave his long, low chuckle. “I guess I be,” he said softly. “I guess I be. But I do take a sight o’ comfort.”

The young man finished the brushes and brought them in, standing them up in a quart cup. “Dinner ready?” he asked.

“I reckon it is.” Uncle William scowled at the lavish table. “‘Pears to me there’s suthin’ I’ve forgot. Oh, pickles!” He said it triumphantly. “If you wouldn’t mind takin’ that plate, Mr. Woodworth, and goin’ down cellar?”

“All right.” The young man took the plate and disappeared down the ladder that served as a stairway to the tiny hole beneath.

Uncle William looked cautiously at the trap-door. Then he tiptoed to the window. He drew the glass from his pocket and pointed it at the harbor. The boat had come to anchor just off the island. Uncle William fixed her with his glass. “Uh-huh, jest as I thought,” he said softly.

A step sounded on the ladder and he shut the glass, thrusting it into his pocket and turning a bland, innocent face upon the room. “Does beat all how good pickles be with fish. Set ’em right there, Mr. Woodworth. Now we’re ready.”

Uncle William’s chair faced the window, and as he ate his eye dropped, now and then, to the bay below. Once it lighted with a swift gleam and he craned his neck a little.

“What is it?” asked the artist, half turning.

“Nuthin’,” said Uncle William, hastily, “nuthin’. ’T ain’t wuth turnin’ your head for. I’m al’ays seein’ things. Get up in the night, like enough, and wander round the island, jest to see ’em. Go all over the island some nights. You see a good deal that way--fust and last: little critturs runnin’ round, softlike, and the moon and stars--” Uncle William was talking against time. His eye had lost interest in the bay. It seemed to be fixed on the moon and stars. One ear was turned expectantly toward the door.

The artist watched him with an amused smile. He never interrupted one of Uncle William’s monologues.

“I’ve spent a good deal o’ my life,” went on Uncle William, “lookin’ round at things.”

The gravel crunched outside.

The artist started.

Uncle William turned a little. “Andy, like enough,” he said. He rose and went leisurely toward the door.

The figure of a tall man stood in it, surveying the room.

Uncle William’s smile broke into radiance. It crinkled his eyes and nose and mouth. “I said ’t was you.” He held out a big hand, and drew the man into the room, peering behind him. A little look of disappointment came over his face. “You all alone?” he demanded.

“I am at present,” said the man, smiling. “I left a friend on the beach below. I wasn’t sure how I should find you.” His courteous glance took in the young man.

Uncle William turned quickly. “It’s Mr. Curie,” he said, “the one that bought your picters. And he’s left somebody--a friend--down below. Mebbe you wouldn’t mind stepping down and fetchin’ ’em up.”

“Of course.” The young man rose, holding out a hand. “I’m glad to meet you, sir. I shall be back in a minute. I’ll bring him right up.” His step rang quick on the rock outside.

The two old men looked at each other.

Uncle William’s face wore its roundest smile. “I wouldn’t be s’prised if he stayed quite a spell.” He brought a chair and planted it in front of the stranger. “Set down.”

The man sat down, looking around the room. “It is good to be here,” he said.

Uncle William, with a hand on either knee, surveyed him over his spectacles. “I saw ’t was you ’fore you landed.”

The man’s face fell a little. “We wanted to surprise you--”

“You’ve s’prised _him_ all right. He hain’t no idea what he’s runnin’ to.” He looked toward the door. “I reckon he’ll stay an hour.”

The man crossed one thin leg over another. “That gives me more time,” he said contentedly.

Uncle William gazed politely. “Was you wantin’ time?” he asked.

The man smiled. “I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see _me_?” Uncle William’s face held pleasure, but not very much curiosity.

The man nodded. “I came on purpose.”

“You did? I thought you come to bring her?” His thumb indicated the beach.

“I wanted to see you, and she wanted to come, so here we are.”

“Here you be,” assented Uncle William. “And I’m glad to see ye. He was gettin’ middlin’ hard to hold.”