X
THE young carpenter approached Bodet cautiously with his solution of the roof-line. They had talked it over a dozen times and Bodet had become restlessly impatient.... Ordway might be right, after all.... He looked at different forms of lattice-work and stone foundations and swore softly at a terrace—Ordway’s idea—with morning glories alongside.... Uncle William, any day, at any time of day, was in favor of a new plan altogether. He stood ready to furnish details—like his own house, mebbe, only bigger.... After this suggestion, every time it came up, he went out and sat on the rocks a long while and looked at the water. Andy coming by hailed him. “What you doing?” he called.
“Just a-settin’ here a little,” replied Uncle William.
“Ain’t Benjy to home?” demanded Andy.
“Yes, he’s to home,” admitted William.
Andy looked toward the house.
“I wouldn’t go in, if I was you,” said William, “He’s kind o’ tending to things—in his mind.”
But if Bodet fretted at delays and slow decisions and failure of material to arrive, he caught the spirit of the place, after a little, and settled down to it and held up work—a week at a time—while he changed details or pottered over new ones. Uncle William—in his element—went back and forth between the old chimney-place and his house, carrying ideas and bricks with impartial hand. George Manning, with one eye on his plans and the other on his men, pushed the work or held it back, as the wind blew. When the men grumbled over a foundation wall torn out and put in again, with a hair’s breadth of difference, he looked at them with slow, sympathetic eye and admitted that it wasn’t so very much different, maybe—just enough to look different, somehow.
It was when he had studied on the roofline a week or more, that he came in one morning—a look of cautious elation in his face.
Bodet sat before the fire reading day-before-yesterday’s paper. Uncle William was pottering about, finishing the last of the dishes, and Celia was down at, Andy’s helping Harriet who was ill.
Bodet looked up as the young man came in, and laid down his paper. “How is it coming on?” he said. The tone was mild. He had had a good night’s rest, and he had come somehow to share Uncle William’s belief that Manning would find a way out—“only give him time enough and suthin’ to figger on.”
The young man seated himself on the red lounge, his hat between his knees. “I don’t suppose you ’d like going up and down stairs?” he said.
Bodet looked at him a little quizzically and swung his glasses to his nose. “That depends,” he replied.
“It won’t be stairs exactly,” said Manning, “just steps, maybe. You drop the floor of the south room to get your level and then put some steps here—” He came over with the paper.
Bodet took it in cautious fingers.
Manning bent over him. “There’s the living-room and the fire-place,” He indicated the rough lines, “—just where you want them—You kind of look down into the room, you see, when the door’s open—instead of all on a level—?”
“I see.” Bodet studied it with lifting face.
Uncle William came over and stood by them, his dish towel on his arm and his glasses alert—“The house sort o’ climbs down the rocks, don’t it?” he suggested. “I’ve seen them that way—foreign parts—a lot.” The glow in his face swept the room. “I do’ ’no’ how we didn’t come to think of it, fust thing—easy as settin’.”
“Just about,” said Bodet. “How did you get it?” He looked at the young man. “You never saw a room like that, did you?”
“No, I never saw one,” he replied slowly—“but something ’d got to give way somewheres. You wouldn’t let the roof-line be touched, nor the ground, and there wasn’t anything left to give way—but the floor. I guess it kind of dropped down by itself—while I was figuring on it.” He looked at it fondly.
“It improves the thing fifty per cent,” said Bodet. He held off the paper, scanning it with happy vision, “We ’ll have a little railing here, with carving on it, and something leading up to it—It’s the feature of the place.” He handed it back. “Go ahead with it. There isn’t anything else to decide, is there?”
“No. Things are coming on.” He took the paper, tucking it in his pocket. “The ’Happy Thought’ got in last night with her lumber and the new masons came this morning. I was kind of bothered about their not getting here, and the Widow Deman’s well going dryer and dryer all the while, and no brickwork getting done. I’ll go set ’em to work.” He nodded and was gone.
Uncle William looked after him with smiling face. “He’s a nice boy,” he said, “You just can’t find a thing George can’t figger out.”
“He’s a genius,” said Bodet thoughtfully, “He ought to be somewhere besides on this island—somewhere he ’d have a chance.”
“Chance for what?” asked Uncle William, with simple interest.
“A chance to rise,” said Bodet with emphasis. “It’s all right for you and me, William—old men—with our work done—”
“Mine ain’t quite done,” said William, “—your bed and two-three things,” and he flaxed around softly as if he were doing something.
Bodet smiled at him. “Now what do you think you are doing, William?” he said. “We’re out of it. We’ve had our day—we’ve worked and fought and suffered—”
“That’s it, Benjy.” Uncle William nodded, “We hev had a good time, ain’t we? But I do’ ’no’s I ever had a better one ’n I’m having right here on the Island—specially since you come,” he added.
The other shook his head. “It won’t do, William. A young man must go out into the world—and do things.”
Uncle William hung his dish towel on the line. The big face in its tufts of beard glowed at Benjy over the top—“I suppose folks ’d say there’s bigger things I could be doin’—than wash dishes—but I do’ ’no’ what they be,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s things I’d like better—it’s terrible fussy—getting ’em clean and keepin’ ahead, so ’s ’t you ’ll have enough for a meal—and I’m putty glad Celia’s coming back.... I’ve thought about it, Benjy—a good many times—” He came over and sat down, “—’bout living here on the Island. We don’t hurry much, but seems to me we get about as much—about as much living as other folks do.” He looked at him over his glasses. “We’ve got enough to eat, and beds—putty good beds—and things to wear.... I keep a-thinking and a-thinking about it,” he went on, “and I don’t see just what ’tis we o’t to scratch around so for.”
“There’s education,” said the other, swinging his long glasses on their slender chain.
“Yes, you’ve got eddication, Benjy. I can see it—kind o’ the way you set in a chair—different from my way.” Uncle William regarded his great legs with kindly eye. “But I do’ ’no’ ’s you’re any happier—or your legs any happier?” he said slowly.
“You know I’m not happier.” The man turned with a quick smile, “There are not many men happier than you are, William.”
“No, I suppose the’ ain’t. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think how happy I be—Seems kind o’ shiftless,” he added thoughtfully, “Like enough, I ought to be out hustling for suthin’—But I do’ ’no’ what it ’d be?”
“Manning ought to get out into the world—and he’s going to—when he’s finished my house.... It’s all right for you, William. You’ve earned a rest.”
Uncle William smiled. “I don’t want any rest, Benjy—no more ’n George Manning—I like to keep a-doing—kind o’ gradual-like—al’ays did.... I can’t see ’s the Lord hurries much,” he added, with a glance at the little window.
“You’re not the Lord, William,” said Benjy.
William smiled at him—his broad, kind smile, “‘Twas a kind o’ funny idea—my saying that—wa ’n’t it? I do’ ’no’ why I get to thinking about things—and about me and the Lord.... I reckon it’s because I’m out in a boat so much—kind o’ sailin’ around and watching how he does things—and kind o’ enjoying his ways,” he added softly.... “The’s suthin’-about it—suthin’ about the way the tides come in and the sun goes down and the stars come out—that makes you feel glad. I’ve seen George Manning, a good many times—when we was out, and had a ketch, and was coming along in, towards dark—I’ve seen him set and look... and I knew he wa ’n’t thinkin’ ’bout how many fish we ’d got—any more ’n. I was. You can’t think how many fish you’ve got—more ’n about so long—” said Uncle William thoughtfully.
He glanced down the road. “There’s Celia comin’,” he said happily. He went over and watched her come—“Don’t she kind o’ skim along good, Benjy!” The smile on his big face kindled and deepened. “It’s most too bad George ain’t here.” He looked back into the room with a shrewd glance. “He never see anybody just like her—I reckon.”
Bodet shook his head. “You better let well enough alone, William.”
“Well, mebbe I will,” said Uncle William. “‘Twon’t hurt none for him to see her—will it?... You got back pretty quick, Celia.”—He looked kindly at her glowing cheeks, “How’s Harr’et?”
“She’s feeling better,” said the girl. She glanced about the room, “You did the dishes!—I didn’t mean you to do the dishes.”
“I didn’t do ’em so very well,” said Uncle William. “We had company whilst you was gone,” he added craftily.
She looked at him—“That young fellow that’s building his house for him?” She nodded at Bodet, who had taken his hat and gone outside.
Uncle William nodded back—“That’s the one, Celia—You ain’t ever seen him, have you?”
“I’ve seen him out of the window,” she said shortly, “That’s near enough for me—seeing him go by.”
Uncle William’s face fell a little. “I guess I’ll go ’long up with Benjy,” he said.
XI
GEORGE MANNING looked about him with satisfaction. The walls of the new house were up and boarded in—so much was safe. He knew Bodet might appear any minute with a completely new plan—unless it could be staved off—but he reflected comfortably, as he looked up at the great broadside of boards before him, that he probably would not tear down the whole thing any more.... The sound of saws and hammers came with a cheerful falling rhythm—now together, and now in hurried broken notes—and the men on the roof were singing—a great blond Swede leading them.
Manning stepped into the living-room and stopped and gave a few directions to the masons and then moved over to the window and looked out. Far below him, the harbor reflected the dear sun and he squinted across it, scanning the horizon for the little black steamer that was to bring Portland cement and a consignment of windows. The windows had been due three weeks now—and the work would be handicapped if they did not come soon. He turned away and attacked his work, whistling softly.
“Morning, George.” It was Uncle William—big and happy—in the doorway, beaming down upon him.
“Morning, Uncle—Mr. Bodet come up with you?”
“He’s outside somewheres. He’s got a new idee—about the well.”
Manning smiled a little—a shrewd, dry smile—and drew the plane toward him, “I don’t mind his having new plans for wells,” he said.
Uncle William sat down on a nail-keg and picked up a bit of pine, feeling in his pocket for his knife. He drew it out, and squinted across it, and opened the smaller blade, running it casually along his thumb.
George Manning’s plane followed a curling shaving down the length of the board and withdrew. There was a clean smell of pine mingling with the salt air.
Uncle William whittled a few minutes in silence. Then he looked through the great window-space, to the harbor. “I feel queer,” he said thoughtfully—“I feel dretful queer.”
The plane skirled its shaving off and Manning stopped—looking at him—“Anything wrong, Uncle William?” he asked.
William shook his head. “I don’t mind so much having things wrong.... I’m kind o’ used to it—having to fuss and fiddle some. It’s when things are comfortable-like—what most folks call comfortable—that I get grumpy, I guess.... We’ve got a new girl down to the house,” he added kindly.
“Yes—I heard about her.” Manning’s eyes laughed. “Puts you out, don’t it?”
Uncle William nodded. “I’m a good deal surprised to see how I feel. I cal’lated I’d come along up here—like a colt turned out to grass. Just set around and watch things—same as ever—feeling kind o’ light in my mind.... I don’t feel a mite light.” He sighed and returned to his whittling.
“You ’ll get used to it,” said Manning consolingly.
“I do’ ’no’ whether I shall or not. It’s been quite a spell now—” Uncle William held off his pine stick and looked at it. “I’m kind o’ wondering if I didn’t like to have them dishes—”
“To wash—?”
“Well—not to wash exactly—but to leave around behind—suthin’ I’d o’t to, and didn’t.... All the way up the road I keep kind o’ missing ’em—wishing I’d find ’em under the sink, mebbe, when I get back.... I wouldn’t want to do ’em exactly, when I got there, I suppose. But I do miss ’em.” He shook his head.
Manning pushed a heap of shavings aside with his foot and bent to his plane again. “I can find things enough, most any day—things I ought to do—and don’t—easy job, Uncle William.”
Uncle William looked at him. “You ought to be considerable happy, George,” he said slowly.
“Well—I am happy—as happy as most folks, I guess.” His shrewd, thin face followed the plane with even look. “I’ve got enough to do—if that’s what you mean.” He unscrewed his board from the bench and carried it across the room.
Uncle William’s eye followed him. “I suppose you never thought of getting married, George?” he said casually.
The young man shook his head at the board he was trying to fit in place. “Never was tempted,” he said. He measured a length on the board and took up his saw.
Uncle William retired into his mind. Benjamin Bodet came and stood in the door and looked at the two, and disappeared. The sound of the hammers trooped in and out through the silence.
Uncle William stood up, snapping his knife together. “I guess I’ll go find Benjy,” he said. He wandered out and sat down on a rock near by. Over the top of a scattered pile of lumber he could see Benjy’s head moving back and forth.
“Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William. He sat down.
By and by Benjy appeared around the corner of the lumber.
“We’re going to have dinner up here,” announced Uncle William. “Celia sent word by Gunnion’s boy she ’d have it here by twelve, sharp.” Uncle William’s face was guileless.
Benjy sat down. “I can’t get it through Marshall’s head—what I want about that well,” he said testily. “I’ll have to see Manning about it.”
“George ’ll fix it for ye all right,” said Uncle William.
“Have the windows come?” asked Bodet.
“Not yet, I reckon—He didn’t say—You’re going to have a nice house, Benjy!” His eyes rested on the rough frame, “It’s getting to look like I thought ’twould—nice and low—kind o’ like an old hen, you know—spreading her wings and settling down.”
Bodet’s face followed his look. “It’s coming out all right. Your George Manning knows his business—knows what he’s about.”
“He’s a nice boy,” said Uncle William. “The’s things about him might be different—might be a little different,” he added cautiously.
“I don’t know what they are. But I shall have a chance to find out, I suppose—before we’re through.”
“Oh, he ’ll do this all right.”
Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger job on hand—is he?”
“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean, like enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa ’n’t perfect.”
Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings with him. Come on in and talk with him about the well.”
They went toward the house. Through the window they could see the young man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He stood back and looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw them. “I was thinking about the width here,” he said, “If your picture you’re going to put here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on this side—somehow.”
“We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s all at sea with that well of his.”
“I told him—” said Uncle William. His mouth closed on the word, and a little smile crept up to it. “Why, Celia—I didn’t think you ’d be along yet—not quite a while yet.”
“It’s dinner time,” she said. She stood in the doorway, looking in. She wore no hat, and her hair was blown in little curls by the wind. “You going to have your dinner in here?” she asked.
“Why, yes—I guess we might as well—have it here—right here on the bench—can’t we, George?”
“For anything I care,” said the young roan, “I’ve got to go—” He turned toward the door.
“Oh—George—” Uncle William stopped him. “I want you to see Celia. This is our new girl—Celia.”
The young man stood very straight and stiff, regarding her. “How do you do,” he said.
“Oh, I’m pretty well, thank you.” A little laugh nodded in the words and whisked them away. “I’m very glad to see you,” she said. She looked down at her hands. Then she held out one of them.
The young man marched across and took it—he shook it a little and laid it down. “It’s a nice day,” he said briefly.
She smiled at him—straight and quick. Then she lifted the basket and set it on the table. “I couldn’t ’a’ got it here, ever, if Jim Gunnion’s team hadn’t come along,” she said. She opened the basket. “There’s your pickles—and biscuit—and pie—and cheese—” She set the things on the table, at one side—“and here’s your tablecloth.” She blew the bits of shavings from the bench and spread a red cloth across its width.
Uncle William’s eyes followed her, with a little twinkle—somewhere below them.
“It’s nice not to have to come home to dinner,” said Bodet impersonally.
“Yes, sir—I couldn’t have you all down there to-day. I’m too busy.” She stood back, looking at the table. “That’s all you need—Here’s the salt—and the pepper—and the stew is nice and hot.” She took the lid from the smoking pail and peered in. “I put coals under the pail,” she said. “You want to look out and not set things afire.... I’m going now. You can bring the dishes tonight when you come—” She stood in the door—and was gone.
Uncle William laughed out—and looked at Manning. The young man was regarding him soberly.
“Draw up, George,” said Uncle William, “It looks to me as if the’ was enough for three—easy.”
“I’ve got mine—outside,” said the young man. He lingered a little, apparently examining the bricks in the fireplace.
Uncle William looked at him and then drew up to the table. “Celia’s a dretful good cook,” he said. He helped himself to the stew.
The young man went slowly toward the door. “I guess I’ll go see Marshall—about the well.”
Uncle William looked over his shoulder. “Oh—and—George—?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you happen to be goin’ by this evening, you know, along after dark, you might stop in. I’ve got suthin’ to tell you—kind of an idee—’bout the well.”
“You might tell me now—before I see Marshall—?” suggested Manning.
Uncle William shook his head. “I can’t tell ye—not yet. It’s suthin’ about the old well—and pipes and things. I’m kind o’ thinkin’ it out—”
“All right. I’ll be in—along after supper.”
“Yes, that’s a good time. I’ll have it thought up—by that time, like enough.” The young man went out and Uncle William continued to chew slowly, his eyes on the red table cloth. Presently he looked up and his eye met Bodet’s—He shook his head.
“I do’ ’no’ what I’ll tell him about that well,” he said.
“Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will come back to you by that time, maybe.”
Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come back to me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.”
Bodet stared at him. “You told him—”
“I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’ ’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout that well—I’ll have to have one.”
Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some reason—”
Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things that ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.”
He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland cement, out there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’ kind o’ smudgy.”
Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the big harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black steamer was coming in.
XII
THE little room was shining-clean. The window shone, the stove shone, and the boards of the floor were sand-white. Uncle William, standing in the door, looked at them cautiously. Then he looked down at his feet and wiped them on a piece of sacking spread on the step. “Clean enough to eat off of,” he said, stepping carefully on to the white floor.
The girl at the sink nodded, the little curls bobbing about her face. “I’ve been scrubbing,” she said.
“I should say you had!”—He stepped forward gingerly. “You’ve done a lot to it.”—He was looking about vaguely, as if to find a place to put his feet down.
The girl’s look relaxed subtly. “I thought you ’d like to have it clean—I wanted to do it the way you like?” She was looking at him a little wistfully—“You do like it, don’t you?”
“It’s just right, Celia—I shouldn’t know anybody ’d lived in it—ever. You ain’t seen Juno anywheres round, have you!”
A subdued look flitted in the girl’s face. “She went off when I began to beat the lounge. I saw her flying over the rocks—I had to beat it hard, you know?”
“‘Twas kind o’ dusty, wa ’n’t it?” said Uncle William, looking at it affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to do it myself—but when I was thinkin’ and settin’ on it, I couldn’t do it and when I wa ’n’t settin’ on it, I wa ’n’t thinkin’ about it.” He moved toward the sink.
“I’ve put your washing-duds outside,” said Celia, “your wash-basin and towel and soap and things—out by the door, you know.” She motioned him off.
Uncle William stopped and looked at her. “That’s the way Harr’et has ’em,” he said. “How ’d you come to think of that, Celia?”
The girl bubbled a little laugh. “I didn’t think very hard—Is Mr. Bodet coming?”
“He ’ll be right along,” said Uncle William. “He stopped to talk with George Manning—about plans and so on. He ’ll be here pretty quick now.” He went out of the door, and the room was very quiet. The girl stood twisting a corner of her apron in her fingers and looking about the shining room. There was a little dimple in her cheek that came and went.
“What you thinking about, Celia?” asked Uncle William, coming in. His face glowed from its washing and the tofts of hair stood up straight.
The girl started a little. “I wasn’t thinking about anything—I guess.” She looked at the stove—“They ’ll cook all to pieces if he doesn’t come pretty quick,” she said.
“He’s coming.” Uncle William went to the window. “He’s right up the road a piece—You ain’t had time to get homesick, have you, Celia?” He was standing with his back to her.
“No, sir—Is that man coming, too?”
“That man—?” Uncle William wheeled about.... “Oh, George? You mean George Manning, I guess.”
“That’s his name—the one that was up there this morning—fussing around.” Uncle William nodded, his shrewd eyes on the little curls that were bending over the sink. “That’s George Manning—He’s a nice boy,” he added, seating himself on the lounge. “He’s a putty good boy—George is.”
Her interest was absorbed in something in the kettle on the stove—that steamed and swirled about her. She took a fork and tested it tenderly. Then she glanced at the window. “He’s coming—Mr. Bodet—You go show him where to wash—while I take up the dumplings—” She lifted the kettle, and Uncle William went meekly to the door. “You wash up out here, Benjy,” said Uncle William. He waved his hand at the toilet articles ranged on the bench by the door—“It’s a nice place, you see—soap, and there’s your towel.... She ’ll let us come in rainy days and cold days, maybe,” he said thoughtfully.
Bodet gave a dry chuckle. “Suits me,” he said.
Uncle William’s face lightened. “I don’t mind a mite myself—” he explained, “but I was kind o’ ’fraid you ’d want to be inside—where folks can’t see you doing things so.”
“Never!” said Bodet, “—with the sky for a ceiling and the clouds for frescoes—what more could a man want?” He waved his towel briskly at the landscape.
Uncle William tiptoed back to the house. “He likes it—out there,” he said.
Her face twinkled and she set the dumplings on the table with a brisk movement. “He’s a nice man,” she said.
“You comin’, Benjy?” called Uncle William.
While they ate, the handmaiden flitted in and out. She looked out for their wants and washed pots and kettles on the bench by the door and hummed bits of song—and once a little whistle was wafted in the door—but it stopped suddenly, as if quick fingers had cut it off.
Uncle William looked at Benjy and chuckled. “Some like having a canary around, ain’t it? Kind o’ bubbles and goes along by itself!—She likes doin’ ’em,” he added. “The’s a lot of comfort having folks around you that like doin’ things.... Now, Harr’et—you ain’t ever seen the way Harr’et does ’em, hev you?”
Bodet shook his head.
Uncle William smiled, looking at something in his mind. “Harr’et don’t really like doin’ ’em,” he said confidingly, “I’ve seen her look at the bottom of a pan as if she hated it, kind of.... She gets ’em clean, you know, but she don’t really enjoy her cleanness—not really.... If you’re down there a spell, watchin’ her and kind o’ settin’ round—you get to feelin’ ’s if nobody ’d o’t to live—men-folks, special.... I do’ ’no’ what it is about her,” said Uncle William reflectively—“about Harr’et.... She’s kind o’ straight in the back and her shoulders don’t bend much.... Seems’s if the’ was suthin’ wrong about a woman—an old woman like Harr’et—if her shoulders don’t give a little.” He sat looking before him.... “The’s suthin’ about ’em, I do’ ’no’ what it is—about women—when their shoulders get a little mite bent, that makes me feel happy inside—Seems ’s if the Lord had made ’em that way a-purpose—kind o’ gentle-like, you know—so ’s ’t they could bend easy—and stay kind o’ curved over, and not mind. I’ve set and watched ’em in meetin’, a good many times, when they didn’t know I was looking—and I’ve took a sight o’ comfort with ’em.”
Bodet looked at him critically. “I don’t see that you bend very much, William.” Uncle William’s broad shoulders spread themselves and he drew a deep breath. “That’s different, Benjy.... Men hadn’t o’t to bend—not without they have rheumatism or cramps and things.”
Celia whisked in at the door and out. Benjy’s eye followed her and returned to William.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Benjy,” said Uncle William. “She’s straight as one o’ them rushes, up ’t the pond—and she ought to be.... She won’t bend for a spell yet—she’s got to know things first—Hello!—There’s George!”
They pushed back from the table and went outside.
XIII
THE three men looked across the harbor—far in the distance something troubled the surface of the water—as if a bit of the dusk had fallen on it and traveled with little restless waves.
Uncle William’s eye grew round.... “Mackerel!” he said solemnly.
“Been schooling all day,” answered Manning. His teeth closed on the bit of grass between them and held it hard.
Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Bergen seven barrel—and Thompson about three, I guess. He set for a big school, but they got away—all but the tail end.... They’re running shy.”
“They’ve been bothered down below,” said Uncle William. “That’s why they’re here so early, like enough—It’s much as your life is worth—being a mackerel these days—Steve get any?”
Manning shook his head. “He started out—soon as Uncle Noah give the word—Uncle Noah ’d been up on the cliffs since daylight, you know—smelled ’em comin’, I guess.” Manning smiled.
Uncle William nodded. “He’s part mackerel, anyway, Noah is—Went out, I suppose?”
“Everybody went—except me.” The young man’s eye was gloomy. “That’s a big school.” His hand moved toward the harbor and the reddish bit of dusk glinting on it.
“Too late tonight,” said Uncle William. He felt in his pockets—“Now, where ’d I put that paper—must ’a’ left it inside—You go look, George—a kind o’ crumpled up paper—with figgers on it.” He felt again in his pocket and the young man went obediently toward the door.
Uncle William’s eye sought Benjy’s. “It ’ll take him quite a few minutes to find it, I reckon,” he said placidly.
“Isn’t it there?”
“Well—it’s there if it’s anywheres, I guess—” His eye returned to the water. “It’s a dretful pity George can’t go—He’s just aching to—You can see that plain enough—”
“He ’ll make more money,” said Bodet decisively, “—working on my house.”
“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’bout that—He ’d make a good many hunderd out there—” Uncle William motioned to the harbor, “a good many hunderd—if he had luck—”
“He ’ll make a good many hundred on the house. It’s steady work—and sure pay,” said Bodet.
Uncle William smiled. “I reckon that’s what’s the matter with it—The ’s suthin’ dretful unsatisfyin’ about sure pay.” Bodet smiled skeptically.
“You don’t understand about mackerel, Benjy, I guess—the mackerel feelin’.” Uncle William’s eye rested affectionately on the water.... “The’s suthin’ about it—out there—” He waved his hand—“Suthin’ ’t keeps sayin’, ’Come and find me—Come and find me—’ kind o’ low like. Why, some days I go out and sail around—just sail around. Don’t ketch anything—don’t try to, you know—just sail right out.... You ain’t ever felt it, I guess?”
Benjy shook his head.
“I kind o’ knew you hadn’t.... You’ve al’ays had things—had ’em done for ye—on dry land—It’s all right... and you’ve got things—” Uncle William looked at him admiringly, “Things ’t George and me won’t ever get, like enough.” He smiled on him affectionately, “But we wouldn’t swap with ye, Benjy.”
“Wouldn’t swap what?” asked Bodet. His little laugh teased the words—“You haven’t got anything—as far as I see—to swap—just a sense that there’s something you won’t ever get.”
Uncle William nodded. “That’s it, Benjy! You see it—don’t you?—Suthin’ ’t I can’t get—can’t ever get,” he looked far out over the water... “and some day I’ll sail out there and ketch—twenty barrel, like enough—and bring ’em in, and it’s all hurrah-boys down ’t the dock—and sayin’ ’How many ’d you get?’ and ’How ’d you do it?’ and runnin’ and fussin’—and then, come along toward night, and it ’ll get kind o’ big and dark out there... and I’ll forget all about the twenty barrel and about gettin’ money for ’em sensible—I’ll just want to heave ’em out and go again.” Uncle William paused—drawing a big sigh from some deep place.... “That’s the way George feels, I reckon.... If he stays and works on your house, Benjy—’twon’t be because he wants money.”
The young man appeared in the door—“I can’t find any paper in here,” he said. There was a little note of defiance in the words and the color in his face was dear scarlet.
Uncle William looked at him quizzically. “Maybe you didn’t look in the right place, Georgie,” he said. “We’re coming right in, anyway.”
In the clear, soft dusk of the room Celia’s face had a dancing look. She stood by the sink, her dish towel caught across her arm and her chin lifted a little as if she were listening to something pleasant—that no one had said. She turned away—hanging up the towel and brushing off the top of the stove with emphatic little movements and a far-away face.
“Now, maybe I left that figgering up to Benjy’s.” Uncle William glanced casually about him. “You sit down, George, and I’ll look around a little for it.” He fumbled with some papers by the window and went into the bedroom and came out, humming gently to himself. He glanced at the two men who sat on the red lounge—The younger one had drawn some lines on a scrap of paper and was leaning forward talking earnestly—his hat on the floor beside him and his hair pushed carelessly back. He had forgotten the room—and Uncle William—and all the little movements that danced. His fingers moved with the terse, short words, drawing new lines on the paper and crossing them out and drawing new ones.
Uncle William’s placid face held no comment. “‘D you see a piece of paper, Celia!” he asked, “—a kind of crumpled-up piece!”
She shook her head. Her eyes were on the two figures on the lounge and on Juno, who rose and stretched herself, drawing her feet together and yawning high and opening her pink-curved tongue. “I left some scraps for her—on the plate by the sink,” said Celia in a low voice. She untied her apron and hung it by the door. Then she put on her hat and a light jacket and stood looking about her—as if there might be something in the red room—something that would keep her a minute longer.
“Set down, Celia,” suggested Uncle William.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. She moved a little, toward the door.
Uncle William bustled about and knocked down the tongs and three or four sticks of wood, and picked them up. He grumbled a little. Bodet looked up, with a smile. “What’s the matter, William!”
Manning got to his feet, crowding the scrap of paper into his pocket, “I’ll have to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
“Why, yes—’tis kind o’ late—” assented Uncle William: “Gets late dretful early, these days.... If you’re going right along, George, you might’s well walk along with Celia—so ’s ’t the’ won’t anything happen to her—”
“I don’t need anyone,” said the girl quickly, “I’ve got my lantern.” She held it out.
The young man searched for his hat.
“I don’t need any company,” repeated the girl. She passed quickly from the open door and vanished.
George stood up, gazing after her light flickering on the path. He had found his hat and was twirling it in stiff slow fingers.
“Run along, George,” said Uncle William kindly. “You can ketch her, easy.”
“I don’t run after any girl,” said George. There was a deep glint in his eye.
Uncle William looked at it and then at the lantern, flicking and dancing on the path. He stepped to the door. “O-ho! Celia!” he called sternly.
The light wavered a little and paused and danced.... Then it went on.
Uncle William stepped out into the night. “Cel-i-a!” he called and his big voice boomed over the rocks. The lantern stopped. It came back—with little wavering steps and halted before him.
“What ’d you go running off like that for?”
Her face, above the lantern, was demure. “I didn’t run,” she said.
“Well, you might jest as well ’a’ run—I wanted you to take suthin’ for me.” Uncle William was feeling about in the darkness by the door.
“Oh—I didn’t know—” Her voice was very contrite now, and meek.
“I didn’t suppose you knew—but you could ’a’ waited.... Here they be!” He dragged forward a heavy sack of potatoes and untied the neck—“I told Harr’et I’d send her down a mess of new potatoes for breakfast,” he said. He dipped into the sack with generous hand—filling a basket that stood by the door.
The girl looked at it with round eyes.
“You ’d just as lives carry it along, wouldn’t you, Celia?”
She reached out her hand and lifted it a little. Then she looked at him.
“Like enough you need a little help with it,” said Uncle William wickedly. “Oh—George—” he stepped to the door. “You just give Celia a lift with this basket, won’t you!—It’s a little mite heavy for her.”
The young man appeared in the door. He lifted the basket with decisive hand and held out the other—“I’ll take that lantern,” he said.
She hesitated an instant—holding it a little behind her. Then she gave it up. “I can carry lanterns well enough.”
“I’ll take it,” replied George. He strode away over the rocks and she followed with little tripping steps that half ran to keep up.
Uncle William, standing by the open door, followed the flicker of the lantern with benignant eye—Then he went into the house. “Sent Harr’et quite a mess of potatoes,” he said comfortably.
Benjy looked at him. “—Not the new ones,” he said quickly.
Uncle William nodded. “I kind o’ felt as if suthin’ had to be sent to Harr’et, and that bag of potatoes was the fust thing I laid hold of.” He chuckled a little. “She ’ll be some s’prised, I guess—s’prised and pleased—Harr’et will—to get a new mess of potatoes and all—and not having to pay for ’em, or anything,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.