HERE you be, Juno!” Uncle William set the plate of scraps on the floor, and Juno walked across with leisurely gait.
He watched her a moment, smiling—then he reached for his lantern. “Guess I’d better go see ’t everything’s all right,” he said. “I’ve got to make a putty early start.”
Bodet looked at him inquiringly. “Where are you going?”
“Now?—Down to see t’ the Jennie.”
“You’re not going out?”
Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a start, you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and threw the match on the floor.
Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.”
“Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.”
Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll see of you—this season.”
Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two, mebbe,” he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look out and see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day you won’t see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern.
Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed over to it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind the dock. He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a letter!” he said.
“Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted the letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he said sternly.
“Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible good eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back.
Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s from the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out.
Uncle William looked down at his lantern. He took it up.... Then he looked at the letter. “I kind o’ hate to have you read it first—without me.”
“I’ll wait,” said Bodet obligingly.
Uncle William shook his head. “I do’ ’no ’s we ’d better wait.” He blew gently into his lantern and set it down. “Might as well have it whilst we can....I’ve come to think that’s the best way, mebbe. The’s two-three things I didn’t take when I could ’a’ got ’em—easy. They’ve been always tagging me around since.” He settled a little more comfortably in his chair and stretched his big legs. “Go ahead, Benjy,” he said.
Bodet fixed his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. Juno jumped on Uncle William’s knee, and his hand traveled thoughtfully up and down the grey back while the letter was being read.
A pleased, puzzled look held his face—“Goin’ right to Russia, be they? I can’t seem to understand that, Benjy—What was it she said?”
Bodet turned back and found the place.
“We have decided to go straight to St. Petersburg and then to Vilna, taking a house and spending the winter. Captain Spaulding will take the boat around to Yokohama and we shall join him in the spring—going overland.’.
Uncle William’s face still held its puzzled look—“They won’t touch Iceland... nor Norway ’n’ Sweden?” He shook his head. “Jumped the whole thing—far as I see—Europe, Asia ’n’ Africa, and the Pacific Isles.... Now, what do you suppose they’re up to, doin’ that, Benjy?” He looked at him anxiously.
Bodet folded the letter in his slim fingers and creased it a little. “Perhaps she was homesick—thought how good it would seem to have a home for a little while again.”
“Mebbe she did...” Uncle William lighted the lantern, peering at it with shrewd, wrinkled eyes. “Don’t you set up for me, Benjy.” He looked at him kindly. “The ’ll be a moon, byme-by, you know—Like as not I’ll be putterin’ round quite a spell. You go to bed.”
“Well—I’ll see.” Bodet had taken up the newspaper and was scanning the lines—his glasses perched high. Juno, on the floor beside him, looked up as if she would like to be invited.
Uncle William looked at them both affectionately. Then he stepped out into the night, closing the door with gentle touch.
The night was softly dark, with high stars, and a little breeze blew up from the water.... His lantern swung down the path—his great legs keeping shadowy time to it. Now and then he paused, listening to the little waves that splashed up below, and drawing deep, full breaths of the darkness. He looked up to the stars and his face cleared. The little puzzled look that had come into it with the reading of the letter disappeared. He hummed to himself, as he went, little booming songs that began, and broke off, and ended nowhere—traveling along ahead....
On the beach he disappeared into the little black fish-house and came out bearing a great net that he stowed away in the dory, folding it down in under with watchful eye. He swung his lantern over the mound of net and gave a little running push and leaped in.... The oars in the thole-pins creaked and chugged, as he faded out in the night, and little phosphorescent gleams waked up along the water and ran in flocks behind him.
He rowed steadily out, his eyes on the stars. The night held a stillness—somewhere, through it, a voice might come. He held the boat, dipping the oars lightly and bending his head. He often waited—in the darkness or off on the moor.... Little sounds came—vague stirrings of quiet—and off a little way, the lights on the fishing boats bobbed at anchor. He dipped his oars and rowed again—long, restful pulls that drew on the strength of the night.... Alongside, in a minute, the stem of the Jennie loomed mistily and Uncle William scrambled aboard, fastening the dory and hanging his lantern to the mast—It threw its swaying light on the big figure as it moved about the boat. Over the eastern rim of hill the sky grew mysteriously thin and glowed—and a flood of light dropped on the harbor. The water darkened and the distant boats grew to shapes as the moon rose high, filling herself with light. Uncle William looked up. He put down the coil of rope he was stowing away and leaned back, looking at the clear, yellow ball riding over the hill. His eye traveled to the water and to the dim boats shaping themselves out of the dusk.... A contented smile held the big face.... He had been thinking of Sergia and Alan and his thoughts traveled again—following the track of the moon, out over the water, across the ocean—stretching to Russia and the far east.... Slowly the look grew in his face—a little wonder and a laugh. Then he sat up, looking about him. The filtering moonshine played on his face and he laughed—with low, quiet chuckles—and fell to work, giving the last touches to the boat—making things fast. He rowed back in slow silence. Along the beach, as he came near, little black shapes stood up and greeted him—lobster traps and barrels piled high, ends of dories, and boxes washed by the tide, and fantastic sprawls of net and seaweed. Uncle William stepped among them, with long, high step, and the smile still played on his face. Up on the cliff he could see the red glow of the window. Benjy might be up—might be awake.... Uncle William quickened his steps—
The man looked up with a satisfied, drowsy smile. The paper had dropped from his hand and his head was bent a little toward it. Uncle William nodded to him and hung up the lantern. “I’ve thought of something.”
“Have you?” Bodet sat up, yawning a light breath and feeling for his glasses. He put them on his nose and looked at William. “You were gone long enough to think,” he said.
“Yes—I was gone—quite a spell. I got to looking round,” said Uncle William. “Time gets away putty fast when you’re looking round and kind o’ thinkin’.” He chuckled again, with the big, kind smile that flooded his face. “What do you reckon made them want to go straight to Russia, Benjy?” He was looking at him shrewdly.
Bodet shook his head. “I told you I didn’t know—just a whim, perhaps—”
“Something nicer ’n a whim.... You ’d kind o’ like to think of it yourself—It makes things big somehow—big and kind o’ goin’ on forever-like—” His face was full of the glow now and the eyes behind the spectacles had a misty look—like the blue of the sea when the fog is traveling in.
Bodet got up and came across to him. “What is it, William!” he said gently.
“Just more folks on-the Island—” said Uncle William. “Little ones, you know—travelin’ round...; The’s suthin’ about it—I do’ ’no’ what ’t is, Benjy—but it makes you all kind o’ happy inside—thinking there’s goin’ to be more folks always, when you’re gone—living along in the same places and doin’ things.... I can kind o’ see ’em,” said Uncle William slowly, “—everywheres I go—there they be—plain as if I touched ’em. some of ’em—getting up in the morning and havin’ breakfast and goin’ out and looking at the sun and the rocks and the water and being happy—same as me—unhappy, too, some of the time—thinkin’ things ought to be different.... It makes it all seem big, don’t it, Benjy?” He reached out a hand.
The tall man took it. “So you think—?”
Uncle William nodded. “They ’ll be comin’ back some day—sailing into the harbor—Sergia and Alan—and there ’ll be a little one traveling with ’em. It’s al’ays the little ones,—Benjy—I do’ ’no’ what the Lord made ’em that way for... they’re so kind o’ queer and little... but I don’t ever see one of ’em runnin’ down the beach—arms goin’ that kind o’ way they have, and hair flyin’—I don’t ever see ’em without feelin’ real good somewheres inside. Everything breaks out all new—lights up, you know—’s if the fog had blown off suddenlike and you looked way out where the sun is.” Uncle William’s face held the glory of it all, but his voice had dropped a little.... He got up and went to the door and stepped into the night. Presently he reappeared and crossed over to the wood-box and looked in. “Guess I’ll bring in an armful of wood,” he said. “It might rain before morning.”
Benjy’s smile was very gentle as it followed him. “It can’t rain—a night like this, William.”
Uncle William returned to the door and Bodet followed him.... The moor was flooded with light—a magic world, hushed and waiting under its veil.... Uncle William’s eyes dwelt on it fondly. “I reckon I’ll bring in the wood,” he said. “Mebbe it won’t rain. But I kind o’ like to bring in wood when I’ve been thinkin’.” The great figure passed into the transparent night.
C ELIA looked up from her work. “Did you have good luck?”
“Putty good,” said Uncle William, “Six-seven barrel, I should think.” He stood in the doorway and cast an eye back at the beach. “I picked out some good ones for dinner,” he said regretfully, “I must ’a’ left ’em down there in the fish-house, or somewheres.”
Celia’s look was mild. “I’ll go down for them myself pretty quick. I’m about through, anyway.” She swirled a little clean water into the sink and took down a pan from its nail. “I sha ’n’t be gone long,” she said kindly as she passed him in the doorway.
“No, the’ ain’t anybody interesting down there,” assented Uncle William.
The look in her face dimpled a little, but she made no reply.
Uncle William looked after her as she flitted down the path, the wind blowing the little curls about her face, and the pan on her arm glinting in the sun. He turned and went into the house, a contented look in his face. “Seems’s if we had most everything,” he said comfortably. Juno came across and rubbed against him and he stooped to pet her. Then he went into the bedroom and came out with a plan of the new house. He spread it on the table and sat down, studying it with pleased, shrewd smile. The clock ticked and Juno purred into the stillness and a little breeze came in the window, clean and fresh. By and by Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and looked at the clock. His mouth remained open a little and he went to the door, looking down the path. “Seems’s if she o’t to be back by now—” He stared a little and reached for his glasses and adjusted them, and took a long look.
A man was coming up the rocky path from the beach. He was a large man, with a full paunch and light, soft steps. “He comes up there putty good,” said Uncle William, watching him thoughtfully. “You can’t hurry on them rocks.” The man had come to the top and paused to take breath, looking back. “Holds himself kind o’ keerful on his toes,” said Uncle William, “some ’s if he was afraid he ’d tip over and spill suthin’.... I do ’no’ who he is.”
The man turned and came toward the house. He had taken off his hat, and his bald head shone in the sun.
Uncle William stood in the doorway, looking him over with keen, benignant eye.
“Good morning,” said the man, “Mr. Benslow, I believe?” He held out a round hand. “My name is Carter—Milton Carter from Ipswich.”
Uncle William took the hand, and looked down at the stout man. “I don’t seem to remember your being here before?” he said.
“No—It’s my first visit to this region. I’m only here for a day or two.” He turned, on the doorstep, and looked over the moor and rocks. “You have a pleasant place here.” He had a smooth, flatted-out voice that gave the words no color.
Uncle William nodded. “It’s a putty good place—Will you walk in, sir?”
The man stepped over the sill. “I didn’t expect to go quite so far when I started. It’s quite a walk—” He wiped his forehead.
“You come from Andy’s?” asked Uncle William.
“From Halloran’s—yes, Andrew Halloran’s—You know him?”
“I know Andy,” said Uncle William. “Set down, sir.”
They sat down and looked at each other. “I was going through—” said the man, “up the Lakes and I thought I’d stop off and look around—It’s pleasant country about here.”
“Yes, it’s pleasant,” said Uncle William.
“Not much business doing, I suppose,” said the man.
“Fishing,” said Uncle William, “—mostly.”
“There’s some kind of building going on, I see—further up.” He moved the round hand.
“That’s my friend—Benjamin Bodet,” said Uncle William. His head gave a little lift. “He’s going to have nineteen rooms—not countin’ the gal’ry.” He laid his hand affectionately on the blueprint spread on the table beside him.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I see—Seems to be quite a house,” he said affably, “I was talking with the contractor this morning—a man by the name of Manning—a very intelligent man,” he added kindly.
“His name’s Manning,” assented Uncle William.
The man’s eye strayed to the window. “Your friend must have considerable land with his place—I should think?” He spoke casually.
Uncle William sat up a little. “He’s got enough to set his house on,” he said dryly.
The man’s eyes held no rebuff. They dwelt on Uncle William kindly. “I am interested in the region—” he admitted, “I might buy a little—a small piece—if I found something I liked.”
Uncle William looked him over. “I don’t believe you will,” he said, “—not anything to suit you.... I’ve bought most of it myself,” he added.
The stranger looked at him—and then out of the window. “You don’t own all of it—?” He gave a little wave of the round hand at the moor and sky and rocks.
Uncle William nodded, with a pleased smile. “I bought it all—fo’-five years ago,” he said.
The man’s mouth was very mild. “You bought it for investment, I suppose? You put money into it—”
“Well,” said Uncle William, “suthin’ like that, perhaps. I put in all I could scrape up. Some I had—and some I just wished I’d had.”
“I see—? What would you take for it?—How much did you say you owned?” He bent toward the window.
“‘Bout a mile,” said Uncle William.
The head withdrew itself. “A mile—! You hoped it would rise, I suppose?”
“Well—I was more afraid someone ’d be coming along and setting on it,” said Uncle William.
“You could sell the whole?”
Uncle William shook his head.
“I shouldn’t care—so much—for a part of it,” said the man thoughtfully, “But I might make you an offer—”
“I wouldn’t advise you to,” said Uncle William, “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—there ain’t money enough in this country—nor any other—to buy that land!” Uncle William sat up.
The other man shook his head. “Land values are skittish things,” he said. “It’s good judgment to look ahead a little.”
“That’s where I’m lookin’,” said Uncle William.
“This Bodet—” said the other smoothly, “whom did he buy of?”
Uncle William smiled. “I give him his piece—He’s a friend of mine.”
“I see.” The man got to his feet, adjusting his weight nicely.
“Well, think it over, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over on my way back from the Lakes and—” His hand advanced a little.
Uncle William’s gaze did not take it in. He was moving toward the door—and the man moved with him—his light, smooth steps hearing him along. “Good day, sir,” said Uncle William.
“Good morning, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over—on my way back.” He moved easily off up the road and Uncle William stood watching him.
“There’s Benjy now,” said Uncle William.
The two men stopped in the road and talked a few minutes. The fat man moved his hand and Bodet nodded once or twice.
Uncle William watched them a little anxiously. Then he went in and gathered up the plan. When he came ont Benjamin was approaching with quick, long strides.
“I’m coming right along, Benjy,” said Uncle William, “I was most ready—a man come along and hindered me a little—”
“Who is he?” said Bodet.
“His name is Carter—I reckon he’s real-estate,” said Uncle William.
“I ’reckon’ he is—Maiming told me and I came right down. What did he offer you?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly offer—I kind o’ held him off. But I guess he ’d ’a’ gone high—” Uncle William’s mouth closed in a happy smile. “‘Tis a nice island. I don’t wonder ’t folks want to come to it—But they can’t,” he added gently, “The’ ain’t room.
“I ’most hope he won’t see Andy,” he added after a minute, “Andy’s got a little piece—down to the east there—kind of out of sight, you know, that I didn’t buy.”
“I bought that piece last week,” said Bodet.
“You did!—How ’d you come to get it, Benjy?”
“The same way you got yours, I guess. I offered him a little more than he would stand.”
Uncle William smiled.... “And I suppose likely this man ’ll go higher ’n you did?”
“I suppose he will.”
Uncle William chuckled. “Poor Andy!”
“He’s ready to buy anything in sight you know,” said Bodet restlessly.
“The’ ain’t very much in sight, is there?” said Uncle William, “—except what I own.” He cast a proud eye over his acres.
“I’ve been thinking, William—”
Bodet looked at him keenly, “why don’t you turn it over to me—the whole of it? I told you I’d give you twenty thousand,—I’ll give you thirty—more if you say so—and you can live on it just the same?”
Uncle William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Benjy. I reckon the Lord cal’lated I’d buy up a mile—so’s to keep it from being cut up in little fiddling bits—and I guess I’ve got to hold on to it. I’d like to have thirty thousand,” he said reflectively, “The’s two-three little things I could do with thirty thousand—!”
Bodet smiled. “You ought to have it—whether you deed me the land or not—I have just as much good of it as you do.”
“Yes, you enjoy it—some,” admitted William.
“Well—I’m going to hand over the interest to you—pay your living—if you ’ll let me?” He looked at Uncle William curiously. There were new regions in Uncle William, perhaps—at least the thirty-thousand-dollar region was unexplored as yet.
Uncle William surveyed the offer with impartial eye. “You can pay my livin’ if you want to, Benjy—I’ve gen ’lly paid it myself, but I’d just as lives you did, if you want to—or I’d pay yours.”
ANDY was subdued after the real-estate man’s visit. “You and Benjy might sell me back some,” he suggested. He was sitting in Uncle William’s door, looking out over the moor. Uncle William was busy inside.
He came and stood in the doorway, his spectacles on his forehead, and looked at the landscape. “What ’d you do with it, Andy—if we give it back to you?” he asked.
“I’d sell it to that Carter man—quick as scat—’fore he changed his mind.”
Uncle William looked down at him. Then he looked at the moor.
“It’s val’able property,” said Andy.
“I do’ ’no’ as I know what val’able property is.” Uncle William’s eyes rested fondly on the moor, with its rocks and tufted growth and the clear, free line of sky.
“Val’able property?” said Andy. He gazed about him a little. “Val’able property’s suthin’ you’ve got that somebody else wants and ’ll pay money for—right off—That’s what I call val’able property.”
The clouds were riding up the horizon—the breeze from the moor blew in and the cloud shadows sailed across. Uncle William lifted his face a little. “Seems to me anything’s val’able ’t you kind o’ love and take comfort with,” he said slowly.
Andy grunted. “Guess I’ll go ’long up the road,” he said.
“Up to Benjy’s?” Uncle William looked at him wistfully. “I told Benjy I was coming up,” he said, “But it’s kind o’ late—” He looked at the sun, “and it’s warm, too.”
Andy made no reply.
“I reckon I’ll go ’long with you,” said Uncle William—“You wait a minute whilst I get my plans.”
They went up the road together in the clear light, the sun shining hot on their backs. The little breeze had died out and the clouds were drifting toward the horizon. Uncle William glanced wistfully at a big rock by the roadside. “We might set down a spell,” he suggested. He moved toward the rock. “I’ve been stirring since daylight,” he said, “It don’t seem quite right to keep goin’ every minute so. Benjy’s a pretty active man—for his years,” he added. He seated himself on the rock and stretched his great legs in the sun—He drew a long breath. “I do take a sight o’ comfort—not doin’ things,” he said. “Set down, Andy.” He patted the rock beside him.
Andy glanced at the sun. “We ’ll be late,” he said.
“Yes, we ’ll be late, like enough. Smells good up here, don’t it!” Uncle William snuffed the salt air with relish. “I al’ays like to stop along here somewheres. It makes a putty good half-way place.”
Andy sat down. “Benjy’s wastin’ time on that house of his,” he said glumly.
“Yes, he’s wastin’ time.” Uncle William looked about him placidly. “Benjy don’t mind time—nor wastin’ it. What he wants is a house that he wants. I do’ ’no’s I blame him for that—I like a house that suits me, too.” His eye traveled back to the little house perched comfortably on its rocks.
Andy’s face held no comment.
Uncle William sighed a little. “You can’t help wantin’ things the way you want ’em,” he said. “And Benjy ain’t ever been married—no more ’n me. Now, you’ve been married—”
“Yes, I’ve been married—a good many year,” said Andy sombrely.
“That’s it! An’ you know what ’tis to want things—’t you can’t have! But Benjy ’n’ me—” Uncle William looked around him—at the great rocks on either side and the big, cloudless sky and the road running to the horizon and dipping beyond—“Me and Benjy—we’ve missed it—somehow.”
Andy cast a scornful eye at him. But his face, set toward the horizon line, was non-committal.
“I can see it in Benjy plainer ’n I can in me,” went on Uncle William, “how it acts—wanting things jest so—and kind o’ dancing all round if you can’t have ’em.... I reckon that’s what marryin ’s for—to kind o’ steady ye like—ballast, you know. You can’t ride quite so high, maybe, but you can steer better...”
“Somebody’.l steer,” said Andy.
Uncle William cast the flick of a smile at him. “Well, you wouldn’t want two captains, Andy—not on the same boat, would ye? That’s what makes all the trouble, I reckon—” he went on thoughtfully, “wantin’ to go two ways to once. Seems ’f folks didn’t know what they got married for—some of ’em.”
“Well, I do ’no’,” said Andy without enthusiasm.
Uncle William looked at him with a quiet smile. “You wouldn’t want to get a divorce, would you, Andy?”
“Lord, no!” said Andy.
Uncle William’s smile grew deeper. “I reckoned you ’d feel that way—Seems ’f the rivets all kind o’ loosen up—when folks talk about separatin’ and divorce and so on—things get kind o’ shackly-like and wobble some.”
Andy grinned. “They don’t wobble down to our house. I’d like to see Harriet wobblin’ a minute—for once.”
“No, Harr’et’s firm,” said Uncle William. “An’ I guess you really like it better that way.” He spoke encouragingly.
“You have to settle down to it when you’re married,” went on Uncle William, “settle down comfortable-like—find the easy spots and kind o’ make for ’em. It’s like the weather, I reckon—you expect some weather—rain and thunder and so on.” Uncle William’s gaze rested contentedly on the cloudless, far-reaching sky.... “We ’d grumble a little, I guess—any way you ’d fix it.... But we wouldn’t want biling-hot sunshine all the time. Why, climates where they have that kind o’ weather—” Uncle William sat up, looking about him, “It’s terrible tryin’—dust and fleas and scorpions—and it’s dreadful dull living, too.... I like a good deal of weather myself. It keeps things movin’—suthin’ to pay attention to.”
“What’s that you’ve got in your pocket?” demanded Andy, peering towards something blue that stuck up over the edge of William’s pocket.
Uncle William’s hand reached down to it—“That’s the plans,” he said, “for Benjy’s house. It’s the plans—as far as he’s got,” he added conscientiously.
Andy’s eye turned away—grudging.
Uncle William drew out the blue paper and looked at it fondly. “I’m helping Benjy decide what he wants—from time to time.” He spread out the paper on his knee.
Andy turned his back and looked out to sea—sideways.
“Want to see ’em, Andy?” asked Uncle William.
“I don’t care.”
“It’s a good place to see ’em.” Uncle William glanced at the flat rock. He laid down the blue paper and smoothed the curly edges with big, careful fingers.
“You get two-three stones, Andy—to anchor ’em down—”
Andy got up with an indifferent air and wandered off, gathering in a handful of small rocks.
“That’s good—put one of ’em here—and one here—and here. That’s good!” Uncle William leaned back and looked at it with simple delight.
Andy’s air was detached.
Uncle William glanced at him. His gaze softened. “This is Benjy’s room,” he said. His finger followed a white dotted line on the paper.
Andy bent a little.
“An’ here the lib’ry—and the gallery—”
“The what?” Andy ducked a little toward the plan.
“That’s the gallery—didn’t I tell ye, Andy?”
“No.” Andy’s mouth was open at it.
“It’s for picters, you know, and marble things—kind o’ standing round.”
“Huh!” The mouth closed.
“It ’ll be quite nice, I reckon—when it’s done. I can see he sets store by it—” Uncle William’s finger hovered dubiously about the spot. “An’ this part here—all this wing—is for Sergia and him—Alan—”
“They ain’t here,” said Andy.
“But they’re going to be here sometime,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “It ’ll be quite a fam’ly then.” He gazed at the blue paper fondly. “I do like a fam’ly—seems kind o’ foolish to build a house and not have a fam’ly.”
Andy said nothing. His eye was studying a corner of the plan. “What’s that?” he demanded.
Uncle William bent to it. He lifted his face, beaming. “‘W’s room’—That’s my room,” he said.
Andy glared at it. “You going to live there—with him!”
“Why, no, Andy—not just live there—It’s a kind o’ place for me to stay nights, you know—if I get caught up there—stormy weather?” Uncle William looked at him a little anxiously.
Andy got up. “I’ve got to go ’long,” he said.
Uncle William’s face held him sympathetically. “I was goin’ to show you the rest of the plans,” he said.
“I don’t care about ’em,” said Andy. He moved away.
Uncle William’s big fingers found a stub of pencil in his pocket and brought it out. “I was thinking, Andy—” he said slowly.
Andy turned back—a little.
“I was wondering if you ’d mind havin’ the same room as me—up to Benjy’s?”
“I don’t want no room,” said Andy.
“I couldn’t stay away nights.” He looked at the paper with gloomy eye.
Uncle William wet the pencil with careful tongue and bent over the paper. His fingers traced a large, scrawling A. “There!” He leaned back, looking at it with satisfied gaze. “‘A and W’s room’—looks good, don’t it!” His face beamed on Andy.
The gloom relaxed a little. “It don’t mean nothing,” said Andy.
“Well, I do’ ’no’,” said Uncle William. “It sounds nice, and when things sound nice, seems ’s if they must mean suthin’—down underneath somewheres.”
“Huh!” said Andy.
THE real-estate man and Andy were out behind the barn. There was a glimpse of the harbor in the distance, and behind them the moor rose to the horizon.
The real-estate man’s little eyes scanned it. “You haven’t much land,” he said casually.
“I own to the top—pretty near an acre,” said Andy. “And there’s the house and barn—and the chicken-coop.” He cast an eye toward it.
A white fowl emerged and scurried across in front of them.
The man’s small eyes followed her, without interest. “I found a number of houses down in the village,” he said smoothly, in his flat voice, “and plenty of land—Almost any of them will sell, I fancy.”
“Yes, they ’ll sell.” Andy’s eye was gloomy. “‘Most anybody around here ’ll sell—except William,” he added thoughtfully.
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.