# Collier's/Uncle William

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Extracted from Collier's, 1905 Dec 9, pp. 16–18, 22, 24. The novelette was modified and expanded, and published in book form as Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less in 1912: incidentally using one of the illustrations for the frontispiece.
UNCLE WILLIAM
THE STORY OF AN ILL WIND WHICH BLEW MUCH GOOD
By JENNETTE LEE
ES, I'm shif'less. I'm gen'ally considered shif'less,” said William Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers skilfully into place by their one suspender. His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he failed to find in his color box. William Benslow watched him patiently. “Kind o' ticklish business, ain't it?” he said.
The artist admitted that it was.
“I reckon I wouldn't ever 'a' done for a painter,” said the old man, readjusting his legs. “It's settin' work, and that's good; but you have to keep at it steadylike—keep a-daubin' and a-scrapin' and a-daubin' and a-scrapin', day in and day out. I shouldn't like it. Sailin' is more in my line,” he added, scanning the horizon. “You have to step lively when you do step, but there's plenty of off times when you can set and look, and the boat just goes skimmin' along all o' herself, with the water and the sky all around you. I've been thankful a good many times the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me.”
The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumbledown house on the cliff above them, and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon sail, anchored below. “There's not much money in it?” he suggested.
“Money—dunno's there is,” returned the other. “You don't reely need money if you're a sailor.”
“No, I suppose not—no more than an artist.”
“Don't you need money either?” The old man spoke with cordial interest.
“Well, occasionally—not much. I have to buy canvas now and then, and colors—”
The old man nodded—“Same as me—canvas costs a little and color. I dye mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk—”
The artist laughed out. “All right, Uncle William, all right,” he said. “You teach me to trust in the Lord and I'll teach you art. You see that color out there—deep green like shadowed grass—”
The old man nodded. “I've seen that a good many times,” he said. “Cur'us, ain't it—just the color of lobsters when you haul 'em?”
The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor “Hum-m!” he said under his breath. He searched in his color box and mixed a fresh color rapidly on the palette—transferring it swiftly to the canvas. “Ah-h!” he said again under his breath. It held an of satisfaction.
Uncle William hitched his suspender and came leisurely across the sand. He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising and falling across the bay. “Putty good,” he said approvingly. “You've got it just about the way it looks.”
“Just about,” assented the young man with quick satisfaction. “Just about. Thank you.”
Uncle William nodded. “Cur'us, ain't it? There's a lot in the way you see a thing.”
“There certainly is,” said the painter. His brush moved in swift strokes across the canvas. “There certainly is,” said the painter. “I've been studying that water for two hours. I never thought of lobsters.” He laughed happily.
Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. “That's nateral enough,” he said kindly. “You hain't been seeing it for sixty year the way I hev.” He looked again at it lovingly from his his height.
“What's the good of being an artist if I can't see that you can't?” demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool.
“Well, what is the use? I dunno, do you?” said Uncle William genially. “I've thought about that a good many times, too, when I've been sailin',” he went on. “How them artists come up here summer after summer makin' picters—putty poor most on 'em—and what's the use? I can see better ones setting out there in my boat, any day—Not but that's better'n some,” he added politely, indicating the half-finished canvas.
The young man laughed. “Thanks to you,” he said. “Come on in and make a chowder— It's too late to do any more and that's enough.” He glanced with satisfaction at the glowing canvas with its touch of green. He set it carefully to one side and gathered up his tubes and brushes.
Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it apart and folding it with quick skill.
Th artist looked up with a nod of thanks. “All right,” he said, “go ahead.”
Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist drew it back quickly. “No, no,” he said; “you'd rub it off.”
“Like enough,” returned the old man placidly, “I gen'ally do get in a muss when there's fresh paint around. But I don't mind my clothes. 'They're ust to it—same as your'n.”
The young man laughed anxiously. “I wouldn't risk it,” he said. “Come on.”
They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on its edge

### II

HE old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. “Go right along in,” he said; “I'll be there soon as I've got an armful of wood.” The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey red blazed at the windows and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a sudden sense of crude comfort.
The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and came across, rubbing against his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.
She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious gaze.
“All right, Juno,” he said; “he'll be along in a minute. Don't you worry.”
She turned her back on him, and, seating herself, began to wash her face gravely and slowly.
The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon the big leg that entered, and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of welcome.
Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes. He reached down a long arm and seizing her by the tail swung her clear of his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of satisfaction she settled herself, kneading her claws in its red softness.
“I reckon I wouldn't ever done for a painter”
He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. “That's all right,” he said; “she'll heat up quick.” He thrust in some light sticks and pushed forward the kettle. “Now, if you'll reach into that box behind you and get the potatoes,” he said, “I'll get the rest of the fixin's.” He removed his hat, and, taking down a big oilcloth apron, checked red and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to his blue eyes with a little frown. “They're a terrible bother,” he said, squinting through them and readjusting them, “but I don't dare resk it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the salt—same shape— The chowder was hot.” He chuckled. “I can see a boat a mile off,” he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, “but a pepper-box two feet 's beyond me.” He stood at the sink, rubbing the clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the window, was not unlike the line of seacoast that stretched below, far as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor-fashion, about his throat.
Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered with a kind of slow patience—in a smaller man it would have been fussiness—and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out with careful hand. The light had lessened and the little room, in spite of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William lighted the lamp swinging, ship-fashion, from the beam above, and drew up his chair. “Well, it's ready,” he said, “such as it is.”
“That's all airs, Uncle William,” said the young man, drawing up; “you know it's fit for a king.”
“Yes, it's good,” said the old man, beaming on him. “I've thought a good many times there wa'n't anything in the world that tasted better than chowder—real good clam chowder.” His mouth opened to take in a spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.
“There was a man up here one summer,” he said, chewing slowly, “that e't my chowder. And he was sort o' possessed to have me go back home with him.”
The artist smiled—“Just to make chowder for him?”
The old man nodded. “Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he wanted. He was a big hotel-keeper, and he sort o' got the idea that if he could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him—said he'd give me five hundred a year and keep.” The old man chuckled. “I told him I wouldn't go for a thousand—not for two thousand,” he said emphatically. “Why, I don't suppose there's money enough in New York to tempt me to live there.”
“Have you been there?”
“Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and Liverpool once. It's a terrible shet-in place,” he said suddenly.
“I believe you're right,” admitted the young man. He had lighted his pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. “You do feel shut in—sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you.”
“That's just what I meant,” said the old man quickly, “I can't stan' so many folks.”
“You're not much crowded here.” The young man lifted his head. Down below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed against the little house whirlingly.
The old man listened a minute. “I shall have to go down and reef her down,” he said thoughtfully; “it's going to blow.”
“I should say it is blowing,” said the young man.
“Not yet,” returned Uncle William. “You'll hear it blow afore morning if you stay awake to listen—though it won't sound so loud up the shore where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and nobody on either side of you—for half a mile.” A kind of mellow enthusiasm held the tone.
The young man smiled. “You are a hermit. Suppose somebody should build next you?”
“They can't.”
“Why not?'
“I own it.”
“A mile?”
The old man nodded. “Not the shore, of course. That's free to all. But where anybody could build I own.” He said it almost exultantly. “I guess, maybe I'm part Indian.” He smiled apologetically. “I can't seem to breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once how I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought it. I'm what they call around here 'land-poor.'” He said it with satisfaction. “I can't scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it's much as I can do to keep the Jennie patched up and going. But I'm comfortable. I don't really want for anything.”
“Yes, you're comfortable.” The young man glanced about the snug room,
“There ain't a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me.” He got up with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “I'm going to reef her down tighter and put down the other anchor,” he said. “You stay till I come back and we'll have something hot.”
He put on his oilskin hat and coat, and, taking the lantern from its hook, went out into the night.
Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey red. It glowed. The cat purred in its depths.

### III

HE artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The face within it was dark, like a boy's, with careless hair brushed from the temples and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and the soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and spare, with the rude grace of the steppes, the freshness of the wind.... How she would enjoy it—this very night—the red room perched aloft in the gale! A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned and righted itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With a snap the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out. His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the fire, shaking it off.
“It's going to blow all right,” he said, nodding to the artist.
“And it's raining— You're wet.”
“Well, not wet, so to speak.” He took off his hat, shaking it lightly over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the hot drops. Juno lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man hung his hat and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated himself by the stove, opening wide the draughts. A fresh blaze sprang up. The artist leaned forward, holding out his hands to it.
“You were gone a good while,” he said. The locket had slipped from his fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he bent to the fire.
The old man nodded. “I see the Andrew Halloran had dragged her anchor a little as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took quite a spell. I couldn't find the extry anchor. He'd got it stowed away for'ard somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin' pretty bad. I found a good bottom for her and reefed her down good before I left. I reckon she'll hold.”
“Won't he be down himself to look after her?”
“Maybe not. It's a goodish step from his place down and back. He knows I keep an eye out for her.”
“Why doesn't he anchor up there,” said the artist, “near by?”
The old man shook his head. “He's a kind o' set man, Andy is—part Irish and part Scotch. He al'ays has anchored here, and I reckon he al'ays will. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome to.”
“It was his land then?”
“Most on it—I do' know as he wanted to sell really, but I offered him more'n he could stan'. He's a little near—Andy is.” He chuckled,
The artist laughed out. “So he keeps the anchorage and right of way and you look after his boat—I don't see but he's fairly well fixed.”
“Yes, he's putty well fixed,” said the old man slowly; “'s fur as this world's goods go Andy is comfortably provided for.” His eyes twinkled a little, but most of the big face was sober. “We've been neighbors, Andy 'n' me, ever sence we was boys,” he said. “I guess there ain't a mean thing about Andy that I don't know, and he the same about me. I should feel kind o' lonesome nights not to hev his boat to look after—and know, like as not, in the morning he'll come down, cussin' and swearin', 'cause she wa'n't fixed jest right.” He peered into the kettle on the stove. “'Most empty.” He rose and filled it from the pail by the sink. Then he resumed his seat by the stove, stretching his great legs comfortably before him. Juno sprang from the lounge and perched herself on his knees. He tumbled her a little in rough affection and rubbed his big fingers in her neck. She purred loudly, kneading her claws with swift strokes in the heavy cloth. He watched her benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. “Wimmen folks is a good deal alike,” he remarked dryly. “They like to be comfortable.”
“Some of them,” assented the artist.
The old man looked up with a soft twinkle— “So-o?” he said.
The artist sat up quickly, The locket swayed on its chain, and his hand touched it. “What do you mean?” he said.
“Why, nuthin', nuthin',” said Uncle William soothingly, “only I thought you was occupied with art and so on—”
“I am.”
Uncle William said nothing.
Presently the artist leaned forward. “Do you want to see her?” he said. He was holding it out.
Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had gone from his face. It was full of gentleness.
Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand.
The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The old man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to hum. Its gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed.
Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied look. “You've had a good deal more sense 'n I was afraid you'd have,” he said dryly.
The artist woke. “You can't tell—from that.” He held out his hand.
Uncle William gave it up slowly. “I can tell more'n you'd think perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike—some ways—a good deal alike. I've lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I've watched all kinds of doings. But what I'm surest of is that it's deeper'n we be.” He chuckled softly. “Now, I wouldn't pertend to know all about her,” he waved his hand, “but she's big and she's fresh—salt, too—and she makes your heart big just to look at her—the way it ought to, I reckon. There's things about her I don't know,” he nodded toward the picture. “She may not go to church, and I don't doubt but that she has tantrums, but she's better'n we be, and she— What did you say her name was?”
“Sergia Lvova.”
“Sergia Lvova,” repeated the old man slowly, yet with a certain ease, “that's a cur'us name? I've heard suthin' like it somewhere—”
“She's Russian.”
“*Russian— Jest so! I might 'a' known it! I touched Russia once, ran up to St. Petersburg. Now, there's a country that don't hev breathin' space. She don't hev half the sea room she'd o't to. Look at her—all hemmed in and froze up. You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the earth to get to her, half choked afore you fairly get there— Yes, I sailed there once, up through Skager Rack and Cattegat, along up the Baltic and the Gulf of Finland, just edging along—” He held out his hand again for the locket and studied it carefully. “Russian, is she? I might 'a' known it,” he said nodding, “she's the sort, same look—eager and kind o' waiting. When you going to be married?” He looked up.
“Not till we can afford it—years.” The tone was sombre.
Uncle William shook his head. “Now, I wouldn't talk like that, Mr. Woodworth!” He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles again, beaming beneath them. “Seems to me,” he said slowly, studying the fire, “seems to me I wouldn't wait. I'd be married right off—soon's I got back.”
“What would you live on?' said the artist.
The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets
Uncle William waited. “There's resk,” he said at last, “there's resk in it. But there's resk in most everything that tastes good. I meant to get married once,” he said after a pause. “I didn't. I guess it's about the wust mistake I ever made. I thought this house wa'n't good enough for her.” He looked about the quaint room— “'Twa'n't neither,” he added with conviction, “but she'd 'a' rather come—I didn't know it then,” he said gently. The artist waited and the fire crackled between them.
“If I'd 'a' married her, I'd 'a' seen things sooner,” went on the old man. “I didn't see much beauty them days—on sea or land. I was all for a good ketch and makin' money and gettin' a better boat. And about that time she died. I begun to learn things then—slow like—when I hadn't the heart to work. If I'd married Jennie, I'd 'a' seen 'em sooner, being happy. You learn just about the same being happy as you do being miserable—only you learn it quicker.”
“I can't give up my art,” said the young man. “You don't allow for art.”
“I dunno's I do,” returned Uncle William; “it's like makin' money, I guess—suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not necessary—no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I reckon.” He stopped suddenly as if there were no more to be said.
The artist looked at him curiously. “That's what all the great artists have said,” he commented.
Uncle William nodded. “Like enough. I ain't an artist. But I've had sixty years of livin', off and on.”
“But you'll die poor,” said the artist with a glance about the little room.
“Yes, I suppose I shall,” said Uncle William placidly. “'Thout I make my fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right.” He eyed the tea-kettle critically. “You hand over them glasses and we'll mix a little suthin' hot and then we'll wash the dishes and go to bed.”
The artist looked up with a start. “I must be getting back.” He glanced at the dark window with its whirling sleet.
“You won't get back anywheres to-night,” said Uncle William. “You couldn't hear yourself think out there—let alone findin' the path. I'll jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge. It's a fust-rate bed. I've slept on it myself, time and again—and then in the morning you'll be on hand to go to work—save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass and a teaspoon—I want that biggest there—second one—and a teaspoon. We'll have things fixed up fust-rate here.”
Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow.
Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and thudded to the ground with heavier crash.
About three o'clock Uncle William's round face was thrust through the crack of the door. “You can go to sleep all right now,” he said soothingly, “there wa'n't but seven bricks left in the chimney anyhow, and the last one's jest come down. I counted 'em fallin'.”

### IV

HE artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously. Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and pulling their ropes. He was tired with the long strain of work. The summer was almost done. For weeks—since the night of the big storm—he had worked incessantly. A new light had come over things—“the light that never was on sea or land,” he called it, and he had worked feverishly. He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through his eyes he painted them. They took on color and bigness—simplicity. “They will call it my third style,” said the artist smiling, as he worked. “They ought to call it the 'Uncle William style.' I didn't do it—I shall never do it again,” and he worked fast.
But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded. To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things he would like to remember.
He looked again at the man cleaning fish. “Pretty steady work,” he said, nodding toward the red pile.
The man looked up with a grunt. “Everything's steady—that pays,” he said indifferently.
The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. “So?”
“Yep.” The man tossed aside another fish. “Ye can't earn money stan'in' with your hands in your pockets.”
“I guess that's so,” said the artist cheerfully. He did not remove the hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them merrily.
“There's Willum,” said the man aggressively, sweeping his red knife toward the cliff. “He's poor—poor as poverty—and he al'ays will be.”
“What do you think is the reason?” asked the artist. The tone held respectful interest.
The man looked at him more tolerantly. “Too fond of settin'.”
The artist nodded. “I'm afraid he is.”
“An' then he's al'ays a-givin'—a little here and a little there. Why, what William Benslow's give away would 'a' made a rich man of him.”
“Yes?”
“Yep—I don't suppose I know half he's give. But it's a heap, Lord knows! And then he's foolish—plum foolish.” He rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward. “How much d'you s'pose he give me for that land—from here to my house!” He pointed up the coast.
The artist turned and squinted toward it with half closed lids. It glowed—a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky—“I haven't the least idea,” he said slowly.
“Well, you won't believe it when I tell you—nobody'd believe it— He paid me five hundred dollars for it—five hundred. It ain't wuth fifty—”
The artist smiled at him genially. “Well—he's satisfied.”
“But it ain't right,” said the man gloomily. He had returned to his fish. “'It ain't right. I can't bear to have Willum such a fool.”
“I think I'll go for a sail,” said the artist.
The other glanced at the horizon. “It's going to storm,” he said indifferently.
“I'll keep an eye out.”
“Ye better not go.”
“Think not?” He looked again at the harbor. “It's my last chance for a sail—I'll watch out.”
“All right. 'Tain't my business,” said the man. He went on slitting fish.
The harbor held a still light—ominously gray, with a tinge of yellow in its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a telescope in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and swept the bay with it. The gray stillness deepened.
On the beach below the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle William approached he grunted stiffly. “She's off the island,” he said. He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water.
Uncle William's telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat hummed, holding a kind of conversation with itself.
The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing to one side. “Fool to go out—I told him it was coming.”
The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. “I o't to 'a' kept an eye on him,” he said humbly. “I didn't jest sense he was going. I guess mebbe he did mention it. But I was mixing a batch of biscuit and kind o' thinking to myself— When I looked up he wa'n't there.” He slid the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket. “I'll hev to go after him,” he said.
The other looked up quickly. “How'll you go?”
Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor. “I'll take her,” he said.
the man laughed shortly. “The Andrew Halloran? I guess not!” He shut his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. “I don't trust her—not in such a storm as that's going be.” He waved his arm toward the harbor. The grayness was shifting rapidly. It moved in swift green touches, heavy and clear—a kind of luminous dread. In its sallow light the man's face stood out tragically. “I won't resk her,” he cried.
“You'll hev to, Andrew.” Uncle William bent to the bow of the dory that was beached near by. “Jump in,” he said.
The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his side. “Don't you make me go, Willum,” he said pacifically. “You can take the boat and welcome, but don't make me. It's too much resk!”
“It's al'ays a resk to do your duty,” said Uncle William. “Jump in. I can't stand talking.” An edge of impatience grazed the words.
The man stepped in and seized the oars. “I'll help get her off,” he said, “but I'm not going.”
In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William's face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. “I guess you'll go, Andrew,” he said; “you wouldn't want a man drowned right at your dooryard.”
“You can't live in it,” said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light. Far to the east a boat crawled against it. “It'll strike in five minutes,” he said.
“Like enough,” said Uncle William, “like enough—easy there!” He seized the stern of the Andrew Halloran and sprang on board. They worked in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail—a single reef—making it fast. “All she'll stan',” said Uncle William. He turned to the helm.
Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. “If she's going out, I take her,” he said.
“You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy,” said Uncle William.
In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.
The light thickened and grew black—clouded and dense and swift. Then with a wrench heaven parted about them. The water descended in sheets, gray-black planes that shut them in—blinded them, crushed them. Andrew, crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer—hugging the wind with tense grasp. About them the water flattened like a plate beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second they saw it, a gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle William bent to it, scanning the east. “Hold her tight! Andy,” he yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller and his back strained to it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair lashed flat to the big skull were mere lines. “Hold her tight! make fast!” he yelled again.
Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened to ages and beat them eternally in torment. Water and clouds were all about them—underneath them and over. The boat, towering on each wave, dropped from its crest like a ball. Andrew, on her bottom, crawling, beseeching, groping, blubbered pitifully. Then in a breath the storm was gone. With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam.
Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head like a turtle, breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east. Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping off the wet. “There she is!” he said in a deep voice; “let her out, Andy.”
With stiff fingers Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef and loosing it to the wind.
The water still tossed in tumbling waves, and the fitful rain blew past. But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered, monstrous and black.
With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller. “We'll make it, Andy,” he said quietly. “We'll make it yet if the Jennie holds out.” Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller, his eves glued fast.
“Luff her!” he cried. “She's gone—luff her, I tell you!” He sprang back, jamming the tiller from him. “Let her out, Andy, every inch!
The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch. She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping, sidewise flight, to the race.
Across the water something bobbed—black, uncertain—
“Look sharp, Andy,” said Uncle William.
Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him like a husk in that centre of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on it. “Yep,” he said solemnly, “he's held on—he's there!”
“Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don't lose her.” Uncle William's arms strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer she came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a moment, and swept away with swift stroke.
The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man's head, round and smooth, like a bowlder, stood out against the black above him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon—thick and nebulous and dizzy.
“Roll him over, Andy,” said Uncle William, “roll him over. He's shipped too much.”

### V

NCLE WILLIAM sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine deftly in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line of smoke that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work. Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he glanced at the line of smoke. “He's gone,” he said, jerking his thumb toward it.
“He's gone,” assented Uncle William cheerfully.
Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him, spreading it along the beach. “He's left you poorer'n he found you,” he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying knots and straightening meshes.
“I dunno 'bout that,” said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff of smoke kindly.
“You kep' him a good deal, off and on. He must 'a' e't considerable,” said Andrew. “And now he's up and lost your boat for you.” He glanced complacently at the Andrew Halloran swinging at anchor. “You'll never see her again,” he said. He gave a final toss to the net.
“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William, “mebbe not.” His eyes were on the horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The blue sky dipped to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William's eyes returned to his nets.
“How you going to get along 'bout a boat?” asked Andrew carelessly.
Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. “I shouldn't need her much more this fall anyway,” he said, “an' come spring, I'll get another. I've been needing a new boat a good while.”
Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the Andrew Halloran. “Got the money?' he asked.
“Well, not got it, so to speak,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I shall have it when the time comes.”
Andrew's face lightened a little. “What you countin' on?” he said.
Uncle William considered. “There's the fish—Gunnion hain't settled with me yet for my fish.”
Andrew nodded. “Seventy-five dollars.”
“And now he's up and lost your boat for you”
“And I've got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin'-house—”
Andrew's small eyes squinted knowingly. “Out o' season?”
Uncle William returned the look benignly. “We didn't date the 'count—just lumped 'em, so much a catch—saves trouble.”
Andrew chuckled. “I've saved trouble that way myself.” He made a rough calculation— “It won't make a hunderd, all told. How you goin' to get the rest?”
“Mebbe I shall borrow it—” said Uncle William. He looked serenely at the sky. “Like enough, he'll send a little suthin',” he added.
“Like enough!” said Andrew.
“He mentioned it,” said Uncle William.
“He's gone,” said Andrew. He gave a light p-f-f with his lips and screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away.
Uncle William smiled. “You don't have faith, Andy,” he said reproachfully. “Folks do do things a good many times—things that they say they will. You o't to have faith.”
Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hey suthin' to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully.
They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby, black heads inquiringly in the water and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks.
Andrew's eye rested impassively on their gambols. “Wuthless critters,” he said.
Uncle William's face softened as he watched them. “I kind o' like to see 'em, Andy—up and down and bobbin' and sloppin' and scramblin'—you never know where they'll come up next.”
“Don't need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can't eat the blamed things—nor wear 'em. I tell you, Willum”—he turned a gloomy eye on his companion—“I tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things!”
“Mebbe I do,” said Uncle William humbly.
“This one, now—this painter fellow—” Andrew gave a wave of his hand that condensed scorn. “What'd you get out o' him, a-gabblin' and sailin' all summer?”
“I dunno, Andy, as I could just put into words,” said William thoughtfully, “what I did get out o' him.”
“Ump! I guess you couldn't—nor anybody else. When he sends you anything for that boat o' yourn, you just let me know it, will you?”
“Why, yes, Andy, I'll let you know if you want me to. I'll be real pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William.

### VI

NCLE WILLIAM carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big fingers. A touch of spring was in the air, but the Andrew Halloran still rocked alone at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at her. Then he pursued his way up the rough path.
He lighted the swinging lantern and sat down by it, tearing open the envelope with cautious fingers. A strip of bluish paper with uneven edge fluttered from it and fell to the floor. Uncle William bent over and picked it up. He looked at it, a little askance, and laid it on the table. He spread the letter before him, resting his elbows on the table and bending above it laboriously. As he read, a pleased smile came and went in the big face. “Now, that's good—ain't it!— Married— I want to know— Well—well!— Pshaw, you needn't 'a' done that! Why!” He picked up the bluish slip and looked at it. He laid it down and returned to the letter. “What! what!” He pushed the spectacles up on his head and sat back, surveying the red room. He shook his head slowly. “No, no, I couldn't do that!”
He returned the letter and the blue slip to the envelope and stowed it away in his pocket. He surveyed the room again, shaking his head. “I couldn't do that nohow,” he said slowly. “But I must go show it to Andy. He'll be real pleased.”
He rose and began to set the table, bringing out smoked herring and bread and tea and foxberries with lavish hand. He sat down with a look of satisfaction. Juno, from the red lounge, came across, jumping into the chair beside him. She rubbed expectantly against him. He fed her bits of the herring with impartial hand. He looked about the room with cheerful gaze, shaking his head.
“It's a heap of money,” he said, chewing slowly, “but I don't seem to need it—don't need it enough for that.”
He finished his supper and washed the dishes and put them away. Then he combed his tufts of hair and tied his neckerchief anew.
He found Andrew outside his house feeding the hens. They stood in silence watching the scramble for bits. “Shoo!” said Andrew, making a dash for a big Cochin China. “She eats a lot more'n her share,” he grumbled, shaking out the dish. “Comin' in?”
“I've got a little suthin' to show you,” said William.
“Come out behind the barn,” said Andrew.
Seated on a well-worn bench, with a glimpse of the bay in the distance, William drew out the envelope. “I've had a letter from him—from Mr. Woodworth.”
“The painter chap?”
“Uh-huh.” Uncle William. fumbled for his glasses.
“What's he say?”
Uncle William drew the letter from its envelope. The blue slip fluttered again in its wake and fell to the ground. Andrew stooped and picked it up. He held it in both hands, scrutinizing it. His eyes grew round. “'D he send you that?” Uncle William glanced at it carelessly. “That's part of it.”
Andrew laid it sacredly on his knee, gazing at it. “Part of it!” he said feebly.
“That's for the boat,” said Uncle William; “I told you I'd let you know soon's it come. That's what I come over for.” He gazed at Andrew with a benign smile. Andrew grinned sheepishly.
Uncle William shook his head. “Didn't I tell you, Andy, that you o't to have faith?”
“He was poor as poverty,” muttered Andrew; '“he told me so.”
“He's had quite a run of luck,” said William, returning to the letter; “he says they've been hevin' a kind of exhibition. He's sold six of them things—six pictures.”
“What's six pictures!” said Andrew. His intent was scornful, but Uncle William had a literal mind. He consulted the letter again. “It's eleven thousand five hundred dollars,” he said, reading the words slowly; “that's quite a lot o' money, ain't it, Andy?”
Incredulity rested on Andy's face. But his eye fell again on the check in his fingers. He pinched it tightly. “So he sent you five hunderd of it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“She wa'n't wuth it,” with jealous conviction.
“I was going to say it myself—if you'd give me time,” said Uncle William mildly. “She wa'n't wuth more'n two hundred if she was that; but it'll take five hundred for a new one, such as I'm plannin'.”
Andrew's eye, fixed on the blue slip, held a tinge of green in its depths.
“So I'm going to take two hundred straight out and borrow the rest of him,” said William placidly. “He'll let me hev it anyway I want, I reckon. He says suthin' 'bout payin' me a commission on the pictures—'cause they was made out o' my land, I suppose.”
Andrew's eye lifted itself with a helpless look. It swept the horizon line—rock and moor and sea and cloud. “Willum”—he leaned toward him, half whispering the words—“what'd you suppose it is 'bout pictures that makes 'em cost so much?”
“I dunno,” said William carelessly; “can't be the paint?”
“No.”
“Nor the canvas— Must be the way he does 'em.”
“He a starin' and settin',” grumbled Andrew.
“He sweat and fussed some,” said William reprovingly, “quite a considabul. I shouldn't call it real easy work— But that ain't all, Andy”—he scanned the letter anew—“there's suthin' cur'us about the way he sold 'em. A man's bought 'em—a Frenchman—queer name—” He squinted at it. “He bought 'em partly 'cause he liked 'em and partly 'cause he liked the place.” He laid down the letter and beamed upon Andrew.
Andrew swept a despairing glance at the horizon. “Mebbe he'd like to live here,” he sneered.
“That's just it, Andy. You've hit it,” said Uncle William excitedly. “How keen you be, Andy! That's it—he wants to buy it.”
“Huh!” said Andrew. The sound stuck in his throat and grumbled itself away.
“He's a man that Sergia—that's his wife now—Mr. Woodworth's wife—she knew him, the Frenchman, when she was a girl—up in Russia, and he seemed to know the place right off the minute he set eyes on the pictures; said he used to live somewheres round here when he was a little boy. I don't remember no such name; do you, Andy?”
He found the place in the letter and laid his big thumb on it. “There's the name, right there.”
Andrew bent above it, squinting. “C-u-r-i-e,” he spelled slowly.
William nodded. “That's what I make out— There wa'n't never any Curies round here, was there?”
“Not's I know on,” said Andrew. His little eyes gleamed suddenly. “What'll you bet he ain't fooling you!” he said eagerly.
William returned the letter to his pocket with slow dignity and rose from the bench. “I don't speak that way o' my friends, Andy,” he said gently. “I'd a heap rather trust 'em and git fooled than not to trust and hev 'em all right.”
“Where'll you live when you sell to him?” demanded Andrew.
Uncle William looked at him a minute. “I wasn't thinkin' o' sellin' it,” he said slowly. Andrew's eyes drew together shrewdly: “Didn't offer 'nough, I reckon.”
“He offered me ten thousand dollars,” said Uncle William, “but I wouldn't take it—nor twenty thousand, nor fifty.”
Andrew's voice failed him. It died away to a whisper. He found it again: “Don't you be foolish, Willum. It's a fortin!—ten thousand dollars.” He spoke almost pleadingly. Jealousy was swept away in grandeur. “It's a fortin, Willum,” he repeated.
A week later they met on the beach. “Heard anything more, Willum?” asked Andrew carelessly.
“Well, I did have a letter,” admitted Uncle William.
“What'd he say?”
“He says the Frenchman's willin' to give me anything up to twenty thousand.”
Andrew's eyes were saucers. They filled with the milk of human kindness. “Now, don't you act contrary, Willum,” he wailed. “I know you're going to be holding off. I can see it in your eye. Don't you do it.”
Uncle William surveyed the sky. “I knew you'd want me to do it, Andy,” he said amiably, “and I'd like to do it for you. But somehow I can't seem to see my way to it. I'm glad he likes the place. That's in his favor. He seems a sensible sort of man. But he doesn't want it so bad as I do—not from anything he's said yet.”
Andrew surveyed him scornfully. “You're a fool, Willum.”
“I suppose I be,” said William with a sigh. It changed to a chuckle: “That's a good deal of money, Andy—twenty thousand?”
“You're a fool,” said Andrew shortly—“al'ays was.”

### VII

TALL man stepped from the John L. Cann and walked slowly up the wharf. Whispers nudged each other and ran through the crowd on the wharf: “Who is he? What's he want? Where's he from?”
They sought the captain, who could only tell them that the man had come aboard at Hawksbury, ticketed from New York.
The man pursued his way up the main street, a little group tagging respectfully in the rear. He walked slowly, looking from side to side and stopping now and then to survey some house or fish shop. A pair of eye-glasses swung from a long chain, and he lifted them, placing them on a high nose, whenever he stopped to look. An urchin from the group edged forward. “That's Samuel Gruchy's,” he said boldly.
The tall man peered down at him. “Thank you,” he said politely.
The group behind waited, breathless. He was French. They could tell it from the shoulders and stoop, and the slightly lifted eyebrows and fine-pointed beard—Frenchmen often came to Arichat—but the voice and the English words had no trace of accent. With a little contraction of the eyebrows the glasses dropped from his nose. He swung the chain lightly in his fingers. “And—do you—ah—know—perhaps—where I could stay overnight?” He replaced the glasses, dipping for a quick look at the boy.
Other boys pressed forward. The first pushed them back: “Go 'long—this way, sir.” He scurried ahead with hard bare feet. The man followed him leisurely. The boy stopped at the foot of the steep bank. “That's the place,” he said, “up there. They'll keep you as long as you want to stay.”
The man glanced carelessly at the house. “Ah—thank you—I will look in later. I have an errand up the shore.” He tossed a coin in the air and strolled on up the road, past the clustered boathouses, along the stretch of shore road, throwing back his shoulders and breathing deep.
Andrew from behind the barn watched him pass. He reported at the house: “Queer-lookin' cuss just gone by—high-steppin'.”
At the foot of the cliff the man paused, looking up, half ruefully, to the little house perched at the top. Half-way up the path he paused, breathing hard. He looked back at the harbor behind him. Two boats lay at anchor—one white and glossy, a huge bird with rounded breast, the other dipping beside her like a dusky waterfowl. The man swung the glasses to his nose and surveyed them intently. A smile held his face—something fine and keen. He drew a deep breath and resumed his climb.
Uncle William threw open the door and stood in it, bluff and commanding.
The man panted a little from the climb. “I—” he said slowly.
“Come right in, come right in,” said Uncle William; “don't stand there puffing.” The man surveyed the red room with a little look of satisfaction.
“Come in the John L. Cann?” asked Uncle William. He was sitting with a hand on either knee, gazing at him benignly.
The man nodded. “I came right up. I wanted to see you. My name is—” He searched in his pocket and produced a card.
Uncle William took it in gingerly fingers. He carried it to the window. “Benjamin F. Curie?” He wheeled about. “You're the man that wanted to buy my place?”
“The same,” said the other genially. He had regained his breath.
“I told you I couldn't sell it,” said Uncle William. The tone was almost querulous.
“And I told you I wanted to buy it.” They confronted each other.
“Well,” said Uncle William, “well!” He sat down again.
The man smiled. “I thought perhaps you didn't know how much in earnest I was.”
“Oh, I knew ye was in earnest,” said Uncle William. “So was I.”
The man laughed out. “I like these rocks—dote on 'em—I love every rock on this shore.” He motioned toward the beach,
“You do?” Uncle William leaned forward in his chair. “Who be ye, anyhow?” he asked, scanning the face. “He said—Mr. Woodworth said—you was born somewhere round here. But I don't know no such name.” He flipped the bit of pasteboard with his thumb.
“Who lived this side of Gunnion's when you were a boy?” demanded the stranger.
Uncle William paused. He stared at the card. He looked again at the face, with its lifted eyebrows and pointed beard. He shook his head— Then a light grew in his face slowly. He started forward— “Not Bodet?—” he said eagerly, “not little Benjy Bodet?” He looked again at the card.
The man laughed musically. “Right,” he said. He stood up, holding out his hand. “I thought you would know me.”
Uncle William took it slowly. He studied the thin, keen face. “Benjy Bodet,” he said, “I'd know you—much as you're changed—I'd know you! Sit right down and tell me all about it—”
“All?” said the man. He laughed again, looking contentedly about the room. “It will take some time.”
“You'll have to stay a good while,” said Uncle William.
The man nodded. “I mean to—I've wanted to come back ever since the day we sailed for France.”
“You was twelve years old that summer,” said Uncle William, “Your folks come into property, didn't they, over there?”
“Yes—on my mother's side. We took her name. I was sick for months after we got there—homesick—cooped up in rooms.”
“Poor little chap!” Uncle William surveyed him. Affection was in his eyes and memory. “You always was a kind o' peaked little chap,” he said reflectively. “You hain't changed much—when you come to look. Take off your whiskers and slick your hair up and tetch down your eyebrows a little— Just about the same.”
The man laughed out. He swung the glasses boyishly from their chain. “Well, you're not.”
“Me?” Uncle William looked down at his bulk. “No, I'm bigger, a little—stouter mebbe?”
“The man nodded. “But just the same underneath.”
“Just the same,” said Uncle William.
The man drew a deep breath. “I've traveled all over the world, but there's no place like this anywhere.
“Nowhere,” said Uncle William fervently.
The man looked at him keenly. “Will you sell?”
Uncle William shook his head. “I'll divide with you.”
The man held out his hand. “It's a bargain,” he said.
Uncle William took it and held it fast. His eyes twinkled. “I must go and tell Andy,” he said; “he'll be real pleased.”
“Andy?” The man's face lighted. “You don't mean Andy Halloran? Is he here yet?”
“Right here—on deck—same as ever,” said Uncle William.
The man's eyes twinkled. “Remember the day he took my lobster pot?”
“Borrowed it,” said William dryly.
“Borrowed it,” assented the man. He chuckled a little. “He got his pay.”
Uncle William nodded. “He al'ays does. He's borrowing lobster pots now. He gets his pay every time. He's great on gettin' his pay—Andy is.”
“He ought to have made a mean man,” said the other thoughtfully.
“Well, he hain't, not so to speak,” said Uncle William slowly; “there's mean spots in Andy— Rocks— You have to steer careful. But there's sandy bottom if you know how to make it. I've anchored on him a good many years now and I never knew him to slip the anchor. It may drift a little now and then— Any bottom does that.”
The man laughed out. “So it does.” He took up his hat. “I will go along with you if you're going down. I must look up my traps and find a place to stay.”
Uncle William looked at him sternly. “Not a step—you don't stir a step, Benjy Bodet. Sit right down there.” He pointed to the red lounge. “I'm going to row down and get your duds. I don't need to stop to Andy's.” He chuckled. “He'll be lookin' out somewheres. I'll holler it to him as I go by.” He beamed upon his guest. “Now you sit right down.”
The man looked at him doubtfully with raised brows. “You want me?”
“Want you? Why shouldn't I want you!” roared Uncle William. “I've been waiting for you sixty year and odd. Sit down!”
The Frenchman sat down on the red lounge and crossed his thin legs.
A ball of gray fur descended upon them and fluffed itself, purring. He peered at it uncertainly. He swung the glasses on on his nose, surveying it.
“Now, don't that show!” demanded Uncle William, “She don't take to strangers—never. Look at her—” She was kneading her paws in the thin knees delicately with treading softness.
The Frenchman's eyes lighted. “She's your cat?”
“She is,” said Uncle William, “and she knows a lot. If she says you're going to stay, you're going to. You won't leave here, not till you've built over there on the old cellar place.” He waved his hand toward the horizon. “I'll fetch up some clams, 'long o' your duds, and we'll have a chowder—same as we used to.”
“When we were boys,” said the man slowly.
“When we were boys,” assented Uncle William.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1951, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 72 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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