THE sunlight got in Uncle William’s eyes. He looked up from the map spread on the table before him. Then he got up slowly and crossed to the window and drew down the turkey-red curtain—a deep glow filled the room. Juno, on the lounge, stirred a little and stretched her daws, and drew them in and tucked her head behind them and went on sleeping.

Uncle William returned to his map. His big finger found a dotted line and followed it slowly up the table with little mumbles of words.... The room was very still—only the faintest whisper of a breeze came across the harbor—and Uncle William’s head bent over the map and traveled with his finger.... “They ’d run in here, like enough, and...”

A shadow crossed the curtain and he looked up.

Andy was in the doorway, grinning—a bunch of lobsters dangling from his hand, stretching frantic green legs into space. Andy looked down at them.

Uncle William shook his head. “You ’ll get into trouble, Andy, carryin’ ’em that way, right in broad daylight—you can put ’em out there under the bucket—so ’s ’t the sun won’t hit ’em.”

Andy departed and the scraping of the bucket on the hard rock came cautiously in the window.... Juno lifted her ear and flicked it and went on dreaming. Uncle William returned to the map.

“What you huntin’ up?” asked Andy. He was looking in the window.

“‘D you put a stone on top the bucket?”

“Yep—What you lookin’ for?” asked Andy.

“I was just seein’ where they ’d got to..... They must be up along Battle Harbor way, by this time—”

“You heard from ’em?” said Andy. He came in and sat down.

“We’ve had a letter to-day—me and Benjy—”

“Where’s he gone?” asked Andy.

“He’s up to his place—seein’ about some plans they’re makin’—they bother him quite a consid’abul.”

Andy’s face showed no concern. “They goin’ to begin working next week?” he said.

Uncle William pushed back the map a little and took off his spectacles.... “They don’t just seem to know,” he said slowly, “Benjy wants it one way, and the man that’s doin’ it—Ordway—he says it can’t be done—so they’re kind o’ stuck. I wish he ’d have George Manning.” Uncle William’s face expanded. “George ’d do it—and do it for him good. You see, Benjy, he wants—”

“He ’ll want money,” said Andy shortly—“unless he looks out—keeping that contractor and fussing about whether they ’ll have the roof two inches up or two inches down—or some such matter as that—and Harr’et feedin’ the contractor and getting board money right along whether he works or don’t work.”

“I guess I’ll do the lobsters for supper,” said Uncle William. “Benjy likes ’em.” He stirred about, gathering a few bits of kindling and paper and striking a careful match.

Andy watched him with gloomy eye while he dived under the sink and brought out a large kettle.

Uncle William lifted the tea kettle a little and drew it forward. “Most full,” he said contentedly. “That’s good—and it ain’t fairly cooled off since dinner—I didn’t wash any dishes this noon, you see.”

Andy’s eye roamed about the room.

“They’re tucked under the sink,” said Uncle William, “I don’t like ’em clutterin’ round. I can’t seem to set so easy if I see ’em.” He opened the sink door and peered in. “I guess there’s about enough left for a meal—You goin’ to stay—?” He looked back hopefully over his shoulder.

Andy wriggled a little and looked at the door. “I didn’t say nothin’ to Harr’et,” he said feebly.

“Well, I guess you better stay—” said Uncle William, “You don’t get a chance to eat lobsters every day.”

“I don’t get ’em any day,” said Andy gloomily, “She won’t cook ’em for me—and she says she won’t have ’em scrawling round.”

Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Now, that’s too bad—it’s just come on, ain’t it?”

Andy nodded. “She says it’s the law and she’s going to keep it, and we hain’t had tip nor claw for much as a week now.”

“My... my!” Uncle William’s tongue clicked in sympathy. “Well, you stay right where you be, Andy, and we ’ll have one good meal.” He brought in the lobsters. “Seem’s if women keep the law a little harder ’n men—when they do keep it,” he said thoughtfully, swashing the lobsters happily down into the kettle.

Andy nodded. “She got scared ’bout the fish-warden last week. She says we can’t pay no three hundred dollars for lobsters—and I do’ ’no’s we can.” His eye was on the steam that rose genially about the lid of the kettle.

“Well, there won’t be any three hundred this time,” said Uncle William, “—not without the fish-warden’s legs are longer ’n my spy-glass. Seems kind o’ mean business—being a warden,” he added kindly.

“I don’t mind his bein’ a warden,” said Andy, “if they ’d let us have Jim Doshy. We ’d got used to him—knew his ways, and he gen ’lly sent us, word anyhow—day or two beforehand—But this one—” He looked at Uncle William with reproachful eye. “The’ wa ’n’t one of us ready for him when he come.”

Uncle William nodded. “I know—lively work wa ’n’t it?”

Andy grinned. “Lively—they was flyin’ round like hens with their heads off—dumpin’ ’em out and scratchin’ ’em under and getting things shipshape.” He grinned again. “I wa ’n’t to home, you know—I’d gone off the Point—to haul a mess for dinner, and Harr’et had to run a mile in the hot sun to yell at me to dump ’em out.” He drew a long breath as he heaved the lobsters overboard and righted himself.

“Now, that ain’t right,” said Uncle William, “making Harr’et run in the hot sun like that—all for them little squirming things,—and ’tain’t reasonable. We ought to know how many lobsters we o’t to eat—much as any fish-warden. Ain’t they our lobsters?” He shoved up his glasses and looked at Andy kindly.

Andy’s eye was on the kettle. “You think they’re most done?” he said.

Uncle William took off the lid and peered in. The steam rose about his big head like a halo and rolled away in light whiffs. Down on the beach they could hear the washing of the little waves as the tide came up. Uncle William’s face looked out of the steam, like a happy moon. “Just about—” he said, “You run and see if Benjy’s anywheres in sight.” He lifted the kettle and Andy got up stiffly and went to the door.

“I don’t see him nowheres,” he said indifferently.

“You can’t see him there, Andy. You got to go round the corner.” Uncle William carried the kettle to the sink and Andy departed, reluctant—When he returned the lobsters were on the middle of the table, red and steaming, with their little white clouds over them. The map had been hung on the wall and the table was scantily set—“There’s one spoon apiece,” said Uncle William cheerfully, “—though I do’ ’no’s we need spoons. I’m going to have a real good washin’ up after dinner—’D you see him, Andy?”

“He’s comin’,” replied Andy—“up the road a piece.”

“He ’ll be right along then,” said Uncle William, “—if he don’t meet somebody—that wants to advise him ’bout his house. I’d come home round by the lots, if I was him, I tell him. It’s further—but he ’d get here quicker. You sure ’t was him?”

“The’ ain’t anybody else got that kind o’ high-stepping walk, has the’.” said Andy scornfully.

“I do’ ’no ’s the’ has,” said Uncle William. “You draw right up, Andy. He ’ll be here any minute now.”

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