UNCLE WILLIAM finished the last saucepan and carried it, with careful flourish, to the stove, where the top was piled high with pots and kettles. He found a place for the saucepan and deposited it with cautious touch. Then he stood back and surveyed the topply pile with hopeful eye.

Benjamin, seated on a rock outside, was whistling softly. “You most ready, William,” he called.

Uncle William glanced hastily toward the window, then his glance traveled about the room. “Pretty near, Benjy,” he said. “You wait a minute whilst I chuck two-three more things out o’ sight.”

Benjamin rose and stretched his long legs. The sun shone brilliantly and the salt air was alive with the freshness of summer. He strolled to the window and looked in.... Uncle William, on his knees by the red lounge, was poking things under with swift, efficient touch.

He looked up and nodded. “Don’t you wait, Benjy. I’m most done. The’s just two-three things got strayed around—” He gathered up a plate and saucer, with the remnants of Juno’s supper, and carried them across to the sink. He opened the cupboard door underneath and thrust them in.... “The’s a few things left,” he said apologetically, “if I raked way in under for ’em, mebbe. But we’ve got enough to run along—quite a spell now.” He glanced affectionately at the stove and the rows of shining cups and plates ranged on the shelf above the sink.

Benjamin’s eye followed the glance with a touch of amusement and a little impatience, “Oh, come on, William. You ’d let things run a week and then you ’d scrub all day—”

Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s right, Benjy. That’s just the way I like it—now, how ’d you know!”

“Well, I have eyes,” said Benjamin dryly, “and I’ve been living with you a month or so, you know.”

“That’s so, Benjy—and don’t it seem good!” Uncle William came to the window and patted the thin hand resting on the sill. “I’m coming right along, now, soon’s I get my apron off—” His fingers tugged at the strings of the big oil cloth pattern that encompassed him.

Benjamin’s eye waited, impatient—“You ’ll get rid of all that fuss when the new girl comes,” he said.

Uncle William’s mouth opened and looked at him. Then it closed and Uncle William shook his head. “I’d clean forgot her,” he said slowly, “and if I don’t send her word today, she can’t come for two weeks—nor four, mebbe. The boats don’t run right.” He reached up to the clock for the pen and bottle of ink that stood there.

Benjamin moved with restless indecision and Uncle William glanced at him. “You run along, Benjy,” he said kindly, “That contractor ’ll be waiting for you—”

“He’s been waiting,” said Benjy quickly, “—an hour at least.”

“Yes, yes—I know. Don’t you wait—” Uncle William’s eye was on the paper and he was mumbling words to the ink bottle.... “I’ll be—right along—Benjy—sometime—”

The tall man turned from the window and strode over the rocks.

Uncle William’s face smoothed to its genial smile as the steps died away. His fingers traced big, comfortable words on the paper and his head nodded in a kind of cheerful, all-round assent while he wrote. The clock struck ten and he looked up, blinking a little. His eyes strayed to the window and he looked out. Then he got up and went across. After a minute he took down the spy-glass and fixed it on a distant point. His face radiated in little wrinkles of interest. “I do’ ’no’s I ever see Andy run like that—and cross-lots, too—Harr’et wants suthin’—bad—like enough.... My—my! He hadn’t ought to run like that!”... He bent from the window. “Hello, Andy!—what you runnin’ for?”

Andy halted, panting—“He’s come!” he said. The words sank to a whisper and he wheeled about, glaring at a man who was coming up the path from the shore, trundling a bicycle before him. He was a young man, with keen, quick glance and a look of determination. He glanced indifferently at Andy and rapped sharply on the side of the door.

Uncle William came across with easy gait. “Good morning,” he said—looking down from his height...

“You’re the owner of this house!” said the young man.

Uncle William’s eye traversed it kindly, “I reckon it belongs to me—yet awhile. Will you come in—sir!” The figure towered still higher and Uncle William’s presence exhaled dignity and welcome.

The young man stepped over the sill. Andy followed sulkily.

“Sit down, sir.” Uncle William’s hand motioned to the red lounge.

The stranger crossed and sat down, holding his hat in his hand and glancing with quick eye about the little room.

Uncle William sat down opposite him, a hand on either knee, and looked at him over large spectacles.

“I’m the new fish-warden,” said the young man—as if he answered a polite question.

“I kind o’ reckoned you might be a fish-warden, or something like that,” said Uncle William. “I’m glad to see you.”

The young man smiled a little. “You’re the first one that’s glad, I guess—” The quick look had relaxed a little in his face. The warm, sunny room seemed to reach out and surround him.

Juno, from her place on the lounge, leaped down and walked with deliberate step across the room. She seated herself in the sunshine, with her back to the company, and looked steadily into space.

Uncle William’s eye rested on her kindly.

“I’m looking for lobsters,” said the young man.

Uncle William nodded. “It’s a poor time of year for ’em,” he said, “—close season, so.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted a little.

“I didn’t get your name, sir,” added Uncle William, leaning forward.

“My name is Mason,” said the young man.

“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Uncle William. He came across and held out a big hand. “My name is Benslow—William Benslow.”

The young man took the hand, a little dazed, it might seem. “I knew it was Benslow,” he said, “I inquired before I came up—down in the village.”

“Now, did ye? That was kind in you!” Uncle William beamed on him and sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he said thoughtfully—“not as I can remember. I’m real glad to see you.”

The young man nodded stiffly—a little color had come into his face—as if he did not propose to be tampered with.

“I’ve thought a good deal about fish-wardens,” went on Uncle William comfortably, crossing his legs, “when I’ve been out sailing and lobstering and so on—’Seems’s if it must be kind o’ unpleasant business—knowing likely enough folks don’t want to see you come sailin’ into a harbor—night or day.”

The young man turned a little in his place, looking at him curiously.

“—And kind o’ havin’ to brace yourself,” went on Uncle William, “to do your duty—feelin’, I suppose, as if there was spears always reachin’ out from the shore and pinting at ye—to keep you off—sort of?”

The young man stirred uneasily. “I don’t know that I ever thought about it that way,” he said.

“Like enough you didn’t,” said Uncle

William, “I do’ ’no ’s I’d ’a’ thought of it myself—only I’m al’ays kind o’ possessed to know how folks feel inside—other folks, you know—and one day, as I was comin’ in from lobsterin’, I says to myself—’Supposin’, instead o’ bringing in these lobsters, nice and comfortable, I was a fish-warden, a-sailin’ in to catch somebody, there on the shore’—and then, all of a sudden, I seemed to see them spears, hundreds of ’em, pointin’ right at me, kind of circle-like, from the shore. There was a minute in that boat when I wouldn’t’ ’a’ known whether it was you or me, and it felt uncomfortable—real uncomfortable,” said Uncle William.

Andy’s face held a wide, half-scared grin.

The young man looked at Uncle William curiously. “I could imagine things like that—if I wanted to,” he said dryly.

Uncle William nodded. “I don’t doubt you could—a good deal better. But I wouldn’t if I was you.”

“I don’t intend to,” said the young man. He half rose from his seat.

“It’s cur’us, ain’t it,” said Uncle William, “Now, I suppose you’ve got a family—a wife, like enough, and children—”

The young man’s hand sought an inside pocket, as if by instinct. Then it dropped to his side.

Uncle William smiled and chuckled a little. “Now, I never thought you ’d have pictures of ’em with you. But why shouldn’t yet Why shouldn’t a fish-warden hev pictures of his wife and babies, same as other folks?” He had turned to Andy, and sat, with spectacles pushed up on his forehead, looking at him inquiringly.

“I do’ ’no’ why he shouldn’t,” said Andy feebly—but not as if convinced.

“Of course you ’d have ’em,” said Uncle William, turning ’to the young man, “And I like you all the better for it. I’d taken a liking to you anyhow—before that.”

The face opposite him was non-committal. But there was a look of firmness about the chin.

“I’d like to see ’em,” said Uncle William, “if you wouldn’t mind my seein’ ’em.” The tone was full of interest and kindly hope.

The young man took out a small leather case and handed it to him, without speaking.

Uncle William received it in his big, careful fingers, and adjusted his glasses before he bent to it.

Andy sat silent, with grudging, watchful eye, and the young man let his glance wander about the room. Juno, seated in the sunshine, blinked a little. Then she rose and moved toward the cupboard door and snuffed the crack. She seated herself beside it, turning a reproachful, indifferent eye in Uncle William’s direction.

Andy, from across the room, glared at her.

The young man’s eye had followed her with half-cynical smile.

Uncle William looked up from the leather case and pushed up his glasses. “You’ve got a good wife, Mr. Mason.”

“I know about it,” said the young man quietly. He stood up, holding out his hand for the case. Uncle William beamed helplessly at the baby—handing it back.

The young man replaced the case in his pocket without comment, but the comers of his smile softened a little—as if in spite of judgment.

“Well, now, you want to look round a little, don’t ye?” said Uncle William, standing up, “‘Seems a pity to hev to—things are kind of cluttered up so—if I’d known you was comin’ I’d ’a’ had ’em fixed up.”

The young man’s face broke a little. “I don’t doubt it,” he said.

Uncle William chuckled. “You’re used to havin’ ’em fixed up for you, I suppose?—Well—let’s see. I’ll tell you the best places to look.... The’s under the sink—”

Andy’s chair scraped the floor with sudden sound.

Uncle William looked at him mildly. “The’s under the sink,” he repeated firmly, “and under the lounge and under the bed and up chimbley and down cellar... but they’re all kind o’ hard places to get to.... That’s another thing I never thought of, about being a fish-warden—havin’ to scooch so much.”

“Never mind that,” said the young man, and there was a little impatient flick to the words, “I’ll begin wherever you say—”

“Why, I don’t mind,” said Uncle William kindly. “If I was advising you, I should say, ’Don’t look anywheres.’.rdquo;

Juno moved over and rubbed against Uncle William’s leg. Then she returned to her seat by the cupboard and lifted her lip in a silent miaouw.

“Byme-by, Juno,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “She’s hungry, like enough,” he said, turning to the fish-warden.

But the man had stooped and was lifting the cover of the red lounge.

“It’s a dreadful clutter,” said Uncle William aside to Andy, “‘Seems’s if I hadn’t o’t to let him see it looking like that—”

“You ’d better wring her neck,” said Andy between his set teeth.

“Why, Andy!—You don’t find anything there, Mr. Mason?” said Uncle William.

The man emerged with red face. “I didn’t expect to,” he said—“But it’s my business to look—”

“Yes, it’s your business. That’s what I was sayin’ to myself when I was out sailin’—”

“I’ll take the bedroom next,” said the man shortly.

They disappeared in the next room and the murmur of their voices, with the moving of a heavy chest and the stir of papers, came out.

Andy cast a vicious eye at Juno. He half rose and took a step on tiptoe. But the bedroom door opened again and he sat down.

“I haven’t hauled a trap—nor set one—since the season closed,” said Uncle William’s voice.

“That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. But I have reason to think.... I’d better make a thorough search—since I am here,” he finished quietly.

“You search all you want to,” said Uncle William cordially—“Get away, Juno.” He pushed her aside with his foot. “This is my sink cupboard,” he opened the door hospitably. “Lucky I washed some of the dishes this morning,” he said, “You would ’a’ had a time if I hadn’t!” The man reached in and drew out a pile of plates. His nose lifted itself as he set them down and reached in again. He emerged with a quiet look in his face—“I shall have to trouble you to take out all the things in that cupboard,” he said with a motion of his hand.

Uncle William’s face had dropped a little. “I most knew you ’d want me to do that,” he said, “I o’ ’t to ’a’ done it, this morning, before you came.”

The man laughed out. “That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. I don’t mind your bluffing—as long as you play fair. But that cupboard is a give-away, dead easy.”

Uncle William sighed a little. “I wish had my clam-rake,” he said.

The man stared at him—

“I gen’ally use my clam-rake to haul ’em out,” explained Uncle William kindly. “I can shove ’em in with the broom or a stick of wood or most anything, but it’s kind o’ hard gettin’ ’em out—specially for a big man like me—” He reached in and drew out an ample armful—dippers and pans and plates and spoons and bowls—then another armful—mostly tinware and kettles—and then a third—spreading them on the floor about him with lavish hand. Now and then he stopped to exclaim over some lost treasure as it came to light. If doom must come, Uncle William did not propose to meet it more than half way nor with gloomy countenance.

The fish-warden watched him with his little cynical smile, and Andy hitched uneasily in his chair.

“There—” Uncle William drew a breath and emerged from the cupboard. “That’s the last one I can reach—without my rake. You get in, Andy. You’re smaller ’n I be.”

Andy took firm hold of the seat of his chair. “I don’t want to, Willum.”

“Oh yes, you get right in and fetch ’em out, Andy. I’ll hold the candle for ye.”

Uncle William lighted a candle and Andy crawled miserably into the depths. His voice came out, gloomy and protesting, as he handed out a few last articles. Then there was a long pause and a sound of scraping on the boards.

Uncle William withdrew the candle.

“He’s comin’ out,” he said.

The fish-warden bent forward, a look of quick interest in his face.

Slowly Andy backed into the room and lifted an awed face. In his hand he held a small monse-trap. “There ain’t a durned thing left,” he said, “except this.” He held it up and looked at it—and blinked. Then he laid it down on the table and looked at it again, fondly—and blinked. A large grin stole into his face. “I put that monse-trap there—time Juno run away,” he said—“the time you was down to New York.” He had turned to William.

Uncle William was looking at the fish-warden, a kindly smile on his face.

The warden ignored it. “I’ll trouble you for that candle,” he said, “I’ll take a look myself.”

Uncle William handed it to him and he held it far into the cupboard, peering at the top and sides and floor. He withdrew it, blowing it out with a quick puff—“You’ve got off this time,” he said, “but that smell ought to convict you—if there was any justice in law.”

“Well, I do’ ’no ’s there is,” said Uncle William, “do you? It does smell good.” He sniffed a little. “‘Seems’s if they ought to put that in the schedule they send us, ’Any lobsters, claws or smells found in the possession of any person whatsoever.’.rdquo; Uncle William marked off the count on his fingers with kindly eye and beamed. “You could fine me fifty dollars, or some such matter as that—for that cupboard, I should think.” The eyes behind the big spectacles twinkled with good fellowship.

The fish-warden looked at him. Then he looked at the empty cupboard and at Andy and the mouse-trap—He smiled a little. “You might speak to them about the law yourself,” he said. “I can testify it ought to be changed.”

“We ’d like to speak to ’em,” said Uncle William, “—about a good many things. About this lobster-law, now,” He motioned toward the mouse-trap, “We don’t want any such law. I ain’t a canning factory. We ain’t pirates, nor lawbreakers here—”

The young man smiled a little.

“Not without we have to be,” said Uncle William quickly. “They’re our lobsters, and mostly we know what’s good for ’em—and what’s good for us, and if we want to ketch a few and eat, now and then, we don’t need no inspector.... Not but what we’re always glad to see you,” he said. He held out his hand kindly. “I know—by the looks of your wife and babies—you’re a good man.”

The young man took the big hand, smiling a little. “I’m glad to have met you, Mr. Benslow,” he said slowly. He looked at him a minute, as if something in the big face puzzled him. Then he turned away with a little shake of his head. “I shouldn’t want to meet you regularly—not if I’m going to keep on being fish-warden,” he said.

Uncle William chuckled a little. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Mason—there’s lots of jobs for them that needs ’em—some of ’em right and some of ’em wrong—and I reckon the main thing is to do what we hev to do as well as we can and not worry.”

He watched the young man down the rocky path, trundling his wheel beside him. Then he turned back to the red room. He stooped and ran his big hand along Juno’s back, as it arched to his touch, smoothing it slowly.

Andy looked at him with sheepish grin. “Where ’d you put ’em, Willum?” he said.

Uncle William glanced out of the window at the dimpling harbor. A little breeze blew across it and the waves darkened and ran. He smiled at them and then at Andy. “I see his lights last night,” he said, “along about midnight, off the Point, and I says to myself, ’Least said, soonest mended,’ so I took ’em down and heaved ’em. It hurt Juno some—” He smoothed the gray back gently, “But she feels all right about it now, I guess, same as we do.”

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