BENJY thought mebbe you ’d do the whole thing, George!”

The three men stood on the site of the new house. Across the rocks and moor Uncle William’s chimney showed against the sky, and below them the water of the harbor dimpled in little waves of light.

Benjamin Bodet stood looking across it, a kind of quiet satisfaction in his face.

“He’s been a good deal bothered,” said Uncle William to the younger man. They moved a little aside and looked at him. “What he wants,” said Uncle William, “is somebody that ’ll take everything off him—do all the figgerin’ and plannin’ that comes up and trot round and get things—men, you know—and things you run out of and can’t get on the Island. It’s kind o’ hard building out at sea,” he said tentatively, “But you could do it?” He turned to him.

“Yes, I could do it—if he wants me to,” said Manning. He held the stalk of grass between his teeth and it turned slowly as he talked, “I’d like to build a house like this one—such as he’s planning for.... There must be a good many things come up, you won’t know how to do.” He moved his hand toward the circumference about them, with a half gesture.

“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “That’s just what I told Benjy.... You take the whole thing over—tell him how much ’twill cost, and so on—figger it out?”

“Beforehand!” said the man with a slow look.

Uncle William nodded. “He wants to know before he begins. I told him mebbe you couldn’t do it—but he’s kind o’ set on it.” He looked at the other a little anxiously. The man chewed the bit of grass in silence.

“Ordway ’d done it,” said Uncle William simply.

Manning turned a slow eye on him. “How ’d he know he could get men—here on the Island—and keep ’em!” he demanded.

“Well, he didn’t know it, George.” Uncle William chuckled a little. “I reckon he ’d ’a’ learned quite a few things about the Island—if he ’d ’a’ kep’ on it.”

“I reckon he would,” said the man with a slow smile. “I can’t tell Bodet what it ’ll cost—What if a barge-load of lumber should be held up, getting here?—Might have to wait weeks—Suppose I can’t get anybody to board ’em—”

“Andy ’ll board ’em,” said Uncle William.

“Umph,” said the man.

“An’ Andy’s wife—you want to put her in. She might up an’ say she wouldn’t, any day?”

Manning shook his head. “I can’t sign any contract, and I can’t tell him what it will cost—not within a good many dollars—a house like that—but if he wants me to build it, I’ll take it and do my best for him.”

“The’s a good many things might happen,” allowed Uncle William, turning it slowly in his mind. “The Widow Deman’s well might go dry and then where ’d you be, with your mortar and plaster and cement, if that well run dry?”

The man looked at him.

“You ’d want to put the well in,” Uncle William suggested, “if you should make the contract—”

“You can’t clutter up a contract that way. I’m not going to make any contract to build a house on this Island.”

“He ’ll want to do what’s fair,” said Uncle William. “S’pose you go see about the well whilst I talk with him,” he added diplomatically.

The man moved in the direction of a little house a few rods away and Uncle William turned toward the tall figure pacing back and forth on the short-cropped turf.

Bodet turned as he came up. “Who cares about building a house!” he said. “Look at that sky and water and all this—!” His gesture took in the rocks and turf and the flock of sheep feeding their way up the hill to the horizon.

Uncle William’s eye followed it all placidly. “You do get over being in a hurry—up here,” he said slowly, “I reckon it’s because the Lord’s done so well by it—got a chance to finish things up—without folks meddling too much—it seems kind o’ foolish to hurry ’bout things.... Well, George ’ll do your house for you—if you want him to.”

“I’m willing to try him,” said the man with a little note of condescension. “Where’s he gone!”

“He’s just stepped over to the Widow Deman’s well,” said Uncle William.

“He ’ll sign the contract, of course!”

“Well—” Uncle William hesitated. “He ’ll sign one, I guess, if you say so—If I was buildin’ a house, I’d just go ahead and build—if I could get George Manning.”

The tall man fidgeted a little. “Suppose he takes a notion—feathers his own nest while he’s building my house,” he said at last.

Uncle William’s eyes grew large—then they laughed. “George Manning ain’t a bird of the air, Benjy—and he’s pretty well past feathers now.... Curious, I didn’t understand about that contract,” he said after a little pause. “It never come over me that you thought George wouldn’t do the square thing by you... and I guess he wouldn’t ’a’ got it through his head all summer—that you thought he was going to cheat you—! Lucky I didn’t think of it,” he added, “I’d ’a’ made a muss of it somehow and you wouldn’t ’a’ got your house built—not this year, anyhow.” He looked at him sympathetically.

Bodet smiled. “I didn’t suppose there was a man left, you could trust like that,” he said.

“Well, George ain’t left exactly. He’s just here with the rest of us,” said Uncle William—“Folks mean to do ’bout what’s right up here, I guess. And I do’ ’no’ but that’s about as easy way as any. I’ve tried both kinds of places—honest and say nothin’—and places where they cheats and signs papers, and I do’ ’no’ ’s it’s any better ’n our way—just going along and doing as well as you can and expectin’ other folks to.... He’s coming back,” said Uncle William. They watched the young man move across the rocks toward them—thin and spare-built and firm. His face, tempered fine like a piece of old bronze, held a thoughtful look, and the stalk of grass between his teeth turned with gentle motion as he came.

“How ’d you find it?” said Uncle William.

He looked up. “It’s all right—fourteen feet of water, I guess.” He drew a slip of paper from his pocket and turned to Bodet—“I’ve been running it over in my mind a little,” he said slowly “and if that’s any use to you, I’m willing to sign it.”

Bodet took the paper in his thin fingers and swung his glasses to his nose. Uncle William looked at him with pleased smile.

The glasses swung down from the long nose. “What has the Widow Deman’s well got to do with my house!” he said expressively?

Uncle William leaned forward. “That’s my idee, Benjy.” He looked over the high shoulder—

“I will build your house for $25,000, provided and allowed the Widow Deman’s well holds out.

“(Signed) George Manning.”

“That’s right, George—that’s fust-rate,” said Uncle William, “You’ve put it high enough to cover you—and Benjy, too.”

“It would seem so,” said Bodet. “Ordway had figured twenty thousand—and he’s not cheap.”

“I told George to make it high—more ’n it could possibly figger up to,” said Uncle William with satisfaction, “so ’s ’t you ’d get something back—’stead o’ having to pay out more ’n you expected to. I thought that was what you wanted the contract for,” he added significantly.

“I see—Well, it’s a bargain—and without any pieces of paper.” He tore what was in his hands through, and handed it back with a little courteous gesture of decision—“If I’m going to build on the Island, I’ll build as the Island builds.”

“That’s right, Benjy. Now, let’s have a look at them plans.” Uncle William found a rock and sat down. The other two men moved from point to point, driving in stakes, and pulling them out, measuring lines and putting down new ones. While they were doing it, a big wind blew in around and proceeded to pile up clouds and roll them up the hill behind them. Uncle William watched the clouds and George Manning and Bodet, moving to and fro before them.

“Manning says it can’t be done,” said Bodet, walking over to him. Two straight wrinkles stood between his eyes.

“I don’t see how it can be—not yet,” said the man. He held out the plan. “He wants his chimney—”

Uncle William nodded. “I know—where the old one was.”

“But that chimney isn’t any good. You’ve got to build from the ground up—You can’t use the old foundation—?”

“Well, not exactly use it, mebbe.” Uncle William looked at him thoughtfully. “I do’ ’no’s I can tell you, George, what he wants it that way for—You see he set by that chimney when he was a boy—and the’s something about it—about the idee, you know?”

The carpenter looked at him with slow, smiling eyes. “‘Tain’t the chimney, then—He kind o’ likes the idea of a chimney—does he?... He didn’t say anything about the idea,” he added, “He just kind o’ fussed around when I tried to shift her—” He looked at the paper in his hand. “Well—I can’t tell—yet. I’ve got to figure on it—I’ll go down now and order my lumber, I guess.” He moved away toward the road and Uncle William got up.

He crossed over to the old chimney and stood looking toward the hill that mounted above it. The sun had disappeared and the dark turf was soft.... Long reaches of turf and the cropping sheep that moved across it in slow shapes. Uncle William drew a deep breath and turned to the man who stood silent beside him—his eyes on the hill. “Does seem like home, don’t it, Benjy?” he said quietly, in the big, deep voice that boomed underneath like the sea.

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