WE used to meet on this rock when we was boys,” said Uncle William, sitting down, “—You remember them times, Andy?”

“I don’t remember nothin’,” said Andy. Uncle William looked at him. “I do’ ’no’ how you forget so easy.... I can see it all, just as plain as you be—settin’ there—you and me and Benjy, racing to get to this rock first—and planning suthin’—suthin’ ’t we hadn’t o’t to.... Seems kind o’ good to have Benjy back—just ’s if he ’d never been off the island?”

“He’s changed some,” said Andy. “Well—outside he’s peaked up a little—but inside, I can’t see a mite o’ difference. He gets mad just about ’s easy ’s ever,” said Uncle William contentedly.... “Now, this morning—” Uncle William moved his hand toward the horizon, “He’s gone over to his place, all kind o’ boilin’-like. He stopped and gazed at a figure that loomed on the horizon at the end of the long road. They watched the light, high-stepping figure come swiftly down the road.

“He’s got something on his mind,” said Uncle William, “I can see by the way his elbows act—kind o’ stiff so. I reckon that contractor does bother him—a good deal,” he added thoughtfully.

The man came on quickly, lessening his gait a little as he neared the rock, and taking off his hat to the breeze. “Feels good,” he said, nodding. He seated himself on the big rock. “Well—I’ve done it.” He turned his head slowly, taking in great whiffs of the fresh, bracing air. “I’ve fired him,” he said.

“You hev!” Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s good—He’s fired him, Andy—”

“When’s he going to leave?” asked Andy.

“He’s going to leave just as soon as he can pack,” said Bodet with satisfaction, “He’s stood all he can—and so have I.” He threw out his thin legs and looked at them. “I don’t think I ever knew a man that irritated me the way he did,” he said reflectively.

“I see he kind o’ did,” said Uncle William.

Andy looked out to sea. “Harr’et was boardin’ him,” he said, “She was cal’-lating on the board money—right along.” His eye dropped to Bodet.

The man threw out an impatient leg.

“Now, don’t you mind about that,” said Uncle William hastily, “Benjy ’ll fix it up all right—He’s got to have somebody to build his house, and it’s got to be somebody that ’ll eat—somebody with a stomach.”

The thin man sat up, smiling a little.

“I wish to the Lord I knew whose stomach it was!” he said, “It’s like trying to build a house in heaven—having to import contractors and masons and plumbers—”

Uncle William chuckled—— “We gen’ally use the home-folks, round here,” he said after a pause.

Bodet looked at him a little. “You wouldn’t build a twenty-thousand dollar house just with the home-folks, would you!”

“I do’ ’no’ why not,” said Uncle William, “It ain’t so much different from any other house, fur as I see—just more of it—more spread. There’s George Manning,” he suggested.

“The carpenter?” Bodet’s lip smiled.

“Well—he ain’t exactly a carpenter—not exactly,” said Uncle William. “He’s a fisherman too—first-class—and he can steer any kind of a craft you want to rig up. He was captain on the Halifax Line one spell.” Uncle William’s eye followed the boats passing across the harbor. “An’ he’s a kind o’ mason, and a first-rate painter—I do’ ’no’s you could git a man knows more ’n George Manning does.... I never see the thing yet George wa ’n’t willing to tackle. Seems’s if he kind o’ liked to try his hand at things folks said couldn’t be done. I’ve seen him sit up night after night figgering on things—”

“He ’ll have to figure some on this,” said Bodet. He drew the plans from his pocket. “This is what we’ve just split on—Ordway and I—” He spread out the paper, holding it between his hands. Uncle William moved over a little toward it. Andy dropped an eye from above.... “This is it,” said Bodet. “You see how that roof-line comes down, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Uncle William looked at it with pleased smile—“Comfy, ain’t it—Sort o’ makes a house look like an old hen with her chickens.”

“That’s it,” said Bodet quickly, “It’s the very thing I want—a house that settles down among the rocks as if it belonged there—The architect got the idea all right—from photographs. But he hadn’t been here and we hadn’t allowed for that dip to the south—You know it?”

Uncle William nodded. “Drops fo’-five feet, I should think?”

“Six—: a little over six,” replied Bodet, “and this is the kind of thing he wanted—Ordway wanted!” He took out a rough pencil sketch and held it at arm’s length. “He wants to run it out here in the air, this way, and put a lattice-work underneath.... paint it green, I suppose.” He snorted a little.

“Does look kind o’ funny—don’t it, Andy?” said Uncle William.

“Looks good enough—far as I see,” said Andy, “I’ve seen a lot of houses built that way.”

“—So have I,” broke in Bodet. He crushed the paper in his hand. “It’s a seaside cottage,” he said, “—a regular seaside cottage!”

“I do’ ’no’ what you feel that way about it for,” said Andy, “if ’tis a cottage and ’tis built on the sea—right along side—”

Bodet got impatiently to his feet—“Ordway couldn’t see, either. That’s why I fired him—’seaside cottage!’—” He fizzed a little and straightened his garments and shook his legs.

“There, there, Benjy,—don’t you mind. I’m a-thinkin’ about it,” said Uncle William soothingly.

Benjy smiled—the thin, sweet smile that seemed to come of itself from somewhere behind the high, nervous features, when Uncle William’s voice spoke to it, “All right, William, I won’t mind—now I’ve got Ordway off my hands. I thought one time he would drive me crazy—”

“I didn’t know but he would, too,” said Uncle William, “You acted kind o’ queer.”

“Well, I felt kind o’ queer,” responded Bodet dryly. “Now, about Manning—We ’ll go talk things over with him.... He might do—with a little watching.”