THE three men looked across the harbor—far in the distance something troubled the surface of the water—as if a bit of the dusk had fallen on it and traveled with little restless waves.

Uncle William’s eye grew round.... “Mackerel!” he said solemnly.

“Been schooling all day,” answered Manning. His teeth closed on the bit of grass between them and held it hard.

Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Any luck?” he asked.

“Bergen seven barrel—and Thompson about three, I guess. He set for a big school, but they got away—all but the tail end.... They’re running shy.”

“They’ve been bothered down below,” said Uncle William. “That’s why they’re here so early, like enough—It’s much as your life is worth—being a mackerel these days—Steve get any?”

Manning shook his head. “He started out—soon as Uncle Noah give the word—Uncle Noah ’d been up on the cliffs since daylight, you know—smelled ’em comin’, I guess.” Manning smiled.

Uncle William nodded. “He’s part mackerel, anyway, Noah is—Went out, I suppose?”

“Everybody went—except me.” The young man’s eye was gloomy. “That’s a big school.” His hand moved toward the harbor and the reddish bit of dusk glinting on it.

“Too late tonight,” said Uncle William. He felt in his pockets—“Now, where ’d I put that paper—must ’a’ left it inside—You go look, George—a kind o’ crumpled up paper—with figgers on it.” He felt again in his pocket and the young man went obediently toward the door.

Uncle William’s eye sought Benjy’s. “It ’ll take him quite a few minutes to find it, I reckon,” he said placidly.

“Isn’t it there?”

“Well—it’s there if it’s anywheres, I guess—” His eye returned to the water. “It’s a dretful pity George can’t go—He’s just aching to—You can see that plain enough—”

“He ’ll make more money,” said Bodet decisively, “—working on my house.”

“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’bout that—He ’d make a good many hunderd out there—” Uncle William motioned to the harbor, “a good many hunderd—if he had luck—”

“He ’ll make a good many hundred on the house. It’s steady work—and sure pay,” said Bodet.

Uncle William smiled. “I reckon that’s what’s the matter with it—The ’s suthin’ dretful unsatisfyin’ about sure pay.” Bodet smiled skeptically.

“You don’t understand about mackerel, Benjy, I guess—the mackerel feelin’.” Uncle William’s eye rested affectionately on the water.... “The’s suthin’ about it—out there—” He waved his hand—“Suthin’ ’t keeps sayin’, ’Come and find me—Come and find me—’ kind o’ low like. Why, some days I go out and sail around—just sail around. Don’t ketch anything—don’t try to, you know—just sail right out.... You ain’t ever felt it, I guess?”

Benjy shook his head.

“I kind o’ knew you hadn’t.... You’ve al’ays had things—had ’em done for ye—on dry land—It’s all right... and you’ve got things—” Uncle William looked at him admiringly, “Things ’t George and me won’t ever get, like enough.” He smiled on him affectionately, “But we wouldn’t swap with ye, Benjy.”

“Wouldn’t swap what?” asked Bodet. His little laugh teased the words—“You haven’t got anything—as far as I see—to swap—just a sense that there’s something you won’t ever get.”

Uncle William nodded. “That’s it, Benjy! You see it—don’t you?—Suthin’ ’t I can’t get—can’t ever get,” he looked far out over the water... “and some day I’ll sail out there and ketch—twenty barrel, like enough—and bring ’em in, and it’s all hurrah-boys down ’t the dock—and sayin’ ’How many ’d you get?’ and ’How ’d you do it?’ and runnin’ and fussin’—and then, come along toward night, and it ’ll get kind o’ big and dark out there... and I’ll forget all about the twenty barrel and about gettin’ money for ’em sensible—I’ll just want to heave ’em out and go again.” Uncle William paused—drawing a big sigh from some deep place.... “That’s the way George feels, I reckon.... If he stays and works on your house, Benjy—’twon’t be because he wants money.”

The young man appeared in the door—“I can’t find any paper in here,” he said. There was a little note of defiance in the words and the color in his face was dear scarlet.

Uncle William looked at him quizzically. “Maybe you didn’t look in the right place, Georgie,” he said. “We’re coming right in, anyway.”

In the clear, soft dusk of the room Celia’s face had a dancing look. She stood by the sink, her dish towel caught across her arm and her chin lifted a little as if she were listening to something pleasant—that no one had said. She turned away—hanging up the towel and brushing off the top of the stove with emphatic little movements and a far-away face.

“Now, maybe I left that figgering up to Benjy’s.” Uncle William glanced casually about him. “You sit down, George, and I’ll look around a little for it.” He fumbled with some papers by the window and went into the bedroom and came out, humming gently to himself. He glanced at the two men who sat on the red lounge—The younger one had drawn some lines on a scrap of paper and was leaning forward talking earnestly—his hat on the floor beside him and his hair pushed carelessly back. He had forgotten the room—and Uncle William—and all the little movements that danced. His fingers moved with the terse, short words, drawing new lines on the paper and crossing them out and drawing new ones.

Uncle William’s placid face held no comment. “‘D you see a piece of paper, Celia!” he asked, “—a kind of crumpled-up piece!”

She shook her head. Her eyes were on the two figures on the lounge and on Juno, who rose and stretched herself, drawing her feet together and yawning high and opening her pink-curved tongue. “I left some scraps for her—on the plate by the sink,” said Celia in a low voice. She untied her apron and hung it by the door. Then she put on her hat and a light jacket and stood looking about her—as if there might be something in the red room—something that would keep her a minute longer.

“Set down, Celia,” suggested Uncle William.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. She moved a little, toward the door.

Uncle William bustled about and knocked down the tongs and three or four sticks of wood, and picked them up. He grumbled a little. Bodet looked up, with a smile. “What’s the matter, William!”

Manning got to his feet, crowding the scrap of paper into his pocket, “I’ll have to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

“Why, yes—’tis kind o’ late—” assented Uncle William: “Gets late dretful early, these days.... If you’re going right along, George, you might’s well walk along with Celia—so ’s ’t the’ won’t anything happen to her—”

“I don’t need anyone,” said the girl quickly, “I’ve got my lantern.” She held it out.

The young man searched for his hat.

“I don’t need any company,” repeated the girl. She passed quickly from the open door and vanished.

George stood up, gazing after her light flickering on the path. He had found his hat and was twirling it in stiff slow fingers.

“Run along, George,” said Uncle William kindly. “You can ketch her, easy.”

“I don’t run after any girl,” said George. There was a deep glint in his eye.

Uncle William looked at it and then at the lantern, flicking and dancing on the path. He stepped to the door. “O-ho! Celia!” he called sternly.

The light wavered a little and paused and danced.... Then it went on.

Uncle William stepped out into the night. “Cel-i-a!” he called and his big voice boomed over the rocks. The lantern stopped. It came back—with little wavering steps and halted before him.

“What ’d you go running off like that for?”

Her face, above the lantern, was demure. “I didn’t run,” she said.

“Well, you might jest as well ’a’ run—I wanted you to take suthin’ for me.” Uncle William was feeling about in the darkness by the door.

“Oh—I didn’t know—” Her voice was very contrite now, and meek.

“I didn’t suppose you knew—but you could ’a’ waited.... Here they be!” He dragged forward a heavy sack of potatoes and untied the neck—“I told Harr’et I’d send her down a mess of new potatoes for breakfast,” he said. He dipped into the sack with generous hand—filling a basket that stood by the door.

The girl looked at it with round eyes.

“You ’d just as lives carry it along, wouldn’t you, Celia?”

She reached out her hand and lifted it a little. Then she looked at him.

“Like enough you need a little help with it,” said Uncle William wickedly. “Oh—George—” he stepped to the door. “You just give Celia a lift with this basket, won’t you!—It’s a little mite heavy for her.”

The young man appeared in the door. He lifted the basket with decisive hand and held out the other—“I’ll take that lantern,” he said.

She hesitated an instant—holding it a little behind her. Then she gave it up. “I can carry lanterns well enough.”

“I’ll take it,” replied George. He strode away over the rocks and she followed with little tripping steps that half ran to keep up.

Uncle William, standing by the open door, followed the flicker of the lantern with benignant eye—Then he went into the house. “Sent Harr’et quite a mess of potatoes,” he said comfortably.

Benjy looked at him. “—Not the new ones,” he said quickly.

Uncle William nodded. “I kind o’ felt as if suthin’ had to be sent to Harr’et, and that bag of potatoes was the fust thing I laid hold of.” He chuckled a little. “She ’ll be some s’prised, I guess—s’prised and pleased—Harr’et will—to get a new mess of potatoes and all—and not having to pay for ’em, or anything,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.