THE large man came softly along the beach, treading with light, smooth steps.

Uncle William, mending his net, did not look up.

The man paused beside him, and looked about—with pleased, expansive eye.

Uncle William’s glance rested on him.

The man looked down. “Good morning, Mr. Benslow—I’ve come back, you see.”

“I see ye,” said Uncle William.

The man filled his chest. “I’ve come to see how they’re getting on—over at my place. I bought a small piece, of Halloran, you know—You heard about it, I presume?”

“Andy said suthin’ about your wantin’ to buy of him,” said Uncle William discreetly.

“Yes, I bought his house and what land goes with it. It’s small—but there didn’t seem to be much land for sale around here—” He dropped a casual eye in Uncle William’s direction.

Uncle William’s face was placid.

“I’m building a little,” said the man.

“So I heard tell,” said Uncle William.

“It’s a great place,” said the man. His chest expanded a little more. “I shall advertise, of course, and I expect a good class of patrons for this place.” He balanced himself on his toes and looked down on Uncle William benignantly.

Uncle William went on mending his net. His blue eyes squinted at the meshes and his big arms moved hack and forth in even rhythm.

The man looked down at him doubtfully. Then he found a nail keg—a stout one—and sat down. “I want to be on good terms with my neighbors, Mr. Benslow,” he said genially. He was leaning forward a little, toward Uncle William, one arm resting on his knee and the hand spread out toward him.

Uncle William looked at it a minute. Then he pushed up his spectacles and looked out to sea. “The’ ain’t many neighbors round here,” he said, “—jest me and Benjy—and Andy.”

“That’s what I meant,” said the man, “only I’m the neighbor now instead of—Hallo!—There’s Halloran himself. I want to speak to him,” He rose cautiously from his keg and motioned to Andy who was disappearing behind a pile of lumber down on the dock.

Andy came out, a little grudgingly, it seemed, and the man moved forward to meet him.

Uncle William went on mending his net.

When the man returned his face had a reddish look and his voice was a little controlled and stiff. “Halloran tells me you’ve put an injunction on my work up there?” He moved his hand toward the cliff.

Uncle William held up his net and squinted at it. “We-l-l,” he said slowly, “we told ’em they better not do any more building—not till you come.” He looked at him mildly.

There was silence on the beach. The galls sailed overhead and the waves lapped softly, rippling up and back, with little salt washes. Uncle William looked about him with contented gaze. “We don’t really need a hotel on the Island, Mr. Carter—not really,” he said slowly.

The man looked at him a moment. Then he sat down on the keg, adjusting his weight nicely. “I understand your feeling, Mr. Benslow, I understand it perfectly—and it’s natural. But you don’t foresee, as I do, what a hotel will do for this Island. I’ve had experience in these matters, and I can tell you that in three years—” he looked about him proudly, “you wouldn’t know the place!”

Uncle William cast a quick glance at the cliff—“I don’t suppose I should,” he said hastily.

“And as for values—” The man’s hand swept the horizon. “You could sell at your own price. I’m really doing you a favor, Mr. Benslow—” he leaned toward him, “if you had foresight.”

“Yes, I reckon it takes foresight,” said Uncle William. He looked at him mildly. “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—you can’t build no hotel—not up here. You can build down ’t the village, if you want to,” he added.

“In that hole—?” The man looked at him cynically. “Do you think anybody would board in that hole?”

“I shouldn’t want to myself,” admitted William, “but folks are different—some folks are different.”

The man rose to his feet. “I shall be sorry to have any ill feeling with you, Mr. Benslow. But you can’t expect me to sacrifice my plans—not unless you are willing to buy the place yourself.” He dropped a narrow eye on him for a minute.

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Uncle William cordially.

The man smiled a little. “What would you consider it worth?” he asked pleasantly.

“Well—” Uncle William considered, “I do’ ’no’ just what ’tis worth. We paid Andy two thousand for it.”

The man’s mouth looked at him for a minute, then it closed, in a little smile. “You mean you would pay that,” he suggested.

“I mean we did pay it,” said Uncle William stoutly, “—last week. An’ then I told ’em not to drive another nail, or I’d sue ’em!” He was sitting erect now and there was a little glint in the blue eyes. “Set down, Mr. Carter.” He motioned to the nail keg. “I might jest as well tell ye—plain out—so ’s ’t you can understand. Andy didn’t own that place. He ain’t owned it for years. He don’t own stock nor stone on the Island—Don’t own his own boat out there—” Uncle William nodded to the dark boat, rocking beside the Jennie. Andy, on the deck, was busy hauling up the sail and making ready to cast off. Uncle William’s eye rested on him, with a little humorous gleam. “You see, Andy, he got scared, fo-five years ago, ’bout his property. He’s a kind o’ near man, Andy is, and he got the idee he ’d make everything over to Harr’et—to have it safe. So that’s what he done. He give her a paper saying he ’d made it all over to her—everything. Nobody knew it, I guess—except me. And I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if it hadn’t been for one day, when we was out sailin’—We got to talking about one thing and another—and fust thing he knew, he ’d told me. He made me promise not to tell, and I ain’t told—not a soul—not till now.” Uncle William beamed on him. “I reckon ’twon’t do any harm now.”

The man’s gaze was fixed on him. “I shall see what the law has to say about it,” he said quietly.

“Well, I would if I was you,” said Uncle William cordially, “I did, when I bought my piece. I see a lawyer—a good one—and he said my deed wa ’n’t wuth the paper ’twas writ on if Harr’et didn’t give a quit-claim deed—So she give it.”

The man’s gaze was looking out to sea.

Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “It ain’t a just law—anybody can see it ain’t just! How was you going to know ’t Harr’et owns Andy? I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if we hadn’t been sailing that way. And you couldn’t ’a’ known it—You didn’t know,” said Uncle William with conviction.

The narrow eyes turned on him for a minute. “There’s such a thing as law,” he repeated.

“Law’s ticklish,” said Uncle William. “Far as I make out, the man that’s got the most money, beats—after a spell.”

There was silence again. “I suppose you know I paid Halloran five hundred down,” said the man.

“Yes, Andy told me about the five hundred down—and five hundred the first of the month.” Uncle William’s hand sought his pocket. “Andy give that five hundred to me. I reckon he kind o’ hated to hand it to ye.” Uncle William’s eye sought the dark boat that had lifted sail and was creeping out of the harbor. “I told him I’d just as lives give it to you as not—I’d be real glad.” He held out the roll of bills.

The man took them, in thick fingers, and counted them.

Uncle William watched him, with deep, detached eye—“I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Carter—You wouldn’t ever ’a’ been happy here on the Island—not really happy. You see, here on the Island, we gen’ally fish, or cut bait, or go ashore. You ’d like it better to go ashore.”

The man moved away a few steps. “To tell you the truth, I am glad to be out of it,” he said, “I was making your land altogether too valuable—and nothing in it for me.”

“That’s the way I felt,” said Uncle William cordially. “I don’t like things ’t I own to get too val’able. It makes a lot of bother owning ’em.... You ’ll just about get the boat—if you was thinkin’ of going today,” he suggested.

The man looked at him—then he smiled and held out his hand. “Good-by, Mr. Benslow. I think I know a gentleman—when I meet him.”

Uncle William rubbed his hand down his trouser leg and took the one that was held out. “Good-by, Mr. Carter. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again. You won’t be comin’ back to the Island, I suppose. But we ’ll buy your lumber—we can work it in somehow, I reckon.”

The man moved away, and Uncle William returned to his net. Now and then his eyes sought the little dark boat that sailed back and forth against the misty horizon—and a smile crept up to the eyes and lingered in them—a little smile of humor and gentleness and kindly pity and strength.

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