THERE was a gathering cloud in the air—brooding, like a storm. Uncle William looked up to it, then he went on dragging his dory down the beach to the water’s edge. A voice sailed through the air, and he paused and looked up. Benjy, coming down the rocky path, was signalling to him violently. Uncle William dropped the dory and stood up. He advanced up the beach and the two men faced each other. Great clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and down behind them the sea boomed.

“Have you heard what’s going on?” demanded Bodet. He was breathing a little grimly.

“I kind o’ got it out of Andy this morning,” admitted Uncle William.

Bodet looked at him in silence.

“I do’ ’no’ why I didn’t get the idee sooner,” went on Uncle William. “Their lumber must have been lying around here fo-five days, now. But you’ve had such a lot of stuff clutterin’ up the dock, that I didn’t take no notice. I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d ’a’ seen it this morning—only Andy looked so kind o’ queer and meachin’ down ’t the dock—that I said plain out to him, I said, ’What you been doing, Andy?’ An’ he had to tell me. He hated to—like pizen. Uncle William smiled a little. I told him he ’d been putty foolish,” he added slowly.

“Foolish!” Bodet fizzed. “It’s a crime! Building a hotel!—up there!” He waved his hand up over the great cliffs.

Uncle William looked up to them with kindly eye. “‘Tain’t a hotel—exactly—”

“Seventy-five rooms,” said Bodet.

“‘Tis a good many,” said Uncle William.

“Traipsing all over the place—I’ll shoot ’em,” said Bodet savagely.

“Shootin’ won’t do any good, Benjy.” Uncle William was mild. “I thought about shootin’ ’em myself—whilst I was bein’ mad this mornin’.”

“They sha ’n’t step on my land—nor yours,” said Bodet. “Do you think I’d have come up here—to the ends of the earth—to be tramped on?”

“Why, no, Benjy—an’ you ain’t goin’ to be tramped on.” Uncle William’s voice was soothing. “But, you see—they’ve got a right to go acrost your land, and across mine.”

Bodet looked at him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and put the handkerchief back. “What do you mean William?” he said.

“Set down, Benjy.” Uncle William found a convenient rock. “It’s in the deed. You see, Andy, he wanted it that way and I never thought much about it, one way or the other—I reckon he wouldn’t ever ’a’ sold it without,” Uncle William added slowly. “Anyway I give it to him, and it runs right by your place—near as I can make out. I’ve been kind o’ thinking about it since I found out.”

Benjy groaned a little.

“I know jest how you feel, Benjy.” Uncle William’s voice held a deep note in in it, “—about rusticators, and havin’ ’em go by your windows, all hours, day and night, a-gabbling and so kind o’ cheerful-like. I do’ ’no’ ’s I could stand it myself.”

“I’m not going to stand it,” said Bodet, “I’ll sell out—leave the Island.”

“Mebbe that’s what he wants—what he’s countin’ on,” said William slowly. Benjy glared at him.

“Don’t you worry, Benjy.” Uncle William looked out to sea where the big waves tumbled under the wind and the whitecaps gathered and bobbed and rode high—“Don’t you holler ’fore you’re hurt. The’ ain’t anybody gone past your windows yet.... I’m figgerin’ on it,” went on Uncle William, “an’ I can’t stan’ it, no more ’n you can—to have ’em a-settin’ on the beach here—” Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly. “‘Twouldn’t be the same place—if I’d got to look up, any minute, and see two-three of ’em settin’, or kind o’ gettin’ into the boats, and squealin’.... It’s partly the clo’es, I reckon,” said Uncle William after a minute, “—the women’s things like men’s—and the men’s like women’s. Can’t tell which from ’tother, half the time. Look up, and see a hat and coat and shoes, mebbe, and think it’s a man and get your mind all fixed for a man—and it turns into a woman.... There was a young man over to Pie Beach one summer,” said Uncle William slowly, “that had a green veil onto his hat. I’d hate to have a young man with a green veil a-settin’ on my beach.”

Bodet snorted.

Uncle William cast a mild eye at him. “They’re nice folks, too—some of ’em,” he said conscientiously, “and they’re always polite. They talk to me real kind—and encouraging.” His eyes rested on the dark horizon line beyond the tumbling waves. “But the’s suthin’ queer about the way I feel when I’m talking with ’em. They’re polite and I’m polite—real polite, for me. But sometimes, when we’re a-settin’ here—as close as you be—and talkin’ real comfortable, I get to feelin’ ’s if I was alongside a chasm—kind of a big, deep place like—and standin’ on tiptoe, shouting to ’em.” Uncle William wiped his forehead. “I gen’ally go out and sail a spell after I’ve talked to ’em,” he added. Bodet laughed ont.

Uncle William smiled. “Now, don’t you mind, Benjy. I’m figgerin’ on it. I reckon we ’ll manage to live along—somehow.”

“The place is his,” said Bodet, “bought and paid for—”

“A thousand dollars,” said Uncle William.

Bodet looked at him—then he groaned softly. “And he ’ll use your land, and mine, for a door-yard—and the beach for a sand-pile. All he needs is land enough to build his hotel on—and he’s got it.”

“Yes, he’s got it,” admitted William, “and they must have quite a piece of building done, by this time—They’re adding on and raising up, Andy said.” Uncle William got to his feet. “I reckon I’ll go take a look at it.” He glanced at the harbor. “No kind o’ day to fish—George Manning working?” he asked casually.

“Yes—he’s working.” Bodet’s tone was a little stiff.

“Um-m—” Uncle William moved off a little distance. He drew his dory up the beach, and pottered about a little. “I was just going out to see to the Jennie,” he said. “But she’s all right—and mebbe it ’ll blow over.” He looked up at the sky. “I o’t to get some things down ’t the store—” He felt in his pockets. “You got any money, Benjy?”

Benjy shook his head. “I can give you a cheque if you want it.” There was a little, quizzical smile with the words.

Uncle William paused, his hand half drawn from his pocket—a light filled his face, and a little laugh. “That ’ll do, Benjy—that ’ll do fust-rate,” he said.

Bodet drew out his cheque book and opened it. “How much do you want!” he asked.

Uncle William paused. He looked at the cliffs, and at the sky—“I might want a considabul,” he said slowly—“Couldn’t you just sign your name down there, Benjy, the way you do, and let me get what I need?”

Bodet looked at him a minute. Then he signed the cheque and handed it to him—a little smile in his eyes. “Tell me what you make it,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” said Uncle William cordially. “I’d tell you now—only I don’t know how much it ’ll cost—what I’m going to buy.” He moved off up the beach.

At the foot of the cliff he paused and looked back. “Mebbe I’ll see Harriet,” he said. “Her temper ain’t good. But she’s firm, and she’s got sense.”

Bodet shook his head. “The thing is tied tight, William. I looked into it before I came down.”

“‘D you see Moseley?” said William. “He could tell ye. He knows the Island—and everybody on it.”

“Yes, I saw him. He said the papers were drawn and signed—two weeks ago—in his office. You’re not dealing with Andy—this time, William.”

“I guess I’ll go see Harr’et,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “And don’t you worry, Benjy. The’ ain’t nobody going to set on your land without you want ’em to—it ain’t right—and it ain’t goin’ to be.”

Uncle William smiled—a great, reassuring smile—and mounted the zigzag path to the cliff. For a minute his figure loomed against the sky at the top. Then it disappeared over the edge, headed toward Andy’s house.