A NDY stepped up the road, a sombre look in his face. Now and then he cast an eye at the mouth of the harbor where the mackerel fleet sailed. Then he strode on with stately step. He had been fishing for a week and had caught nothing—twice his net had been hung up on the rocks and yesterday the dog-fish had run it through—and Harr’et’s temper was worn thin.... He looked his grievance at the horizon.

Harriet had been firm. If he could not fish, he should paint, and Bodet was offering three-fifty a day. She had rented the boat, over his head—his boat—and she had talked about Jonah, and had sent him out of the house—with his paint brushes!

Andy fizzed a little and stepped higher and looked ahead up the road.

A figure, seated in the sunshine, was making strange pantomimic gestures with a paint brush. Andy stopped a minute to look at it—then he came steadily on.

Uncle William looked up and nodded. “Hello, Andy—goin’ to help?”

“Guess so,” said Andy. He glared at the harbor.

Uncle William spatted his brush along the rock and dipped it again in the tin can beside him.

“What you doin’.” asked Andy.

Uncle William squinted at the brush and rubbed it thoughtfully back and forth—a deep red smudge followed it. “Kind o’ getting my brush ready,” he said.

Andy sniffed. “Bodet inside?”

“Why, yes—he’s there—” Uncle William hesitated—“Yes—he’s there—”

He drew a long flourish of red on the rock and looked at it approvingly.

“It ’ll take you an hour to get that brush clean,” said Andy.

“Do ye think so?” Uncle William beamed. “That’s just about what I cal’-lated—an hour.”

“I’m going to work,” said Andy virtuously. He moved toward the house.

Uncle William cast an eye at him. “I do’ ’no’s I’d go in, Andy, if I was you—not just yet.”

“Why not?” He wheeled about.

“Well—” Uncle William hesitated a second—and looked at the little clouds and the big moor, “I don’t think Benjy’s ready,” he said, “not just ready.”

“What’s he doing?” asked Andy.

“Kind o’ stewin’,” said Uncle William, “He’s got suthin’ on his mind—about paint.”

“Come—ain’t it!” Andy’s eye was curious.

“Yes—it’s come—loads of it has come—” Uncle William drew the brush thoughtfully back and forth, making little red dabs along the rock. “The’s a good many kinds—and colors—and sizes—piled up in there—but the’ ain’t any of ’em what Benjy wants.” He lifted his brush with a flourish.

“What does he want, then!”

“I do’ ’no ’s I can tell ye—exactly, Andy.” Uncle William gazed at the harbor. “Benjy knows—somewheres in his mind—but he can’t seem to find it on dry land.” Uncle William chuckled.... “Gunnion’s mixin’ ’em, you know.”

Andy nodded.

“An’ he’s got a green mixed up in there—that’s along kind o’ east by no’-east, I should think.... An’ what Benjy wants, far’s I make out, is a green that’s kind o’ no’-east by east.” Uncle William chuckled again.... “Jim puts in the color, you know, and daubs some of it on a stick they’ve got there—and Benjy looks at it and says, no—’twon’t do—needs more yellow or suthin’—and Jim chucks in a little yellow and then they both look at it and Benjy kind o’ hops around—swears some. I thought I’d come out and do my brushes.”

“Gunnion’s a good painter,” said Andy.

“Well—yes—he can lay it on putty good.... But they ain’t got to layin’ on yet. I do’ ’no’s they ever will get to it,” said Uncle William thoughtfully—“It ’d be easier if Benjy knew a little how the colors are liable to act together, I guess—when you put ’em in.” Uncle William’s eye was reflective. “I reckon that’s what makes him lose his head so,” he said, “—he ain’t prepared in his mind for how Jim ’ll make them colors act together. You see, Jim—he puts in the yellow and Benjy peeks in the pail, expecting to see suthin’ kind o’ yellow and,’.tead o’ that, the thing’s turned blue—sort o’.”

“Like enough,” said Andy carelessly—“He ’d ought to know yellow and blue will run towards green,” he said contemptuously, “—anybody ’d know that.”

“Benjy don’t know it,” said Uncle William, with an accent of decision. “You can tell by the way he acts—lookin’ in the pail. You see he’s after a green that’s a little mite more on the yellow—so he says, proud as Punch, ’Put in more yellow,’ he says, and then—when he sees it—he says things.”

A voice sounded from the window and they turned around. Bodet stood in it, beaming at them and at the landscape. “Come on in and see the color we’ve got,” he said triumphantly.

Uncle William gathered up his brush and turpentine and they moved slowly toward the house.

Benjy waved them toward the stairs. “Go up and look,” he said.

Jim Gunnion, on the floor, was stirring a pot of paint with a stick. There was a set look in his face as he stirred.

Uncle William looked at him and winked. The look in Jim’s face moved a little.

“There’s a color for you!” said Bodet. He moved his hand proudly toward the door panel.

Uncle William put on his glasses and inspected it—“’.is a good color, Benjy,” he said cordially, “I’m glad ye held out—both of ye.”

Bodet, with his head thrown back, stared at the streak of old-fashioned green on the panel. The man on the floor stirred the pot of paint. Uncle William looked at them both with benignant eye.... “I reckon I’m all ready to begin.” He drew the paint brush down the leg of his trousers and looked at it inquiringly—“Putty clean,” he said with satisfaction. “Now, where ’ll you have me?”

The man on the floor handed him a pot of paint in silence and pointed to the mop-board. Uncle William sighed a little and let himself down. Andy, seizing another pail, attacked the unfinished panel. The painter went on mixing color. Benjy, over by the window, studied the harbor.

Presently he looked back into the room. “Fog’s setting in,” he said. Andy came across and looked out.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

Uncle William, from the floor, looked up. “They’ve had quite a spell of weather,” he said cheerfully, “and this ’ll give ’em a chance to rest up a little and overhaul their tackle....’.is too bad about George—I kind o’ reckoned he ’d ketch suthin’ today.” He got up and came to the window. A great blanket of white was moving toward them, over the water. All the little distant boats were hidden behind it.... “They ’ll hev to come in keerful,” said Uncle William. “I reckon I won’t paint any more today.” He laid his brush carefully along the top of the pail.

Andy looked at him and looked at his panel and hesitated. “You better stay here, Andy,” said Uncle William encouragingly. “You ’ll get quite a lot done if you stay.”

He went cheerfully out, and Benjamin, watching from the window, saw him enter the blanket of fog and disappear.