THE group on the beach went swiftly toward the dock, Uncle William’s lantern leading the way and swinging toward the end. He leaned over toward the boat in the mysterious light, “What ’d you ketch, Georgie?”

The young man looked up and a rope swirled through the air—“Twenty-six-seven barrel,” he said easily.

A shout went up from the dock, broken sounds, bits of scoffing disbelief that piled down into the boat and shouted back and made a marvel of the catch.

Uncle William, with his big smile, moved back along the wharf—looking for someone.... He went toward the beach, swinging his lantern—far in the distance, towards Andy’s, something flitted, and paused, and went on, and drifted past the horizon, out of sight. Uncle William’s eye followed it, smiling. “Cur’us the way women is—running after ye, one minute—till you’re most scared—and then.”... He waved his lantern at the misty, moonlit hill, where the little figure flitted toward the sky. He shook his head.... Out at the end of the wharf there was calling and creaking, and the thumping of barrels and blocks of ice. Uncle William watched them a minute—then he turned toward the cliff. “What he ’ll need more ’n anything’s a good hot meal,” he said. He climbed to the little house and opened the door cautiously. Bodet, across the room, glanced at him. “He’s come,” he said.

“Yes, he’s come.” Uncle William bustled about, getting out the kettle. “I thought mebbe you ’d be in bed.” He placed the kettle on the stove and went over to the cupboard.

“In bed?” Bodet laughed—“I came up to get my coat. I don’t go to bed tonight—not while things are stirring down there.”

Uncle William turned his head to listen—Sounds of thumping came up faintly. “‘Tis interesting,” he said. “The’s times when it seems’s if more things was happening on this island than anywheres in the world—big things, you know.... Where do you s’pose Celia put that fish?” He peered under a bowl and brought out a piece of pie and looked at it fondly and set it on the table and went back.

“You might look down cellar,” suggested Bodet.

With a sigh, Uncle William took up his lantern, and lifted a trap door in the floor. “I most hoped it wa ’n’t down cellar,” he said. He put his foot on the steep ladder and disappeared in inches.... He emerged triumphant. “The’s quite a lot o’ things down there—I didn’t know where she kep’ ’em.”

“Just as lief you didn’t,” said Bodet.

Uncle William chuckled. “She looks after me putty well. I don’t believe I’ve over e’t once since she come!” He surveyed the table.

“You going to make coffee?” asked Bodet.

Uncle William looked at him. “You ’d like some, wouldn’t you, Benjy?”

“I shouldn’t object,” said Bodet, “—if you’re making it.”

“Well, I might’s well make some—’twon’t take long—if you ’ll go fetch a pail of water.”

Benjy laughed and took up the pail. Uncle William watched him benignantly. “—And you might kind o’ holler to George—tell him to come up when he’s done.”

“All right.” Bodet departed with his pail and Uncle William pottered about, singing a little, a kind of rolling chant, and grinding coffee—measuring it with careful eye.... “She couldn’t ’a’ run faster if the ’d been snakes after her.” He chuckled into the coffee pot and looked up—Benjy had come in. “He says he ’ll be right up,” he said, finding a place for his pail on the sink.

“I’d better hurry,” said Uncle William. He made coffee and cut bread and served the fish, with accustomed hand. “The’s suthin’ about cooking your own things,” he said, “I do’ ’no’ what ’t is—Hallo, George!” he looked up. “Come right in. We’re all ready for ye.”

They drew up to the table and Uncle William beamed on them. “Seems like old times, don’t it!—Help yourself, George—You made a putty big catch—!”

“Pretty fair,” said the young man with a twinkle.

“What ’ll they figger up?” asked Uncle William.

“Twenty-nine barrel—on ice—” responded Manning.

Uncle William’s eye sought Bodet. “That ’ll give you two thousand dollar—putty near—?”

“I’m counting on twenty-three hundred—if I take them over myself.”

“When are you coming back?” asked Bodet quickly.

The young man turned to him—“Back here?”

“Back to my house?”

“You can’t have him yet awhile,” said William.

Bodet shrugged his shoulders. “Gunnion’s a fool!” he said.

“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d say that.” Uncle William considered—“He’s colorblind, mebbe, but he’s got sense.”

Benjy looked at him—“Do you mean to tell me that man can’t tell color?” he said sternly.

“He can tell some colors,” said Uncle William, “I forget just which they be—but if you happen to strike ’em, he can tell ’em—good as anybody.”

“I didn’t happen to strike them,” said Bodet dryly—“I want you,” he said. He was looking at George.

Uncle William leaned back in his chair. “You comin’ back, Georgie?” he asked.

“Give me three more days and I’m with you,” said the young man. He rose and took up his hat. “I’m off now—Thank you for the supper, Uncle William.” He was gone and they heard his leaping feet on the rocky path.

Uncle William looked at Bodet. “I reckon you better let him go, Benjy?”

“I don’t see that I have any choice in the matter,” said Bodet. He had pushed back from the table and was looking about him, a little fretfully. “We sha ’n’t get done by Christmas—the rate we’re going now,” he added.

Uncle William looked at him. “What makes you in such a hurry, Benjy—?”

“Hurry!—Christmas—!” said Benjy. There was a little sniff in the air.

“What you going to do with your house when you get it done!” asked Uncle William casually.

Benjy stared at him. “I’m going to live in it,” he said with emphasis. “—Providence permitting.”

“I’ve been kind o’ thinking about that,” said Uncle William slowly, “—whilst you’ve been hurrying—Seems to me maybe ’twon’t be near so much fun living in your house as ’tis building.... I’ve got a sight of comfort out of building your house,” he added gently.

Bodet looked at him. “You ’d get comfort out of an earthquake, William.”

“They’re interesting,” admitted Uncle William, “I’ve been in ’em—three of ’em—little ones, you know.” He gazed before him.

“I’d rather be in three quakes—three big ones—than build on this Island,” said Bodet firmly.

Uncle William’s gaze broke. He pushed up his spectacles and leaned forward. “That’s just where ’tis, Benjy. It’s different—on the Island. When you’ve lived here a spell, you don’t want to finish things up lickety-cut, and then set down and look at the water.... You kind o’ spin ’em out and talk about ’em—paint one end, mebbe, and go out fishin’ or suthin’—not paint the other for fo-five months, like enough—not ever paint it.” He beamed on him.

Bodet moved restlessly. “Did you ever do any painting with Gunnion!” he demanded.

Uncle William’s smile deepened. “I’ve painted with him—yes... ’tis kind o’ fiddlin’ work, painting with Jim Gunnion.” He pushed back the dishes and rested his arms on the table—“This is the way I see it, Benjy.... I woke up the other night—along in the night—and got to thinkin’ about it. We ’d have a real good time buildin’ your house if you wa ’n’t so kind o’ pestered in your mind. You see—the’s you and me and George and Gunnion—and Andy some days—and we could visit along whilst we was working—have real good times.... Like enough the boys ’d sing some—they most al’ays do sing when they’re building on the Island—Sounds nice, when you’re out on the water to hear ’em—two or three hammers goin’, and singin’... I don’t believe they’ve done much singin’ on your house, Benjy?” He looked at him inquiringly.

“I don’t believe they have,” said Bodet.

His face was thoughtful. “They might have got along faster if they had sung,” he added. He looked up with a little smile.

Uncle William nodded. “I do’ ’no’s they ’d ’a’ got along any faster—but you ’d ’a’ liked buildin’ better. The’s suthin’ about it—” Uncle William gazed about the little red room—“suthin’ about the Island—when you’re settin’ up nights and the wind’s a-screeching and howling and the waves poundin’, down on the beach.... You get to thinking about how snug the boys made her, and you kind o’ remember ’em, up on the roof, and how the sun kept shining and the sou’-west wind blowing and the boys singing.... It all seems different, somehow.” Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it.

Bodet took up his hat. “I think I’ll go down to the beach,” he said soberly.

Uncle William’s eye followed him.

“You don’t think I’m scoldin’ ye, Benjy, do you?”

Bodet paused beside him and laid a hand on the great shoulder. “I’d rather have you scold me, William, than have any other man I know praise me.”

Uncle William’s mouth remained open a little and the smile played about it. “I do’ ’no’ why you say that, Benjy. I ain’t any different from anybody—’cept’t I’m fond of ye,” he added.

“You’re fond of everybody,” declared Bodet laughing.

Uncle William’s face grew guilty. “There’s Harr’et,” he said slowly. “Some days I can’t even abide Harr’et!”

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