Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 10

He made friends as he moved among the throngs of hurrying men and women.

Men who never saw him again recalled his face sometimes at night, as they wakened for a minute from sleep. The big smile reached to them across time and gave them a sense of the goodness of life before they turned again and slept.

If he had been a little man, Uncle William would still have run hither and thither through the crowd, a kind of gnome of usefulness. But his great frame gave him advantage. He was like a mountain among them--with the breath of winds about it--or some huge, quiet engine at sea, making its way with throbbing power.

If the thought of the artist crossed Uncle William's mind, it did not disturb him. He was accustomed to do what he called his duty; and it had for him the simplicity, common to big men, of being the thing next at hand. Like a force of nature he laid hold on it, and out of the ground and the sky and the thrill of life, he wrought beauty upon it. If this were philosophy or religion, Uncle William did not know it. He called it "jest livin' along."

It was ten o'clock before he reached the artist's rooms, and his rap at the door, gentle as a woman's, brought no response. He rapped again.

"What's wanted?" It was the querulous voice of a sick man.

Uncle William set the door ajar with his foot while he reached behind him for his box.

The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the dim light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white.

Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. "There, there," he said soothingly. "I guess I'd lie down." He put his hands on the young man's shoulders, pus.h.i.+ng him back gently.

The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Who--are--you?" he said. The words were a whisper.

Uncle Williams' smile deepened. "I guess ye know _me_ all right, don't ye?"

The artist continued to stare at him. "You came through the door. It was locked."

"Shucks, no!" said Uncle William. "'T wa'n't locked any more'n I be. You jest forgot it."

"Did I?" The tense look broke. "I thought you had come again."

"Well, I hev."

"I don't mean that way. Sit down." He looked feebly for a chair.

Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending forward a little. One big hand rested on the young man's wrist. "Now, tell me all about it," he said quietly.

The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath.

"Yes--you've come," he said. "You've come."

"I've come," said Uncle William. His big bulk had not stirred. It seemed to fill the room.

The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. "I've wanted--you."

Uncle William nodded. "Sick folks get fancies," he said.

"--and I kept seeing you in the fever--and you--" The voice droned away and was still.

Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping pulse slowed--and leaped again--and fluttered, and fell at last to even beats.

The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a half-smile.

Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room, his face had a kind of gentleness--a kindliness and bigness that watched over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the earth.

X

In the morning the big form was still there. The artist turned to it as he opened his eyes. "You are not gone!"

"Gone? Land, no!" Uncle William sat up from a cat-nap, rubbing his eyes and blinking a little. "I cal'ate to stay quite a spell yet." He stretched his great legs slowly, first one and then the other, as if testing them.

Reproach filled the artist's eyes. "You've not lain down all night!"

"Didn't need to," said Uncle William. He got to his feet briskly. "I slep' a good deal comin' down in the boat. There wa'n't a great deal goin' on. If you've got a little water and soap handy, I reckon I could use it."

The artist half started to get up, but a firm hand held him back. "Now, stay right there. You jest tell me where things be--"

He pointed to a door at the left. "You won't find it in very good order, I'm afraid."

"Don't you mind." Uncle William had disappeared through the doorway. "It won't bother me a mite." His voice came back sociably. "I'm considabul ust to havin' things mussed up."

The artist lay with a smile, listening to the sounds that came through the half-open door--thumping and blowing and splas.h.i.+ng.

Uncle William reappeared with s.h.i.+ning face. "It seems good to hev suthin' bigger'n a teacup to wash in," he said. "I like the hull ocean, myself, but a tub does putty well. Now, jest let me see."

He drew up to the bed, looking at the young man with keen glance.

"Oh, I'm all right--now."

"Had a fever?"

"A little--yes."

"You all alone?"

"There's a man comes in by and by. He'll clean up and get things for me."

Uncle William ignored the pride in the tone. "Jest roll over a little mite. There--" He placed his broad hand under the thin back. "Feel sore there? Kind o' hurts, don't it? I thought so--There." He laid him back gently. "You jest wait a minute." He was fumbling at the lock that held his box.

"Are you a doctor?" The young man was watching him with half-amused eyes.

"Well, not a doctor exactly." Uncle William had taken out a small bottle and was holding it up to the light, squinting through it. "But I had a fever once, myself--kep' a-runnin'." He had come over to the bedside, the bottle in his hand. "You got a doctor?"

The young man shook his head. "He will come if I send for him."

Uncle William nodded. "That's the best kind." He held out the bottle.

"I'd like to give you 'bout five on 'em."

"What are they?"

"Well, that's what I don't know, but it took about five on 'em to break up mine." He had poured one into the palm of his hand and held it out.