Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 27

"You come on up to supper, Andy. We can talk it over whilst we're eatin'."

Andy looked down at his clothes. "I'm all dirt."

Uncle William surveyed him impartially. "Ye ain't any dirtier 'n ye al'ays be."

"I dunno's I be," admitted Andy.

"Well, you come right along, and after supper we'll all turn to and help you clean."

The artist looked up as they entered. "How are you, Andy? The fish are running great to-day."

Andy grinned feebly. "I've heard about it," he said. He drew up to the table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, glancing now and then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite side of the table. It was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a little resentment grazing the edges of it.

XXIII

The noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was in the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling the surface of the water. The artist, from his perch on the rock, looked out over it with kindling eye.

His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the water, and the scudding breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl held his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished in swift delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over--to wait for.

Some day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it could slip away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke--he would wait. His eye wandered to the horizon.

A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It was Uncle William, puffing a little and warm. "h.e.l.lo." He climbed up and seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun.

"I reckoned I'd find ye here. Been doin' her?" He nodded toward the horizon.

The artist looked into the distance with puzzled eyes. "Her?" He put the word doubtingly.

Uncle William glanced at him sharply. "Don't you see nuthin' over there?" He waved a huge arm at the horizon.

The artist looked again and shook his head slowly. "I see a color I'd give my eyes to get."

Uncle William chuckled a little. "Reckon they ain't wuth much to ye."

His hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small spy-gla.s.s. He slipped the parts into place and adjusted it to his eye.

"There!" He handed it to the young man. "See if that'll help ye any."

The young man took it, looking out over the bay. "Yes, I see her now.

She's a schooner." He put down the gla.s.s. "Do you mean to say you can see that with the naked eye?"

"Al'ays could." Uncle William held out his hand again for the gla.s.s. "I don't make her out a schooner, though."

"She's two-masted."

"Yes." Uncle William's eye was glued to the gla.s.s. "But she's lighter built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, like enough. You can see her walk--same as if she was a lady--a-bowin' and bobbin'." He laid down the gla.s.s, a look of pleasure in his face. "She's comin' right in, whoever she is. She'll drop anchor by noon-time." He glanced at the easel. "You been paintin'?"

"Trying to."

"'Bout a thousand dollars' wuth, I s'pose?"

"Not ten cents' worth."

"Sho, now! Is that so?" He got up and looked down at the canvas, bending above it like some genial giraffe. He straightened himself, smiling.

"'Tis kind o' dobby," he admitted. "Mebbe you'll do better to-morrow."

"Maybe. Was there a letter for me?"

The old man shook his head. "Nary letter.--I reckon 't ain't time yet,"

he added consolingly.

The young man looked gloomily at the water. "She must be ill."

"Busy, more likely," said Uncle William.

"It's been six weeks."

"You're feelin' putty well," said Uncle William.

"I shall go down to-morrow," said the young man. He had begun to gather up his brushes. The hands that lifted them were firm and strong. A clear color ran beneath the tan of his face.

Uncle William watched him with a little smile. "I dunno's I'd go to-morrow. You could go next week if you don't hear nuthin'."

"I shall go to-morrow. I've been a fool to wait so long."

Uncle William's eye twinkled. "You've been gettin' well," he said.

"I'm well now."

"Yes, you're--h.e.l.lo, there's Andy." He leaned over the edge of the cliff. "What d'ye make her?" he called down.

Andy squinted at the distance. "Coaster," he announced.

"Come up here and take a look at her."

Andy climbed slowly up the cliff. "Got your gla.s.s?" He took it and fixed the moving speck. "'T ain't a coaster," he muttered. "What you folks been doin' all the mornin'?"

"Well, I've been for the mail and some things, and Mr. Woodworth here he's been paintin'."

Andy cast a side glance at the easel. Then he gazed fixedly at the bay.

He seated himself on a rock. "It's time for me to go home," he said.

No one paid any attention to it--Andy least of all. He sat with one leg swinging over the other, chewing a bit of gra.s.s and staring gloomily out to sea. The look of baffled humility in his face made it almost tragic.

The artist fell to sketching it under cover of his hand. Uncle William studied the approaching boat. "She's never been in these waters afore,"

he announced. "She's comin' in keerful." No one replied. Andy stared at fate and the artist worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the gla.s.s. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the young man, who was working with serene touch--oblivious to the bay.

Uncle William looked through the gla.s.s again--a long, slow look. Then he slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. "Comin' in to dinner, Andy?"

Andy looked up mildly. "I reckon Harr'et's waitin' for me." He got slowly to his feet. "You've got another done, I s'pose?" He glanced enviously at the easel.

The artist laughed out. "Want to see it?" He withdrew his hand.