Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 28

Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin crept into this face, and spread. "You've made me look kind o' queer, hain't you?" He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face.

Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great nose. "It's Andy!" he said with shrewd delight. "It's Andy! And it's the spittin' image of him!" He pushed up the gla.s.ses, beaming upon Andrew.

Andrew returned the look somberly. "It's a good likeness, you think, do you?"

"Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn't be better." Uncle William laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "It looks jest as mean as you do--and jest as good, too, Andy."

Andy cast a glance at the young man. "How long was ye makin' it?"

"Half an hour, perhaps; while we've been sitting here."

Andy sighed heavily. "Wuth more'n I be, too, I reckon?"

The artist stared at him.

"I mean--" Andy was almost apologetic. "I know they come high--picters.

I don't suppose I could afford to buy it of ye--"

The artist's face lighted. "Do you want it?"

"Harr'et might,"--cautiously,--"if 't wa'n't too high. She's got an easel for it. She al'ays cal'ated to have me done, and she'd got as fur as the easel." His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. "Willum says it's a good likeness." He spoke with a kind of dubious pride.

"It _is_ good." The young man's eye rested on it affectionately. "It's a ripping good sketch--and you may have it and welcome."

Andy drew back a step. "You mean--"

"I'll give it to you, yes." The artist was holding it out laughingly.

"And some day you'll sit for me again. That'll be pay enough."

Andy rubbed his hands carefully on the sides of his trousers. He reached them out for the canvas. "It's kind o' wet," he said. "I'll have to hold it keerful." He took it in both hands, beaming upon it with a kind of somber joy. Carrying it at arm's-length, he bore it away over the rocks.

The artist watched the stern, angular figure loom against the sky and dip down over the cliff out of sight.

"I shall do a sketch of him some day that will make us famous," he said quietly.

"It's time for dinner," responded Uncle William.

XXIV

Uncle William set the table, with one eye on the harbor. As he pottered about with the bread and cheese and salmon, a smile widened his round face.

The artist looked up from the brushes he was cleaning at the door. "You look as happy as if you'd had a fortune left you," he said.

"Well, I'm considabul contented. I gen'ally am, ain't I?" he added quickly.

"So-so," admitted the young man. "You're s.h.i.+ftless, that's what's the matter with you."

Uncle William gave his long, low chuckle. "I guess I be," he said softly. "I guess I be. But I do take a sight o' comfort."

The young man finished the brushes and brought them in, standing them up in a quart cup. "Dinner ready?" he asked.

"I reckon it is." Uncle William scowled at the lavish table. "'Pears to me there's suthin' I've forgot. Oh, pickles!" He said it triumphantly.

"If you wouldn't mind takin' that plate, Mr. Woodworth, and goin' down cellar?"

"All right." The young man took the plate and disappeared down the ladder that served as a stairway to the tiny hole beneath.

Uncle William looked cautiously at the trap-door. Then he tiptoed to the window. He drew the gla.s.s from his pocket and pointed it at the harbor.

The boat had come to anchor just off the island. Uncle William fixed her with his gla.s.s. "Uh-huh, jest as I thought," he said softly.

A step sounded on the ladder and he shut the gla.s.s, thrusting it into his pocket and turning a bland, innocent face upon the room. "Does beat all how good pickles be with fish. Set 'em right there, Mr. Woodworth.

Now we're ready."

Uncle William's chair faced the window, and as he ate his eye dropped, now and then, to the bay below. Once it lighted with a swift gleam and he craned his neck a little.

"What is it?" asked the artist, half turning.

"Nuthin'," said Uncle William, hastily, "nuthin'. 'T ain't wuth turnin'

your head for. I'm al'ays seein' things. Get up in the night, like enough, and wander round the island, jest to see 'em. Go all over the island some nights. You see a good deal that way--fust and last: little critturs runnin' round, softlike, and the moon and stars--" Uncle William was talking against time. His eye had lost interest in the bay. It seemed to be fixed on the moon and stars. One ear was turned expectantly toward the door.

The artist watched him with an amused smile. He never interrupted one of Uncle William's monologues.

"I've spent a good deal o' my life," went on Uncle William, "lookin'

round at things."

The gravel crunched outside.

The artist started.

Uncle William turned a little. "Andy, like enough," he said. He rose and went leisurely toward the door.

The figure of a tall man stood in it, surveying the room.

Uncle William's smile broke into radiance. It crinkled his eyes and nose and mouth. "I said 't was you." He held out a big hand, and drew the man into the room, peering behind him. A little look of disappointment came over his face. "You all alone?" he demanded.

"I am at present," said the man, smiling. "I left a friend on the beach below. I wasn't sure how I should find you." His courteous glance took in the young man.

Uncle William turned quickly. "It's Mr. Curie," he said, "the one that bought your picters. And he's left somebody--a friend--down below. Mebbe you wouldn't mind stepping down and fetchin' 'em up."

"Of course." The young man rose, holding out a hand. "I'm glad to meet you, sir. I shall be back in a minute. I'll bring him right up." His step rang quick on the rock outside.

The two old men looked at each other.

Uncle William's face wore its roundest smile. "I wouldn't be s'prised if he stayed quite a spell." He brought a chair and planted it in front of the stranger. "Set down."

The man sat down, looking around the room. "It is good to be here," he said.