Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 3

"Yes, I s'pose I shall," said Uncle William, placidly, "'thout I make my fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right." He eyed the tea-kettle critically. "You hand over them gla.s.ses and we'll mix a little suthin' hot, and then we'll wash the dishes and go to bed."

The artist looked up with a start. "I must be getting back." He glanced at the dark window with its whirling sleet.

"You won't get back anywheres to-night," said Uncle William. "You couldn't hear yourself think out there--let alone findin' the path. I'll jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it's a fust-rate bed; I've slep' on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin' you'll be on hand to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest gla.s.s and a teaspoon. I want that biggest there--second one--and a teaspoon.

We'll have things fixed up fust-rate here."

Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoa.r.s.e and slow.

Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and thudded to the ground with heavier crash.

About three o'clock Uncle William's round face was thrust through the crack of the door. "You can go to sleep all right, now," he said soothingly. "There wa'n't but seven bricks left in the chimney, anyhow, and the last one's jest come down. I counted 'em fallin'."

IV

The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flas.h.i.+ng monotonously.

Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and pulling their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of work. The summer was almost done. For weeks--since the night of the big storm--he had worked incessantly. A new light had come over things,--"The light that never was on sea or land," he called it,--and he had worked feverishly.

He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through his eyes, he painted them. They took on color and bigness--simplicity.

"They will call it my third style," said the artist, smiling, as he worked. "They ought to call it the Uncle William style. I didn't do it--I shall never do it again," and he worked fast.

But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded.

To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things he would like to remember.

He looked again at the man cleaning fish. "Pretty steady work," he said, nodding toward the red pile.

The man looked up with a grunt. "Everything's steady--that pays," he said indifferently.

The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. "So?"

"Yep." The man tossed aside another fish. "Ye can't earn money stan'in'

with your hands in your pockets."

"I guess that's so," said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them merrily.

"There's Willum," said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife toward the cliff. "He's poor--poor as poverty--an' he al'ays will be."

"What do you think is the reason?" asked the artist. The tone held respectful interest.

The man looked at him more tolerantly. "Too fond of settin'."

The artist nodded. "I'm afraid he is."

"An' then he's al'ays a-givin'--a little here and a little there. Why, what Willum Benslow's give away would 'a' made a rich man of him."

"Yes?"

"Yep. I don't s'pose I know half he's give. But it's a heap, Lord knows!

And then he's foolish--plumb foolish." He rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward. "How much d'you s'pose he give me for that land--from here to my house?" He pointed up the coast.

The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It glowed--a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky.

"I haven't the least idea," he said slowly.

"Well, you won't believe it when I tell you;--n.o.body'd believe it. He paid me five hunderd dollars for it--five hunderd! It ain't wuth fifty."

The artist smiled at him genially. "Well--he's satisfied."

"But it ain't right," said the man, gloomily. He had returned to his fish. "It ain't right. I can't bear to have Willum such a fool."

"I think I'll go for a sail," said the artist.

The other glanced at the horizon. "It's going to storm," he said indifferently.

"I'll keep an eye out."

"Ye better not go."

"Think not?" He looked again at the harbor. "It's my last chance for a sail--I'll watch out."

"All right. 'T ain't my business," said the man. He went on slitting fish.

The harbor held a still light--ominously--grey with a tinge of yellow in its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a telescope in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and swept the bay with it. The grey stillness deepened.

On the beach below, the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle William approached he grunted stiffly. "She's off the island," he said.

He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water.

Uncle William's telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat hummed, holding a kind of conversation with itself.

The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing to one side. "Fool to go out--I told him it was coming."

The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. "I o't to 'a' kept an eye on him," he said humbly. "I didn't jest sense he was goin'. I guess mebbe he did mention it. But I was mixin' a batch of biscuit and kind o' thinkin' to myself. When I looked up he wa'n't there." He slid the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket.

"I'll hev to go after him," he said.

The other looked up quickly. "How'll you go?"

Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor.

"I'll take _her_," he said.

The man laughed shortly. "The _Andrew Halloran_? I guess not!" He shut his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. "I don't trust her--not in such a storm as that's going to be." He waved his arm toward the harbor.

The greyness was s.h.i.+fting rapidly. It moved in swift green touches, heavy and clear--a kind of luminous dread. In its sallow light the man's face stood out tragically. "I won't resk her," he cried.

"You'll hev to, Andrew." Uncle William bent to the bow of the dory that was beached near by. "Jump in," he said.

The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his side. "Don't you make me go, William," he said pacifically. "You can take the boat in welcome, but don't take _me_. It's too much resk!"

"It's al'ays a resk to do your duty," said Uncle William. "Jump in. I can't stand talkin'." An edge of impatience grazed the words.