Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 6

"Putty good." Uncle William was working thoughtfully. "We've set by them bricks a good many times, Andy."

"Yep."

"You remember the things she used to give us to eat?"

Andy swung about. "Who give us?"

"Old Mis' Bodet."

Andy's eye lighted. "So she did. I'd forgot all about 'em."

Uncle William nodded. "There was a kind of tart she used to make--"

Andy broke in. A look of genuine enthusiasm filled his eye. "I know--that gingery, pumpkin kind--"

"That's it. And you and me and Benjy used to sit and toast our toes by the fire and eat it--"

"He was a mean cuss," said Andy.

"Who Benjy? Why, we was al'ays fond of Benjy!" Uncle William's face beamed over the edge of the roof. "We was fond of him, wa'n't we?"

"I wa'n't," said Andy, shortly. "He' lick a feller every chance he got."

"Yes, that's so--I guess that's so." Uncle William was slapping on the mortar with heavy skill. "But he did it kind o' neat, didn't he?"

His eye twinkled to his work. "'Member that time you 'borrowed' his lobster-pot--took it up when it happened to have lobsters in it, and kep' the lobsters--not to hev 'em waste?"

Andy's face was impa.s.sive.

"Oh, you was fond of Benjy!" Uncle William spoke cheeringly. "You've kind o' forgot, I guess. And I set a heap o' store by him. He was jest about our age--twelve year the summer they moved away. I cried much as a week, off and on I should think. Couldn't seem to get ust to not havin'

him around."

"Reckon he's dead by this time?" Andy spoke hopefully. A little green gleam had crept into his eye.

Uncle William leaned over, looking down at him reproachfully. "Now, what makes you say that, Andy? He don't hev no more call to be dead'n we do.

We was both fond of him."

Andy stirred uneasily. "I liked him well enough, but it ain't any use talkin' about folks that's moved away, or dead."

"Do you feel that way, Andy? Now I don't feel so." Uncle William's gaze was following a floating cloud. "I feel as if they was kind o' near us; not touching close, but round somewheres. Now, I wouldn't really say Benjy Bodet was in that cloud--"

Andy stared at it suspiciously.

"He ain't really there, but it makes me feel the way he did. I used to get up kind o' light in the mornin', 'cause I was goin' to see Benjy.

The' wa'n't ever anybody I was so fond of, except Jennie--and you, mebbe."

Andy's gaze was looking out to sea. "You was mighty thick with that painter chap," he said gruffly.

"That wa'n't the same,"--Uncle William spoke thoughtfully,--"not quite the same."

The gloom in Andy's face lifted.

"I've thought about that a good many times," went on Uncle William.

"It's cur'us. You get to know folks that's a good deal nicer than your own folks that you was born and brought up and have lived and quarreled with,--and you get to know 'em a good deal better some ways--but they ain't the same as your own."

Andy's face had grown almost mild. "I guess that's right," he said. "Now there's Harr'et--I've lived with Harr'et a good many year."

Uncle William nodded. "She come from Digby way, didn't she?"

"Northeast o' Digby. And some days I feel as if I wa'n't even acquainted with her."

Uncle William chuckled.

Andy glanced at the sun. "I must be gettin' home. It's supper-time." His gaze sought the ridge-pole. The few rows of bricks set above its line gleamed red and white in the sun. "You won't get that done to-night."

The tone was not acrid. It was almost sympathetic--for Andy.

Uncle William glanced at it placidly. "I reckon I shall. There's a moon, you know. And this is a pleasant place to set. It ought to be quite nice up here by moonlight."

He set and watched Andy's figure down the road. Then he took up the trowel once more, whistling. The floating cloud had sailed to the horizon. It grew rosy red and opened softly, spreading in little flames.

The glow of color spread from north to south. A breeze had sprung up and ruffled the bay. Uncle William glanced at it and fell to work. "Andy's right--it's goin' to change."

He worked till the cold, clear moon came over the hill behind him. It shone on the chimney rising, straight and firm, above the little house.

By its light William put on the finis.h.i.+ng touches.

VII

The winter was a hard one. The cold that had set in the night the chimney was finished did not abate. The island froze to its core and a stinging keenness held the air. The very rocks seemed charged with it.

One almost listened to hear them crack in the stillness of the long nights. Little snow fell, and it was soon dispersed--whirled away on the fierce blasts that swept the island. Uncle William went back and forth between woodshed and house, carrying great armfuls of wood. A roaring fire warmed the red room, Juno purred in comfort in its depths. The pile of wood in the shed lowered fast, and the pile of money h.o.a.rded behind the loose brick in the chimney lowered with it--the money faster than the wood, perhaps. There was a widow with three children, a mile down the sh.o.r.e. Her husband had been drowned the year before, and there was no brick loose in her chimney to look behind as the woodpile diminished.

Old Grandma Gruchy, too, who had outlived all her men folks and at ninety-three was still tough and hearty, had need of things.

Between filling the wood-box and looking after the weather and keeping a casual eye on the widows and the fatherless, Uncle William had a full winter. He was not a model housekeeper at best, and ten o'clock of winter mornings often found him with breakfast dishes unwashed and the floor unswept. Andy, coming in for his daily visit, would cast an uncritical eye at the frying-pan, and seat himself comfortably by the stove. It did not occur to either of them, as Uncle William pottered about, finis.h.i.+ng the dishes, that Andy should take a hand. Andy had women folks to do for him.

As the winter wore on, letters came from the artist--sometimes gay and full of hope sometimes a little despondent. Uncle William read the letters to Andy, who commented on them according to his lights. "He don't seem to be makin' much money," he would say from time to time. The letters revealed flashes of poverty and a kind of fierce struggle.

"He's got another done," Uncle William would respond: "that makes three; that's putty good." Andy had ceased to ask about the money for the boat--when it was coming. He seemed to have accepted the fact that there would never be any, as placidly as William himself. If there was dawning in his mind the virtuous resolve to help out a little when the time came, no one would have guessed it from the grim face that surveyed Uncle William's movements with a kind of detached scorn. Now and then Andy let fall a word of advice as to the best way of adjusting a tin on the stove, or better methods for cleaning the coffee-pot. Sometimes Uncle William followed the advice. It generally failed to work.

It was late in the winter that Andy appeared one morning bringing a letter from the artist. Uncle William searched for his spectacles and placed them on his nose with a genial smile.

Andy had not relinquished the letter. "I can read it for ye," he volunteered.

"I can read it all right now, Andy, thank ye." Uncle William reached out a hand for it.

Andy's fingers relaxed on it grudgingly. He had once or twice been allowed to open and read the letters in the temporary absence of Uncle William's spectacles. He found them more entertaining than when Uncle William read them. He privately suspected him of suppressing bits of news.

Uncle William looked up from the lines with pleased countenance. "Now, that's good. He's finished up five on 'em."

"Five what?"