HAPPY ISLAND
A New “Uncle William” Story
By Jennette Lee
New York The Century Co.
1911
TO
GERALD STANLEY LEE
“To make the young world move—He has eyes,
And ears, and he can read the sun....
In tune with all the children who laugh best
And longest through the sunshine, though far off
Their laughter, and unheard.”
CONTENTS
HAPPY ISLAND
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
HAPPY ISLAND
I
THE sunlight got in Uncle William’s eyes. He looked up from the map
spread on the table before him. Then he got up slowly and crossed to the
window and drew down the turkey-red curtain—a deep glow filled the room.
Juno, on the lounge, stirred a little and stretched her daws, and drew
them in and tucked her head behind them and went on sleeping.
Uncle William returned to his map. His big finger found a dotted line
and followed it slowly up the table with little mumbles of words.... The
room was very still—only the faintest whisper of a breeze came across
the harbor—and Uncle William’s head bent over the map and traveled with
his finger.... “They ’d run in here, like enough, and...”
A shadow crossed the curtain and he looked up.
Andy was in the doorway, grinning—a bunch of lobsters dangling from
his hand, stretching frantic green legs into space. Andy looked down at
them.
Uncle William shook his head. “You ’ll get into trouble, Andy, carryin’
’em that way, right in broad daylight—you can put ’em out there under
the bucket—so ’s ’t the sun won’t hit ’em.”
Andy departed and the scraping of the bucket on the hard rock came
cautiously in the window.... Juno lifted her ear and flicked it and went
on dreaming. Uncle William returned to the map.
“What you huntin’ up?” asked Andy. He was looking in the window.
“‘D you put a stone on top the bucket?”
“Yep—What you lookin’ for?” asked Andy.
“I was just seein’ where they ’d got to..... They must be up along
Battle Harbor way, by this time—”
“You heard from ’em?” said Andy. He came in and sat down.
“We’ve had a letter to-day—me and Benjy—”
“Where’s he gone?” asked Andy.
“He’s up to his place—seein’ about some plans they’re makin’—they bother
him quite a consid’abul.”
Andy’s face showed no concern. “They goin’ to begin working next week?”
he said.
Uncle William pushed back the map a little and took off his
spectacles.... “They don’t just seem to know,” he said slowly, “Benjy
wants it one way, and the man that’s doin’ it—Ordway—he says it can’t be
done—so they’re kind o’ stuck. I wish he ’d have George Manning.” Uncle
William’s face expanded. “George ’d do it—and do it for him good. You
see, Benjy, he wants—”
“He ’ll want money,” said Andy shortly—“unless he looks out—keeping that
contractor and fussing about whether they ’ll have the roof two inches
up or two inches down—or some such matter as that—and Harr’et feedin’
the contractor and getting board money right along whether he works or
don’t work.”
“I guess I’ll do the lobsters for supper,” said Uncle William. “Benjy
likes ’em.” He stirred about, gathering a few bits of kindling and paper
and striking a careful match.
Andy watched him with gloomy eye while he dived under the sink and
brought out a large kettle.
Uncle William lifted the tea kettle a little and drew it forward. “Most
full,” he said contentedly. “That’s good—and it ain’t fairly cooled off
since dinner—I didn’t wash any dishes this noon, you see.”
Andy’s eye roamed about the room.
“They’re tucked under the sink,” said Uncle William, “I don’t like ’em
clutterin’ round. I can’t seem to set so easy if I see ’em.” He opened
the sink door and peered in. “I guess there’s about enough left for a
meal—You goin’ to stay—?” He looked back hopefully over his shoulder.
Andy wriggled a little and looked at the door. “I didn’t say nothin’ to
Harr’et,” he said feebly.
“Well, I guess you better stay—” said Uncle William, “You don’t get a
chance to eat lobsters every day.”
“I don’t get ’em any day,” said Andy gloomily, “She won’t cook ’em for
me—and she says she won’t have ’em scrawling round.”
Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Now, that’s too bad—it’s
just come on, ain’t it?”
Andy nodded. “She says it’s the law and she’s going to keep it, and we
hain’t had tip nor claw for much as a week now.”
“My... my!” Uncle William’s tongue clicked in sympathy. “Well, you stay
right where you be, Andy, and we ’ll have one good meal.” He brought in
the lobsters. “Seem’s if women keep the law a little harder ’n men—when
they do keep it,” he said thoughtfully, swashing the lobsters happily
down into the kettle.
Andy nodded. “She got scared ’bout the fish-warden last week. She says
we can’t pay no three hundred dollars for lobsters—and I do’ ’no’s we
can.” His eye was on the steam that rose genially about the lid of the
kettle.
“Well, there won’t be any three hundred this time,” said Uncle William,
“—not without the fish-warden’s legs are longer ’n my spy-glass. Seems
kind o’ mean business—being a warden,” he added kindly.
“I don’t mind his bein’ a warden,” said Andy, “if they ’d let us have
Jim Doshy. We ’d got used to him—knew his ways, and he gen ’lly sent
us, word anyhow—day or two beforehand—But this one—” He looked at Uncle
William with reproachful eye. “The’ wa ’n’t one of us ready for him when
he come.”
Uncle William nodded. “I know—lively work wa ’n’t it?”
Andy grinned. “Lively—they was flyin’ round like hens with their
heads off—dumpin’ ’em out and scratchin’ ’em under and getting things
shipshape.” He grinned again. “I wa ’n’t to home, you know—I’d gone off
the Point—to haul a mess for dinner, and Harr’et had to run a mile in
the hot sun to yell at me to dump ’em out.” He drew a long breath as he
heaved the lobsters overboard and righted himself.
“Now, that ain’t right,” said Uncle William, “making Harr’et run in
the hot sun like that—all for them little squirming things,—and ’tain’t
reasonable. We ought to know how many lobsters we o’t to eat—much as
any fish-warden. Ain’t they our lobsters?” He shoved up his glasses and
looked at Andy kindly.
Andy’s eye was on the kettle. “You think they’re most done?” he said.
Uncle William took off the lid and peered in. The steam rose about his
big head like a halo and rolled away in light whiffs. Down on the beach
they could hear the washing of the little waves as the tide came up.
Uncle William’s face looked out of the steam, like a happy moon. “Just
about—” he said, “You run and see if Benjy’s anywheres in sight.” He
lifted the kettle and Andy got up stiffly and went to the door.
“I don’t see him nowheres,” he said indifferently.
“You can’t see him there, Andy. You got to go round the corner.” Uncle
William carried the kettle to the sink and Andy departed, reluctant—When
he returned the lobsters were on the middle of the table, red and
steaming, with their little white clouds over them. The map had been
hung on the wall and the table was scantily set—“There’s one spoon
apiece,” said Uncle William cheerfully, “—though I do’ ’no’s we need
spoons. I’m going to have a real good washin’ up after dinner—’D you see
him, Andy?”
“He’s comin’,” replied Andy—“up the road a piece.”
“He ’ll be right along then,” said Uncle William, “—if he don’t meet
somebody—that wants to advise him ’bout his house. I’d come home round
by the lots, if I was him, I tell him. It’s further—but he ’d get here
quicker. You sure ’t was him?”
“The’ ain’t anybody else got that kind o’ high-stepping walk, has the’.”
said Andy scornfully.
“I do’ ’no ’s the’ has,” said Uncle William. “You draw right up, Andy.
He ’ll be here any minute now.”
II
BENJAMIN BODET stood in the doorway and looked in. He was tall and thin
and distinguished—in spite of his rough suit and slouch hat and the
week’s growth of beard on his thin cheeks and pointed chin. His eye
fell on the steaming red mound in the center of the table and his face
lighted. “Lobsters!” he said.
Uncle William, who had been watching him, chuckled a little. “Andy’s
lobsters,” he said politely.
Andy shuffled in his chair. “They’re your claws, William—they’re on your
premises—”
“Yes, yes,” said Uncle William soothingly, “I know ’bout that. You just
eat all you want and I’ll pay the bill—when it comes in. You all ready,
Benjy?”
“All ready—and hungry for anything you’ve got—especially lobster.”
They drew up to the table and reached out to the red pile—breaking it
down slowly.... Juno, from her lounge, came across and rubbed against
Uncle William’s big leg. Then she sat up. When Uncle William’s hand
reached down with casual motion, and a hard, red morsel, she snuffed at
it daintily before her teeth opened on it. Then she bent her head and
growled a little, and crouched over it, crushing it under her paw and
moving her tail in swift, restrained joy... to eat was good—but to hold
it—there under her paw—caught fast—and growl a little.... Up above Uncle
William rumbled on—about the weather and fishing and house building and
lobsters.... Presently he reached up and took down a spy-glass and went
to the window. The red curtain was up and the sun came in with soft,
side slants. Down below, the water of the harbor slowly filled with dusk
and reached away. Uncle William looked out across it toward the west.
“I’ve been kind o’ watching her,” he said, “for some time—I guess she’s
goin’ by.”
Benjamin Bodet came and stood beside him, looking out.
Uncle William glanced at him affectionately as he handed him the glass.
He was not quite used—even yet—to having Benjy around. Sometimes he
waked in the night and remembered Benjy was there—before he heard the
sound of the waves on the beach or the wind coming across the moor
behind the house.... This sometimes gave him a feeling that perhaps it
might be heaven instead of Arichat... and it kept him from getting used
to Benjy’s presence in the house.
Andy, from his seat at the table, looked at them with grudging eye. “You
see anything?” he said.
“She’s running by,” said Uncle William. He came and sat down and looked
contentedly at the untidy table. “That was a pretty good meal, Andy.”
Andy nodded, without enthusiasm. “The last one I’ll have this
season—like as not,” he said.
“Oh, you bring ’em up here any time and we ’ll help you out, Benjy and
me.” The tall man had come back from the window and he smiled down at
them. “I’ll do my share,” he said.
Uncle William looked at him, as if fearing a little that he might vanish
in his thinness. “You set down, Benjy,” he said, “I’m going to clear the
table and then we ’ll get down the map—”
“Have you heard—?” asked the man quickly.
“It come today—while you was gone, and it’s to both of us,” said Uncle
William.
He held the pan of red shells in his hand, looking at it doubtfully.
Juno, with her back to the stove, licked her paw and rubbed it down her
nose and rubbed again—and licked it and rubbed again—in gentle rhythm.
Uncle William glanced at her with benignant eye. “She does set store by
lobster,” he said, “much as anybody I ever see. I guess I’ll save ’em
for her.” He moved toward the sink.
Andy’s eye followed him with disapproving glance. “I’d heave ’em out,”
he said.
“Don’t you worry, Andy, I’m goin’ to put ’em under the sink—way back.
The’ won’t no fish-warden get ’em in there. It’s much’s I can do to find
things myself—when they get under here—” He emerged from the depths
with serene face. “I see some things in there now, I’ve been looking
for quite a spell. Tomorrow I’m going to have a real good clarin’-up
time—You see!”
“I wanted you to go up to my place tomorrow,” said Bodet whimsically. “I
thought perhaps you could work that contractor around to let me have my
house the way I want it.”
“Well, I’ll go if you want me to,” said Uncle William placidly, “The
dishes can wait a spell—some of ’em can wait,” he added, with a touch of
conscience.
Benjamin smiled. “You might do them before we go.”
“And you could wipe,” said Uncle William cheerfully.
Benjamin’s face was perhaps a trifle less glowing than Uncle William’s,
but his assent was cheerful. “All right, William, I’ll do my part—You
help me with that contractor and I’ll wipe dishes for you—all day, if
you say so.”
Uncle William regarded him thoughtfully. “You ought to have George
Manning to help you about your house, Benjy. He could do it for
you—nice.”
“Manning?” Bodet looked at him with lifted eyebrows—“You mean that
boy—?”
“He ain’t a boy exactly, Benjy. He looks kind o’ young—not having
any whiskers, and chewing a piece of grass the way he does when he’s
thinking. But he’s old enough. He’s built a good many houses on the
Island, fust and last—much as eighteen or twenty, I should think,
counting barns—and hen-coops and fish-houses.”
Bodet smiled. “My house isn’t a hencoop, William.”
“I know, Benjy—it’s going to be a nice house—when you get it started,”
said William.
Bodet sighed and threw out an impatient hand.
Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Does bother ye a
good deal, don’t it?—You might talk with George about it,” he added
hopefully, “‘Twon’t hurt any to talk to him—he’s chuck full of ideas.
He’s about the best man we’ve got on the Island, I guess,” he added
slowly. “The’ ain’t but one thing wrong about George.”
“What’s wrong with him!” asked Bodet with a little, skeptical smile.
“He ain’t married,” said Uncle William.
Bodet laughed out. “Neither are you, William.”
“No, I ain’t married and you ain’t married. But that’s different—we’re
old men.”
“Just tottering around,” laughed Bodet.
“It ain’t the tottering, Benjy—It’s the hevin’ had your chance—and
lost it.... That’s what’s happened to us.” He was looking at him with
affectionate eyes, over the big spectacles.
Bodet nodded. “That’s what’s happened to us. And George Manning, I
suppose—”
“George never had a chance,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.... “I
don’t mean that nobody would ’a’ had him. I guess the’ ain’t a girl on
the Island but what’s set her cap for George, one time or another—set it
kind o’ modest, you know. But George don’t see ’em. He just goes around
looking at the sky and things—kind o’ thinkin’ in his mind—might bump
right up against a girl and not know she was there—” Uncle William
chuckled. “I’ve talked to him about ’em,” he added conscientiously—“I’ve
told him, a good many times, how interestin’ they be—but it don’t seem
to do any good.” Uncle William sighed a little.
Bodet stood up, shaking himself. “Did you say there was a letter—?” he
suggested.
Uncle William blinked a little and took it from his pocket, regarding it
fondly. “You read it,” he said, “whilst I get down the map.”
Andy watched him, a little morosely, as he mounted a chair and reached
for the map on its nail—“When you two going to get a girl!” he said.
Uncle William looked down at him with open mouth. “Now that’s an idea!”
he said slowly.
“What’s an idea?” asked Andy.
Uncle William’s mouth closed firmly. “Nothin’—I didn’t mean nothin’, I
guess. I was just a-thinking.” He chuckled softly. “We’ve got a girl,”
he added kindly. “We heard from her yesterday.” He reached again to the
map.
“When’s she coming?” demanded Andy.
“Well—?” Uncle William climbed slowly from the chair with his map, “She
can’t come—exactly—”
Andy stared at him. “Then you ain’t got her, Willum—”
“Oh, yes, we’ve got her—and she wants to come—worst way. She’s the one I
told you about—down to New York?” He looked at Andy over his spec-tades.
“She’s a nice girl,” he added. His face held a deep glow. “‘Bout the
nicest girl you ever see, I reckon.”
“I don’t know her,” said Andy coldly. “Well, mebbe you forget—But
I remember well enough telling you about her one day—down to your
house—when Harr’et had gone fox-berrying—and you and me was there alone,
and we was makin’—”
“Like enough I do remember,” said Andy hastily.
“That’s the one,” said Uncle William, “the one I kind o’ helped to
get home from New York—and she ’d come—any day—if there was a place to
sleep. Benjy’s in the other room and I’m in this one—and the’ ain’t any
other—” His forehead wrinkled at the problem. “She’s got to come—and
she’s got to hev a place,” he said with decision.
“She could sleep down to my house,” said Andy.
“Why, so she could—She could sleep down to his house, Benjy,” said Uncle
William.
The tall man swung his glasses from his nose and looked at them—first
one and then the other. Then a smile came into his face. “The Lord
bless you, Andy,” he said, “I think I had come about to the end of my
dish-washing powers—”
“All you’ve done, was wipe ’em, Benjy,” said Uncle William anxiously.
“I know, William—and it’s all right—and I liked it!”
“You ’d pay a little suthin’,” suggested Andy.
“Oh, anything reasonable,” responded the tall man. “Now let’s see the
map.”
III
THEY bent over the table, following Uncle William’s finger. The room was
filled with light smoke from Uncle William’s pipe and the cigarette
that Bodet held in his fingers and whiffed from time to time. The dusk
outside crept in and mingled with the smoke.
“It’s along up here somewheres....” said Uncle William, peering at
the map—“Here—! Here it is!” He glued his finger to a tiny spot—“They
stopped here, they said—off St. Pierre, and then run along up through
Placentia Bay and stopped off two-three times, and back to St.
Mary’s—kind o’ edgin’ along—They struck a squall here—off Lance
Point—and that kep’ ’em back a spell—”
“The boat’s all right!” said Bodet quickly.
“Oh, she’s all right, I guess. They didn’t say nothin’ about the boat.
They was writin’ about the scenery and about their feelings, and so on;
but I managed to make out their course—puttin’ this and that together.
Your boat’s all right, Benjy. She ’ll stand any weather they ’ll get
this time o’ year.”
“Yes—she ’ll stand it—with good handling—”
“Well, you’ve got a captain knows his business.... They ’ll bring her
’round to your back door some day, safe and sound.... You ain’t worryin’
to have ’em back, Benjy?”
The other shook his head. “Not a bit—I’m contented here.” He gave a
little puff to the cigarette and wrinkled his eyes, smiling across the
map and dreaming a little.
Uncle William’s eyes were on his face, kindly and glad. The pipe in
his lips gave out a gentle volume of smoke and rumbled a little down
below—“You can’t find a much better place ’n this is, can you?” He moved
his hand toward the window where the dusk was coming in... and across
the harbor where the lights glowed faintly—like stars.
Benjy’s eye rested on them. “Best place in the world,” he said.
“We all like it,” said Uncle William, “Andy likes it, too—”
The green in Andy’s eye retreated a little—“I’d like to see some of them
other places,” he said.... “Now, that,” he shoved his finger at a point
on the map—“That’s the farthest north I ever went.” Uncle William bent
to it.... “Dead Man’s Point.” He chuckled a little. “‘Tis kind o’ rough,
Andy, ain’t it!”
“I’ve started times enough,” said Andy—“once for Labrador and once in
a whaler ’twas going way up—they said. Seem’s if we always got stuck
or got a cargo—or suthin’—before we’re fairly under way—and had to turn
around and come back.”
Uncle William nodded. “You’ve had a hard time, Andy—and I do’ ’no’s I’d
risk taking you along myself—not if I wanted to get anywhere.”
Andy grinned. “You’ve been,” he said. “You don’t care.”
Uncle William’s eye swept the map and he laid his great hand on it
affectionately, spreading the fingers wide. “It does feel good to think
you’ve seen it,” he said, “But I’d rather be right here with you and
Benjy a-traveling this way—after them young things, that don’t know
where they’re sailing or what kind of waters they’re comin’ to—and not
trusting the Lord even—not fairly trustin’ him, so to speak—just kind
o’ thinkin’ of him as suthin’ to fall back on if a storm comes up—a real
hard one—kind of a tornado like.”
“She’s a good boat,” said the tall man.
“She’s all right, Benjy—and they’re nice children,” responded Uncle
William, “and I hope they won’t hurry a mite about getting round the
earth.... The rate they’re goin’ now—when they wrote—I reckon it ’ll
take just about twenty-five years,” he said reflectively.... “They don’t
say how far North they plan to make, but I kind o’ reckon they ’ll cut
across from here—from Battle Harbor to Disco, and then skirt along down
the Cape, and up,”... His finger followed the course with slow touch and
the smoke curled about his head with deep, contemplative puffs. His eye
ran back over the course and lingered on a bit of clear water to the
North. “It does seem a pity not to go up there—when they’re so near,”
he said regretfully, “and best kind of weather, too.”... His eye grew
dreamy—“It was along ’71, I sailed there—along with Captain Hall—You
know that last voyage of his? We had one eye on whales and one on the
Pole, I reckon... and the Polaris, she edged and edged, up and up. Some
days I didn’t know but she would strike the Pole—run smack into it....
We ’d got up here through the Strait and up Smith’s Sound... and on
beyond—the farthest of anybody’t that time—and Captain Hall, he was for
pushing on—and all of ’em, except Buddington—he was sailing master and
that slow, cautious kind—no sort o’ timber to go after the North Pole
with—but he said we ’d winter right there—’twas somewheres along in
August then—and we run back a little to a good place—and that’s where
it got its name now, ’Polaris Bay’—we was the ones that named it.”
Uncle William looked at it, with the pride of possession, and rubbed his
finger on it. “Well, we stayed there.... But Captain Hall—you couldn’t
hold him still, and he was all the time sledgin’ off, one way and
another—to see what the earth was doin’ up that way—and it run along
into October—the last of the month—It all seems like yesterday,” said
Uncle William slowly.... “I was a young fellow, you see—not more ’n
twenty-two-three, and I’d left Jennie down here, and gone up there—so’s
to make money faster.”—His eye traveled about the red room... and came
back to the map... “and there we was, settin’ down up there—waitin’ for
winter and not a whale in sight—and then, all of a sudden, before you
could say Jack Robinson—Captain Hall died.... There was whisperin’s
around among the crew about the way he was took and the Navy went into
it later—but nothin’ was proved... and Captain Buddington wa’ n’t the
kind of man you could stand up to—captain or sailin’ master, or what, he
’d have his way... and we stayed there best part of a year. Then he said
we was goin’ home—I remember,’. if it was yesterday, the day we got wind
what he was plannin’ for. I’d been out off from the boat all day.... and
when I came in George Pelman, he whispered to me we was goin’ home—and
then, all in a minute, out there in the snow, I see Jennie’s face
looking to me and smilin’, and my eyes kind o’ blurred—with the snow
and all that—and that was the last time I see her—” said Uncle William
slowly. “She died that winter.... When we got home, along in the spring,
they told me she had waited—seems ’s if she kind o’ made her body wait
till I’d come—They said it was like her spirit died out, faint, till it
just wa ’n’t there.... So that’s the way I come to be here alone...
and it seemed pretty good when Benjy come back so, one day, all out o’
nothin’—and there he was standin’ in that door....”
The tall man went to the window and stood with his back to the room
looking out. When he turned about, his eyes were shining—like the lights
across the water. “It was like getting home,” he said.
“Yes,’.was home,” said Uncle William contentedly. “Of course, any place
where you happen to be is home,—but if there’s somebody there waitin’
for ye and needin’ ye, it’s more homier than any of ’em.” Andy got
slowly to his feet. “Harr’et’s waitin’ for me,” he said, “and I might’s
well go—” He cast a lingering look at the table. “You boys going to sit
up all night, talking and gabbling!”
“Why, no, Andy. I do ’no ’s we ’ll light up,” responded Uncle William.
“I was thinkin’ of going down to look after the boats a little and then
we ’ll go to bed—like enough.”
“Well, good night,” said Andy, “I’ve got to go,”
“Good night, Andy.” They sat listening to his footfalls on the rocky
path below. “He’s a good boy,” said Uncle William. “He ’ll stan’ a
lot—without whimpering—but he don’t know it—no more ’n that cat there.”
Juno rose and stretched her back, yawning. Then she walked indifferently
to the door and passed out—as if a summons had come to her from the
night out there.
IV
UNCLE WILLIAM finished the last saucepan and carried it, with careful
flourish, to the stove, where the top was piled high with pots and
kettles. He found a place for the saucepan and deposited it with
cautious touch. Then he stood back and surveyed the topply pile with
hopeful eye.
Benjamin, seated on a rock outside, was whistling softly. “You most
ready, William,” he called.
Uncle William glanced hastily toward the window, then his glance
traveled about the room. “Pretty near, Benjy,” he said. “You wait a
minute whilst I chuck two-three more things out o’ sight.”
Benjamin rose and stretched his long legs. The sun shone brilliantly and
the salt air was alive with the freshness of summer. He strolled to the
window and looked in.... Uncle William, on his knees by the red lounge,
was poking things under with swift, efficient touch.
He looked up and nodded. “Don’t you wait, Benjy. I’m most done. The’s
just two-three things got strayed around—” He gathered up a plate and
saucer, with the remnants of Juno’s supper, and carried them across to
the sink. He opened the cupboard door underneath and thrust them in....
“The’s a few things left,” he said apologetically, “if I raked way in
under for ’em, mebbe. But we’ve got enough to run along—quite a spell
now.” He glanced affectionately at the stove and the rows of shining
cups and plates ranged on the shelf above the sink.
Benjamin’s eye followed the glance with a touch of amusement and a
little impatience, “Oh, come on, William. You ’d let things run a week
and then you ’d scrub all day—”
Uncle William’s face beamed. “That’s right, Benjy. That’s just the way I
like it—now, how ’d you know!”
“Well, I have eyes,” said Benjamin dryly, “and I’ve been living with you
a month or so, you know.”
“That’s so, Benjy—and don’t it seem good!” Uncle William came to the
window and patted the thin hand resting on the sill. “I’m coming right
along, now, soon’s I get my apron off—” His fingers tugged at the
strings of the big oil cloth pattern that encompassed him.
Benjamin’s eye waited, impatient—“You ’ll get rid of all that fuss when
the new girl comes,” he said.
Uncle William’s mouth opened and looked at him. Then it closed and Uncle
William shook his head. “I’d clean forgot her,” he said slowly, “and
if I don’t send her word today, she can’t come for two weeks—nor four,
mebbe. The boats don’t run right.” He reached up to the clock for the
pen and bottle of ink that stood there.
Benjamin moved with restless indecision and Uncle William glanced at
him. “You run along, Benjy,” he said kindly, “That contractor ’ll be
waiting for you—”
“He’s been waiting,” said Benjy quickly, “—an hour at least.”
“Yes, yes—I know. Don’t you wait—” Uncle William’s eye was on the
paper and he was mumbling words to the ink bottle.... “I’ll be—right
along—Benjy—sometime—”
The tall man turned from the window and strode over the rocks.
Uncle William’s face smoothed to its genial smile as the steps died
away. His fingers traced big, comfortable words on the paper and his
head nodded in a kind of cheerful, all-round assent while he wrote. The
clock struck ten and he looked up, blinking a little. His eyes strayed
to the window and he looked out. Then he got up and went across. After
a minute he took down the spy-glass and fixed it on a distant point. His
face radiated in little wrinkles of interest. “I do’ ’no’s I ever see
Andy run like that—and cross-lots, too—Harr’et wants suthin’—bad—like
enough.... My—my! He hadn’t ought to run like that!”... He bent from the
window. “Hello, Andy!—what you runnin’ for?”
Andy halted, panting—“He’s come!” he said. The words sank to a whisper
and he wheeled about, glaring at a man who was coming up the path from
the shore, trundling a bicycle before him. He was a young man, with
keen, quick glance and a look of determination. He glanced indifferently
at Andy and rapped sharply on the side of the door.
Uncle William came across with easy gait. “Good morning,” he
said—looking down from his height...
“You’re the owner of this house!” said the young man.
Uncle William’s eye traversed it kindly, “I reckon it belongs to me—yet
awhile. Will you come in—sir!” The figure towered still higher and Uncle
William’s presence exhaled dignity and welcome.
The young man stepped over the sill. Andy followed sulkily.
“Sit down, sir.” Uncle William’s hand motioned to the red lounge.
The stranger crossed and sat down, holding his hat in his hand and
glancing with quick eye about the little room.
Uncle William sat down opposite him, a hand on either knee, and looked
at him over large spectacles.
“I’m the new fish-warden,” said the young man—as if he answered a polite
question.
“I kind o’ reckoned you might be a fish-warden, or something like that,”
said Uncle William. “I’m glad to see you.”
The young man smiled a little. “You’re the first one that’s glad, I
guess—” The quick look had relaxed a little in his face. The warm, sunny
room seemed to reach out and surround him.
Juno, from her place on the lounge, leaped down and walked with
deliberate step across the room. She seated herself in the sunshine,
with her back to the company, and looked steadily into space.
Uncle William’s eye rested on her kindly.
“I’m looking for lobsters,” said the young man.
Uncle William nodded. “It’s a poor time of year for ’em,” he said,
“—close season, so.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted a little.
“I didn’t get your name, sir,” added Uncle William, leaning forward.
“My name is Mason,” said the young man.
“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Uncle William. He came across and held
out a big hand. “My name is Benslow—William Benslow.”
The young man took the hand, a little dazed, it might seem. “I knew
it was Benslow,” he said, “I inquired before I came up—down in the
village.”
“Now, did ye? That was kind in you!” Uncle William beamed on him and
sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he said
thoughtfully—“not as I can remember. I’m real glad to see you.”
The young man nodded stiffly—a little color had come into his face—as if
he did not propose to be tampered with.
“I’ve thought a good deal about fish-wardens,” went on Uncle William
comfortably, crossing his legs, “when I’ve been out sailing and
lobstering and so on—’Seems’s if it must be kind o’ unpleasant
business—knowing likely enough folks don’t want to see you come sailin’
into a harbor—night or day.”
The young man turned a little in his place, looking at him curiously.
“—And kind o’ havin’ to brace yourself,” went on Uncle William, “to do
your duty—feelin’, I suppose, as if there was spears always reachin’ out
from the shore and pinting at ye—to keep you off—sort of?”
The young man stirred uneasily. “I don’t know that I ever thought about
it that way,” he said.
“Like enough you didn’t,” said Uncle
William, “I do’ ’no ’s I’d ’a’ thought of it myself—only I’m al’ays kind
o’ possessed to know how folks feel inside—other folks, you know—and one
day, as I was comin’ in from lobsterin’, I says to myself—’Supposin’,
instead o’ bringing in these lobsters, nice and comfortable, I was a
fish-warden, a-sailin’ in to catch somebody, there on the shore’—and
then, all of a sudden, I seemed to see them spears, hundreds of ’em,
pointin’ right at me, kind of circle-like, from the shore. There was a
minute in that boat when I wouldn’t’ ’a’ known whether it was you or me,
and it felt uncomfortable—real uncomfortable,” said Uncle William.
Andy’s face held a wide, half-scared grin.
The young man looked at Uncle William curiously. “I could imagine things
like that—if I wanted to,” he said dryly.
Uncle William nodded. “I don’t doubt you could—a good deal better. But I
wouldn’t if I was you.”
“I don’t intend to,” said the young man. He half rose from his seat.
“It’s cur’us, ain’t it,” said Uncle William, “Now, I suppose you’ve got
a family—a wife, like enough, and children—”
The young man’s hand sought an inside pocket, as if by instinct. Then it
dropped to his side.
Uncle William smiled and chuckled a little. “Now, I never thought you
’d have pictures of ’em with you. But why shouldn’t yet Why shouldn’t a
fish-warden hev pictures of his wife and babies, same as other folks?”
He had turned to Andy, and sat, with spectacles pushed up on his
forehead, looking at him inquiringly.
“I do’ ’no’ why he shouldn’t,” said Andy feebly—but not as if convinced.
“Of course you ’d have ’em,” said Uncle William, turning ’to the young
man, “And I like you all the better for it. I’d taken a liking to you
anyhow—before that.”
The face opposite him was non-committal. But there was a look of
firmness about the chin.
“I’d like to see ’em,” said Uncle William, “if you wouldn’t mind my
seein’ ’em.” The tone was full of interest and kindly hope.
The young man took out a small leather case and handed it to him,
without speaking.
Uncle William received it in his big, careful fingers, and adjusted his
glasses before he bent to it.
Andy sat silent, with grudging, watchful eye, and the young man let his
glance wander about the room. Juno, seated in the sunshine, blinked a
little. Then she rose and moved toward the cupboard door and snuffed the
crack. She seated herself beside it, turning a reproachful, indifferent
eye in Uncle William’s direction.
Andy, from across the room, glared at her.
The young man’s eye had followed her with half-cynical smile.
Uncle William looked up from the leather case and pushed up his glasses.
“You’ve got a good wife, Mr. Mason.”
“I know about it,” said the young man quietly. He stood up, holding
out his hand for the case. Uncle William beamed helplessly at the
baby—handing it back.
The young man replaced the case in his pocket without comment, but the
comers of his smile softened a little—as if in spite of judgment.
“Well, now, you want to look round a little, don’t ye?” said Uncle
William, standing up, “‘Seems a pity to hev to—things are kind of
cluttered up so—if I’d known you was comin’ I’d ’a’ had ’em fixed up.”
The young man’s face broke a little. “I don’t doubt it,” he said.
Uncle William chuckled. “You’re used to havin’ ’em fixed up for you, I
suppose?—Well—let’s see. I’ll tell you the best places to look.... The’s
under the sink—”
Andy’s chair scraped the floor with sudden sound.
Uncle William looked at him mildly. “The’s under the sink,” he repeated
firmly, “and under the lounge and under the bed and up chimbley and
down cellar... but they’re all kind o’ hard places to get to.... That’s
another thing I never thought of, about being a fish-warden—havin’ to
scooch so much.”
“Never mind that,” said the young man, and there was a little impatient
flick to the words, “I’ll begin wherever you say—”
“Why, I don’t mind,” said Uncle William kindly. “If I was advising you,
I should say, ’Don’t look anywheres.’.rdquo;
Juno moved over and rubbed against Uncle William’s leg. Then she
returned to her seat by the cupboard and lifted her lip in a silent
miaouw.
“Byme-by, Juno,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “She’s hungry, like
enough,” he said, turning to the fish-warden.
But the man had stooped and was lifting the cover of the red lounge.
“It’s a dreadful clutter,” said Uncle William aside to Andy, “‘Seems’s
if I hadn’t o’t to let him see it looking like that—”
“You ’d better wring her neck,” said Andy between his set teeth.
“Why, Andy!—You don’t find anything there, Mr. Mason?” said Uncle
William.
The man emerged with red face. “I didn’t expect to,” he said—“But it’s
my business to look—”
“Yes, it’s your business. That’s what I was sayin’ to myself when I was
out sailin’—”
“I’ll take the bedroom next,” said the man shortly.
They disappeared in the next room and the murmur of their voices, with
the moving of a heavy chest and the stir of papers, came out.
Andy cast a vicious eye at Juno. He half rose and took a step on tiptoe.
But the bedroom door opened again and he sat down.
“I haven’t hauled a trap—nor set one—since the season closed,” said
Uncle William’s voice.
“That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. But I have reason to think.... I’d
better make a thorough search—since I am here,” he finished quietly.
“You search all you want to,” said Uncle William cordially—“Get away,
Juno.” He pushed her aside with his foot. “This is my sink cupboard,”
he opened the door hospitably. “Lucky I washed some of the dishes this
morning,” he said, “You would ’a’ had a time if I hadn’t!” The man
reached in and drew out a pile of plates. His nose lifted itself as he
set them down and reached in again. He emerged with a quiet look in his
face—“I shall have to trouble you to take out all the things in that
cupboard,” he said with a motion of his hand.
Uncle William’s face had dropped a little. “I most knew you ’d want me
to do that,” he said, “I o’ ’t to ’a’ done it, this morning, before you
came.”
The man laughed out. “That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. I don’t mind your
bluffing—as long as you play fair. But that cupboard is a give-away,
dead easy.”
Uncle William sighed a little. “I wish had my clam-rake,” he said.
The man stared at him—
“I gen’ally use my clam-rake to haul ’em out,” explained Uncle William
kindly. “I can shove ’em in with the broom or a stick of wood or most
anything, but it’s kind o’ hard gettin’ ’em out—specially for a big man
like me—” He reached in and drew out an ample armful—dippers and pans
and plates and spoons and bowls—then another armful—mostly tinware and
kettles—and then a third—spreading them on the floor about him with
lavish hand. Now and then he stopped to exclaim over some lost treasure
as it came to light. If doom must come, Uncle William did not propose to
meet it more than half way nor with gloomy countenance.
The fish-warden watched him with his little cynical smile, and Andy
hitched uneasily in his chair.
“There—” Uncle William drew a breath and emerged from the cupboard.
“That’s the last one I can reach—without my rake. You get in, Andy.
You’re smaller ’n I be.”
Andy took firm hold of the seat of his chair. “I don’t want to, Willum.”
“Oh yes, you get right in and fetch ’em out, Andy. I’ll hold the candle
for ye.”
Uncle William lighted a candle and Andy crawled miserably into the
depths. His voice came out, gloomy and protesting, as he handed out a
few last articles. Then there was a long pause and a sound of scraping
on the boards.
Uncle William withdrew the candle.
“He’s comin’ out,” he said.
The fish-warden bent forward, a look of quick interest in his face.
Slowly Andy backed into the room and lifted an awed face. In his hand
he held a small monse-trap. “There ain’t a durned thing left,” he said,
“except this.” He held it up and looked at it—and blinked. Then he laid
it down on the table and looked at it again, fondly—and blinked. A large
grin stole into his face. “I put that monse-trap there—time Juno run
away,” he said—“the time you was down to New York.” He had turned to
William.
Uncle William was looking at the fish-warden, a kindly smile on his
face.
The warden ignored it. “I’ll trouble you for that candle,” he said,
“I’ll take a look myself.”
Uncle William handed it to him and he held it far into the cupboard,
peering at the top and sides and floor. He withdrew it, blowing it out
with a quick puff—“You’ve got off this time,” he said, “but that smell
ought to convict you—if there was any justice in law.”
“Well, I do’ ’no ’s there is,” said Uncle William, “do you? It does
smell good.” He sniffed a little. “‘Seems’s if they ought to put that in
the schedule they send us, ’Any lobsters, claws or smells found in the
possession of any person whatsoever.’.rdquo; Uncle William marked off
the count on his fingers with kindly eye and beamed. “You could fine me
fifty dollars, or some such matter as that—for that cupboard, I
should think.” The eyes behind the big spectacles twinkled with good
fellowship.
The fish-warden looked at him. Then he looked at the empty cupboard and
at Andy and the mouse-trap—He smiled a little. “You might speak to
them about the law yourself,” he said. “I can testify it ought to be
changed.”
“We ’d like to speak to ’em,” said Uncle William, “—about a good many
things. About this lobster-law, now,” He motioned toward the mouse-trap,
“We don’t want any such law. I ain’t a canning factory. We ain’t
pirates, nor lawbreakers here—”
The young man smiled a little.
“Not without we have to be,” said Uncle William quickly. “They’re our
lobsters, and mostly we know what’s good for ’em—and what’s good for us,
and if we want to ketch a few and eat, now and then, we don’t need no
inspector.... Not but what we’re always glad to see you,” he said.
He held out his hand kindly. “I know—by the looks of your wife and
babies—you’re a good man.”
The young man took the big hand, smiling a little. “I’m glad to have
met you, Mr. Benslow,” he said slowly. He looked at him a minute, as if
something in the big face puzzled him. Then he turned away with a little
shake of his head. “I shouldn’t want to meet you regularly—not if I’m
going to keep on being fish-warden,” he said.
Uncle William chuckled a little. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Mason—there’s
lots of jobs for them that needs ’em—some of ’em right and some of ’em
wrong—and I reckon the main thing is to do what we hev to do as well as
we can and not worry.”
He watched the young man down the rocky path, trundling his wheel beside
him. Then he turned back to the red room. He stooped and ran his big
hand along Juno’s back, as it arched to his touch, smoothing it slowly.
Andy looked at him with sheepish grin. “Where ’d you put ’em, Willum?”
he said.
Uncle William glanced out of the window at the dimpling harbor. A little
breeze blew across it and the waves darkened and ran. He smiled at them
and then at Andy. “I see his lights last night,” he said, “along about
midnight, off the Point, and I says to myself, ’Least said, soonest
mended,’ so I took ’em down and heaved ’em. It hurt Juno some—” He
smoothed the gray back gently, “But she feels all right about it now, I
guess, same as we do.”
V
UNCLE WILLIAM was wondering whether he could leave the frying-pan
another day. He had promised Benjy he would come up... the sun was
shining and Benjy needed him. He went to the door, with the pan in his
hand, and looked out. He took in great sniffs of salt air, looking
over his spectacles at the moor and the sky light on the rocks and the
stretch of his face was mild and happy, and his look rested casually
on a figure that had left the beach and was coming up the rocky path.
Presently he leaned forward, waving the frying-pan back and forth.
“‘Morning, George,” he called.
The young man came on, with even, swift steps that did not hurry. He
held an envelope in his hand. “Letter for you, Uncle,” he said.
Uncle William laid down the frying-pan and held out his hand. A mild
and benevolent curiosity held the big face. His look welcomed the
whole world shut up in the bit of envelope. He took it and studied the
inscription and pushed up his spectacles, looking at the young man with
satisfaction. “Set down, Georgie,” he said—“It’s from Celia.”
“Who’s Celia?” asked the young man. He seated himself on a rock and
plucked a stem of grass, taking it in his teeth.
Uncle William looked at him again and settled slowly into the
doorway—filling it, with the big, checked apron about him—“You ain’t
ever seen Celia, I reckon?” he said.
“Don’t believe I have,” responded
George. He was looking across the harbor, turning the bit of grass
between his teeth. His glance sought the envelope again, “Come from
around here?” he asked.
Uncle William opened it with slow, careful fingers. “Well, not exactly
round here.” He drew out the sheet and smoothed it on his knee and
rubbed his fingers on his apron, and took up the paper, holding it
arm’s length. “It’s somebody ’t ’s coming to live with us,” he explained
kindly.
“Oh—?”
Uncle William read on. He laid down the paper and took off his glasses,
waving them at the landscape. “Some like a woman!” he said.
George turned and looked behind him.
“I don’t mean off there,” said Uncle William, “I mean here—what she
says,” He took up the letter, “She says she can’t come yet—not just
yet.” He mumbled to the words kindly.... “It’s her clothes,” he
volunteered, “She’s got to get some new ones or fix her old ones, or
suthin—I don’t just understand what ’tis she’s doin’.”
“Don’t need to, do you!” said the young man. His tone was even, and a
little contemptuous.
Uncle William eyed him a minute. “You wa ’n’t ever much acquainted with
women, was ye, George?”
“I don’t know as I was,” said the young man. “Too busy, I guess.”
“Yes—you al’ays keep a-doin’—same as I do,” said Uncle William. “But
I’ve kind o’ watched ’em—between times—women. They’re interestin’,” he
added, “—a leetle more interesting ’n men be, I reckon.”
A little smile held the face opposite him. “Men are good enough for me,”
he said.
“You can talk to men—sensible—know what they mean.”
“That’s it,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s what I like about
women—you can’t tell what they mean—it keeps you guessing, kind of—makes
you feel lively in your mind.”
“My mind’s lively enough without that,” said George carelessly. His eye
was on the dark water and the little white-caps that rode on it.
“Well, I do’ ’no’. I like to have a good many things to think about—when
I’m settin’,” said Uncle William, “and when I’m sailin’. I keep quite
a lot of ’em tucked away in my mind somewheres—and fetch ’em out when I
have a minute or two, quiet-like, to myself.” He touched the letter in
his hand, almost reverently, “The’s suthin about women ’t I can’t
make out—” he said, “If it’s a wedding or a funeral or going away,
or whatever ’tis—most the first thing they think about is their
clothes—like Celia here—” he touched the letter again.... “Now, that’s
interestin’—’bout their clothes, ain’t it!” He beamed on him.
The young man returned the look tolerantly. “Foolishness,” he said.
Uncle William nodded. “I know—foolishness for you and me and Andy—and
for Benjy, mebbe. But ’tain’t foolishness for women. You can see that,
the way they do it. It’s kind o’ like goin’ to church to ’em and they
don’t really feel right without they’re doing it.... It’s kind o’ pretty
to see ’em—al’ays a-makin’ and plannin’—and makin’ ’em for the little
ones ’fore they come—turning ’em over, and showin’ ’em to other women,
like enough—not sayin’ much—just lookin’ at ’em.”
The young man on the rock stirred uneasily.
Uncle William went on hastily. “I reckon it ain’t wrong for Celia to
think about getting her clothes ready.” He was smiling at the letter.
“It’s when they stop thinkin’ about ’em that it’s wrong.... Why, it’s
kind o’ awful!” he added severely.
The young man laughed out. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Uncle
William. “—Like Andy’s wife’s!” he said.
“Like Harr’et,” assented Uncle William. “Harr’et ’ll wear
anything—anything ’t covers her, that is. She ’d wear sailcloth, I
reckon, if ’t wa ’n’t so hard to sew—old ones, you know, ’t was wore out
for sailin’. Harr’et wouldn’t waste new sails on her.... And that kind
o’ hard way she has of doin’ her hair—like a doughnut—only harder—”
Uncle William rubbed the back of his head reflectively. “I do’ ’no’ what
’tis about Harr’et. I al’ays feel’s if the woman part of her was gone
off somewheres.... It’s the woman part ’t makes ’em interestin’, I
reckon. You al’ays kind o’ wonder—”
“Andy don’t wonder much,” said the young man. “He’s learned mostly.” He
was regarding Uncle William curiously and his face had an alert look. “I
never thought about women that way before,” he said, turning the bit
of grass in his teeth. “You make ’em seem interesting, Uncle William—as
interesting as a boat—or fishing—or doing arithmetic.” He laughed out.
“Celia’s letter reads to me ’s if she ’d kind o’ keep you guessing,”
said Uncle William, taking it up.
“I’ve got to be going,” said George. He stood up.
“Now, don’t you go yet awhile, Georgie.” Uncle William got to his feet,
looking about him, “The’s two-three little things I wanted to ask you
about. The ketch to my cupboard door don’t work good.”
They went into the house and Uncle William tucked the letter behind the
clock.
The young man examined the lock and took a file from his pocket and
filed the catch a little, whistling softly. His face had a keen, happy
look.
Uncle William filled the tea-kettle and put it on and came across and
bent over the young man, a hand on either knee. “I al’ays like to watch
ye doin’ things, George. You do ’em so kind o’ neat.”