I
“Yes, I’m shif’less. I’m gen’ally considered shif’less,” said William
Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers
skilfully into place by their one suspender.
His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor
at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he
failed to find in his color-box.
William Benslow watched him patiently. “Kind o’ ticklish business, ain’t
it?” he said.
The artist admitted that it was.
“I reckon I wouldn’t ever ’a’ done for a painter,” said the old man,
readjusting his legs. “It’s settin’-work, and that’s good; but you have
to keep at it steady-like--keep a-daubin’ and a-scrapin’ and a-daubin’
and a-scrapin’, day in and day out. I shouldn’t like it. Sailin’ ’s more
in my line,” he added, scanning the horizon. “You have to step lively
when you do step, but there’s plenty of off times when you can set and
look and the boat just goes skimmin’ along all o’ herself, with the
water and the sky all round you. I’ve been thankful a good many times
the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me.”
The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumble-down house on
the cliff above them and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon
sail, anchored below. “There’s not much money in it?” he suggested.
“Money? Dunno’s there is,” returned the other. “You don’t reely need
money if you’re a sailor.”
“No, I suppose not--no more than an artist.”
“Don’t you need money, either?” The old man spoke with cordial interest.
“Well, occasionally--not much. I have to buy canvas now and then, and
colors--”
The old man nodded. “Same as me. Canvas costs a little, and color. I dye
mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk--”
The artist laughed out. “All right, Uncle William, all right,” he said.
“You teach me to trust in the Lord and I’ll teach you art. You see that
color out there,--deep green like shadowed grass--”
The old man nodded. “I’ve seen that a good many times,” he said.
“Cur’us, ain’t it?--just the color of lobsters when you haul ’em.”
The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor. “Hum-m!” he said
under his breath. He searched in his color-box and mixed a fresh color
rapidly on the palette, transferring it swiftly to the canvas. “Ah-h!”
he said, again under his breath. It held a note of satisfaction.
Uncle William hitched up his suspender and came leisurely across the
sand. He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising
and falling across the bay. “Putty good,” he said approvingly. “You’ve
got it just about the way it looks--”
“Just about,” assented the young man, with quick satisfaction. “Just
about. Thank you.”
Uncle William nodded. “Cur’us, ain’t it? there’s a lot in the way you
see a thing.”
“There certainly is,” said the painter. His brush moved in swift strokes
across the canvas. “There certainly is. I’ve been studying that water
for two hours. I never thought of lobsters.” He laughed happily.
Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. “That’s nateral enough,” he
said kindly. “You hain’t been seein’ it every day for sixty year, the
way I hev.” He looked at it again, lovingly, from his height.
“What’s the good of being an artist if I can’t see things that you
can’t?” demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool.
“Well, what _is_ the use? I dunno; do you?” said Uncle William,
genially. “I’ve thought about that a good many times, too, when I’ve
been sailin’,” he went on--“how them artists come up here summer after
summer makin’ picters,--putty poor, most on ’em,--and what’s the use?
I can see better ones settin’ out there in my boat, any day.--Not but
that’s better’n some,” he added politely, indicating the half-finished
canvas.
The young man laughed. “Thanks to you,” he said. “Come on in and make
a chowder. It’s too late to do any more to-day--and that’s enough.” He
glanced with satisfaction at the glowing canvas with its touch of green.
He set it carefully to one side and gathered up his tubes and brushes.
Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it
apart and folding it with quick skill.
The artist looked up with a nod of thanks. “All right,” he said, “go
ahead.”
Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist
drew it back quickly. “No, no,” he said. “You’d rub it off.”
“Like enough,” returned the old man, placidly. “I gen’ally do get in
a muss when there’s fresh paint around. But I don’t mind my clothes.
They’re ust to it--same as yourn.”
The young man laughed anxiously. “I wouldn’t risk it,” he said. “Come
on.”
They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with
bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on
its edge.