The old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. “Go right along
in,” he said. “I’ll be there ’s soon as I’ve got an armful of wood.”
The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red blazed at the windows
and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire
and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a
sudden sense of crude comfort.
The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked
about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and
came across, rubbing his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.
She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately
step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious
gaze.
“All right, Juno,” he said. “He’ll be along in a minute. Don’t you
worry.”
She turned her back on him and, seating herself, began to wash her face
gravely and slowly.
The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon
the big leg that entered and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of
welcome.
Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes.
He reached down a long arm and, seizing her by the tail, swung her clear
of his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of satisfaction,
she settled herself, kneading her claws in its red softness.
He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze
swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and
poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. “That’s all right,” he
said. “She’ll heat up quick.” He thrust in some light sticks and pushed
forward the kettle. “Now, if you’ll reach into that box behind you and
get the potatoes,” he said, “I’ll do the rest of the fixin’s.”
He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red
and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from
behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to
his blue eyes with a little frown. “They’re a terrible bother,” he said,
squinting through them and readjusting them. “But I don’t dare resk
it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the
salt--same shape. The chowder _was_ hot.” He chuckled. “I can see a boat
a mile off,” he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, “but
a pepper-box two feet’s beyond me.” He stood at the sink, rubbing the
clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the
window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that stretched below, far
as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining
baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the
vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor fashion, about his throat.
Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered
with a kind of slow patience,--in a smaller man it would have been
fussiness,--and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out with
careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in spite
of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced toward the
window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. “Time to set my
light,” he said. He lighted a ship’s lantern and placed it carefully in
the window.
The artist watched him with amused eyes. “You waste a lot of oil on the
government, Uncle William,” he said laughingly. “Why don’t you apply for
a salary?”
Uncle William smiled genially. “Well, I s’pose the guvernment would say
the’ wa’n’t any reel need for a light here. And I don’t s’pose the’ is,
_myself_--not any _reel_ need. But it’s a comfort. The boys like to see
it, comin’ in at night. They’ve sailed by it a good many year now, and
I reckon they’d miss it. It’s cur’us how you do miss a thing that’s a
comfort--more’n you do one ’t you reely _need_ sometimes.” He lighted
the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam above, and surveyed the
table. He drew up his chair. “Well, it’s ready,” he said, “such as it
is.”
“That’s all airs, Uncle William,” said the young man, drawing up. “You
know it’s fit for a king.”
“Yes, it’s good,” said the old man, beaming on him. “I’ve thought a good
many times there wa’n’t anything in the world that tasted better
than chowder--real good clam chowder.” His mouth opened to take in a
spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross
in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big
spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge
from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.
“There was a man up here to Arichat one summer,” he said, chewing
slowly, “that e’t my chowder. And he was sort o’ possessed to have me go
back home with him.”
The artist smiled. “Just to make chowder for him?”
The old man nodded. “Sounds cur’us, don’t it? But that was what he
wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o’ got the idea that if he
could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He
offered me a good deal o’ money if I’d go with him--said he’d give
me five hunderd a year and keep.” The old man chuckled. “I told him I
wouldn’t go for a thousand--not for two thousand,” he said emphatically.
“Why, I don’t s’pose there’s money enough in New York to tempt me to
live there.
“Have you been there?”
“Yes, I’ve been there a good many times. We’ve put in for repairs and
one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and
Liverpool once. It’s a terrible shet-in place,” he said suddenly.
“I believe you’re right,” admitted the young man. He had lighted his
pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. “You _do_ feel shut
in--sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you.”
“That’s what I meant,” he said, quickly. “I can’t stan’ so many folks.”
“You’re not much crowded here.” The young man lifted his head. Down
below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed
against the little house whirlingly.
The old man listened a minute. “I shall have to go down and reef her
down,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s goin’ to blow.”
“I should say it _is_ blowing,” said the young man.
“Not yet,” returned Uncle William. “You’ll hear it blow afore mornin’
if you stay awake to listen--though it won’t sound so loud up the shore
where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and nobody on
either side of you--for half a mile.” A kind of mellow enthusiasm held
the tone.
The young man smiled. “You _are_ a hermit. Suppose somebody should build
next you?”
“They can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I own it.”
“A mile?”
The old man nodded. “Not the shore, of course. That’s free to all. But
where anybody could build I own.” He said it almost exultantly. “I
guess maybe I’m part Indian.” He smiled apologetically. “I can’t seem to
breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once, how
I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought it. I’m
what they call around here ’land-poor.’” He said it with satisfaction.
“I can’t scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it’s ’s
much as I can do to keep the _Jennie_ patched up and going. But I’m
comfortable. I don’t really want for anything.”
“Yes, you’re comfortable.” The young man glanced about the snug room.
“There ain’t a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me.” He got up
with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “I’m goin’ to make
things snug and put down the other anchor,” he said. “You stay till I
come back and we’ll have suthin’ hot.”
He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its
hook, went out into the night.
Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It
glowed. The cat purred in its depths.