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, flashing 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;--nobody’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 shifting 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.

The man stepped in and seized the oars. “I’ll help get her off,” he

said, “but I won’t go.”

In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William’s

face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. “I guess

you’ll go, Andrew,” he said; “you wouldn’t want a man drowned right at

your door-yard.”

“You can’t live in it,” said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light.

Far to the east a boat crawled against it. “It’ll strike in five

minutes,” he said.

“Like enough,” said Uncle William--“like enough. Easy there!” He seized

the stern of the _Andrew Halloran_ and sprang on board. They worked

in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail,--a single

reef,--making it fast. “All she’ll stan’,” said Uncle William. He turned

to the helm.

Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. “If she’s

going out, I take her,” he said.

“You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy,” said Uncle William.

In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with

cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The

boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the

murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.

The light thickened and grew black--clouded and dense and swift. Then,

with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in sheets,

gray-black planes that shut them in--blinded them, crushed them. Andrew,

crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer--hugging the

wind with tense grasp. About them, the water flattened like a plate

beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second they saw it, a

gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle

William bent to it, scanning the east. “Hold her tight, Andy,” he

yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and his back strained to

it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed flat to the big skull,

were mere lines. “Hold her tight! Make fast!” he yelled again.

Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened

to ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and clouds were all

about them--underneath them, and over. The boat, towering on each wave,

dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy, crouching on the bottom of

the boat, held on like grim death. Then, in a breath the storm was gone.

With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling

behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam.

Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle,

breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east.

Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping

off the wet. “There she is!” he said in a deep voice. “Let her out,

Andy.”

With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef

and loosing it to the wind.

The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew past.

But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered,

monstrous and black.

With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller.

“We’ll make it, Andy,” he said quietly. “We’ll make it yet if the

_Jennie_ holds out--” Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller,

his eyes glued fast.

“Luff her,” he cried. “She’s gone--Luff her, I tell you!” He sprang

back, jamming the tiller from him. “Let her out, Andy, every inch!”

The canvas flew wide to the wind. The great boat responded to its touch.

She rose like a bird and dipped, in sweeping sidewise flight, to the

race.

Across the water something bobbed--black, uncertain.

“Look sharp, Andy,” said Uncle William.

Andrew peered with blinking eyes across the waste. The spirit of the

chase was on him. His indifference had washed from him, like a husk,

in that center of terror. His eyes leaped to the mass and glowed on it.

“Yep,” he said solemnly, “he’s held on--he’s there!”

“Keep your eye on her, Andy. Don’t lose her.” Uncle William’s big arms

strained to the wind, forcing the great bird in her course. Nearer

she came and nearer, circling with white wings that opened and closed

silently, softly. Close to the bobbing boat she grazed, hung poised a

moment, and swept away with swift stroke.

The artist had swung through the air at the end of a huge arm. As he

looked up from the bottom of the boat where he lay, the old man’s head,

round and smooth, like a boulder, stood out against the black above

him. It grew and expanded and filled the horizon--thick and nebulous and

dizzy.

“Roll him over, Andy,” said Uncle William, “roll him over. He’s shipped

too much.”

V

Uncle William sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine

deftly in and out, squinting now and then across the harbor at a line of

smoke that dwindled into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on

the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent to his work.

Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of

nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt. Straightening himself, he

glanced at the line of smoke. “_He’s_ gone,” he said, jerking his thumb

toward it.

“He’s gone,” assented Uncle William, cheerfully.

Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him,

spreading it along the beach. “He’s left _you_ poorer’n he found you,”

he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying knots

and straightening meshes.

“I dunno ’bout that,” said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff of

smoke kindly.

“You kep’ him a good deal, off and on. He must ’a’ e’t considerable,”

said Andrew. “And now he’s up and lost your boat for you.” He glanced

complacently at the _Andrew Halloran_ swinging at anchor. “You’ll never

see _her_ again,” he said. He gave a final toss to the net.

“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William. “Mebbe not.” His eyes were on the

horizon, where the gray-blue haze lingered lightly. The blue sky dipped

to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William’s eyes returned to his

nets.

“How you going to get along ’bout a bout?” asked Andrew, carelessly.

Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. “I shouldn’t need

her much more this fall, anyways,” he said. “An’ come spring, I’ll get

another. I’ve been needin’ a new boat a good while.”

Andrew grunted. He glanced a little jealously at the _Andrew Halloran_.

“Got the money?” he asked.

“Well, not _got_ it, so to speak,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I

shall have it when the time comes.”

Andrew’s face lightened a little. “What you countin’ on?” he said.

Uncle William considered. “There’s the fish. Gunnion hain’t settled with

me yet for my fish.”

Andrew nodded. “Seventy-five dollars.”

“And I’ve got quite a count of lobsters up to the boardin’-house--”

Andrew’s small eyes squinted knowingly. “Out o’ season?”

Uncle William returned the look benignly. “We didn’t date the

’count--just lumped ’em, so much a catch; saves trouble.”

Andrew chuckled. “I’ve saved trouble that way myself.” He made a rough

calculation. “It won’t make a hunderd, all told. How you goin’ to get

the rest?”

“Mebbe I shall borrow it,” said Uncle William. He looked serenely at the

sky. “Like enough _he’ll_ send a little suthin’,” he added.

“Like enough!” said Andrew.

“He mentioned it,” said Uncle William.

“He’s gone,” said Andrew. He gave a light _p-f-f_ with his lips and

screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away.

Uncle William smiled. “You don’t have faith, Andy,” he said

reproachfully. “Folks do do things, a good many times--things that they

say they will. You o’t to have faith.”

Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hev

suthin’ to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully.

They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the

sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby black heads inquiringly in the

water and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks.

Andrew’s eyes rested impassively on their gambols. “Wuthless critters,”

he said.

Uncle William’s face softened as he watched them. “I kind o’ like to

see ’em, Andy--up and down and bobbin’ and sloppin’ and scramblin’; you

never know _where_ they’ll come up next.”

“Don’t need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can’t eat the blamed things--nor wear

’em. I tell you, Willum,”--he turned a gloomy eye on his companion,--“I

tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things.”

“Mebbe I do,” said William, humbly.

“This one, now--this painter fellow.” Andrew gave a wave of his hand

that condensed scorn. “What’d you get out o’ him, a-gabblin’ and sailin’

all summer?”

“I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put into words,” said William,

thoughtfully, “what I _did_ get out o’ him.”

“Ump! I guess you couldn’t--nor anybody else. When he sends you anything

for that boat o’ yourn, you jest let me know it, will you?”

“Why, yes, Andy, I’ll let you know if you want me to. I’ll be reel

pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William.