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 hoarded 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 shore. 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, finishing 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?”
“Picters,” responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. “There’s one
of my house,”--lofty pride held the voice,--“and one of the cove down
below, and two up by the end of old Bodet place, and one on the hill,
this side of your place. Now, that’s quite a nice lot, ain’t it?”
“What’s he going to do with ’em,” asked Andy.
“There’s a kind of exhibit goin’ on.” Uncle William consulted the
letter. “‘The Exhibition of American Artists’--suthin’ like a fair, I
take it. And he’s goin’ to send ’em.”
“Thinks he’ll take a prize, I s’pose.” Andy’s tone held fine scepticism.
“Well, I dunno. He don’t say nuthin’ about a prize. He does kind o’ hint
that he’ll be sendin’ me suthin’ pretty soon. I guess likely there’ll
be prizes. He o’t to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters,
fust-rate--”
“The whole lot wa’n’t wuth the _Jennie_.” Andy spoke with sharp
jealousy.
“Well, mebbe not--mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?”
“_I_ don’t care,” sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and
arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.
Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.
“It’s your move, Andy.”
Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of
the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers.
“Go ahead.”
Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving
calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward.
“Same move you al’ays make,” said Andy, contemptuously.
“Sometimes I beat that way, don’t I?”
“And sometimes you don’t.” Andy shoved forward another piece. The quick
movement expressed scorn of dawdlers.
Uncle William met it mildly. He set his man in place with slow care.
Andy paused. He snorted a little. He bent above the board, knitting his
forehead. His hand reached out and drew back. The fingers reached out
and drew back. The fingers drummed a little on the edge of the board.
Uncle William, leaning forward, a hand on either knee, beamed on him
benignantly.
Andy shifted a little in his chair. “You’re going to get into trouble,”
he said warningly, “if you move that way.”
“Like enough, like enough. I gen’ally do. Is it my move?”
“No,” growled Andy. He returned to the board. The game was on in
earnest. Now and then Andy grunted or moved a leg, and once or twice
Uncle William arose to put more wood into the glowing stove. But he
did it with the gaze of a sleep-walker. Outside the wind had risen and
dashed fiercely against the little house. Neither man lifted his head to
listen. Their hands reached mechanically to the pieces. They jumped men
and placed them one side with impassive faces. The board was clearing
fast. Only seven men remained. Andy moved forward a piece with a swift
flourish. He gave a little growl of triumph.
Uncle William studied the board. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted a
piece and moved it cautiously.
Andy made the counter move in triumphant haste. “King,” he announced.
Uncle William covered the man, a little smile dawning in his eye. He
looked at the pieces affectionately. A chuckle sounded somewhere in the
room.
Andy looked up quickly. He glanced again at the board. Wrath froze his
gaze.
Uncle William leaned back, nodding at him with genial meaning. A little
conscious triumph flavored the nod.
Andy shoved back from the board. “Well, why don’t you take it? Take it
if you’re goin’ to, and don’t set there cackling!”
“Why, Andy!” Uncle William moved the man mildly.
Andy shoved the counter in place with scornful touch.
Uncle William moved again.
Andy got up, looking sternly for his hat.
“Can’t you stay to dinner, Andy?”
“No.”
“I was goin’ to have a little meat.”
“Can’t stay.”
“It’s stormin’ putty hard.”
“_I_ don’t care!” He moved toward the door.
Uncle William took down an oil-skin coat from its peg. “You better put
this on if ye can’t stay. No use in gettin’ wet through.”
Andy put it on and buttoned it up in fierce silence.
Uncle William watched him benignly. “If ’t was so ’s ’t you could stay,
we could play another after dinner--play the rubber. You beat _me_ last
time, you know.” He took off the stove-lid and peered in.
Andy’s eye had relaxed a little under its gloom. “When you goin’ to have
dinner?” he asked.
“I was thinkin’ of havin’ it putty soon. I can have it right off if
you’ll stay--must be ’most time.” He pulled a great watch from its fob
pocket and looked at it with absent eye. His gaze deepened. He looked
up slowly. Then he smiled--a cheerful smile that took in Andy, the board
with its scattered checkers, Juno on the lounge, and the whole red room.
“Well, what time is it?” said Andy.
“It’s five minutes to three, Andy. Guess you’d better stay,” said Uncle
William.