Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring
warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There
was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating--of decayed
vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell
the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he
watched the play of life in the dockshed--the backing of horses and the
shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and
the trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales.
He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey--the
sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from
the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are
innumerable details--duties, inspections and quarantines, and delays and
questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs move with
the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep
Sea--without hurry and without rest.
Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made friends
with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd, his great
bulk towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat, heavy baby down
the length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that blocked the way.
He might have been the Presiding Genius of the place. Men took him in
with a good-humored wink, as he towered along, and women looked after
him gratefully. Amid the bustle and enforced waiting, he was the only
soul at rest. Time belonged to him. He was at home. He had played his
part in similar scenes in hundreds of ports. The city bubbling and
calling outside had no bewilderments for Uncle William. New York was
only one more foreign port, and he had touched too many to have fear of
them. They were all alike--exorbitant cab-men, who came down on their
fare if you stood by your box and refused to let it be lifted till terms
were made; rum-shops and gambling-holes, and worse, hedging the way from
the wharf; soiled women haunting one’s steps, if one halted a bit or
turned to the right or left in indecision. He had talked with women of
every port. They were a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin
hands about the earth, touching it with shame; and they congregated most
where the rivers empty their burden of filth into the sea. Uncle William
knew them well. He could steer a safe path among them; and he could
turn a young man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face.
Uncle William had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a
sailor’s unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port.
He knew which way hell lay, and which of the drivers, backing and
cursing and calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye.
“What’ll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?” Uncle William
indicated the youth beside him.
The driver looked him over with keen eye. “That’s all right.” He moved
along on the seat to make room. “Come on, young man.”
The youth climbed up with clumsy foot.
“You might know of a job,” suggested Uncle William. “He looks strong and
willin’.”
The man nodded back. “I’ll keep an eye on him, sir.” The van rumbled
away and Uncle William faced the crowed once more.
He made friends as he moved among the throngs of hurrying men and women.
Men who never saw him again recalled his face sometimes at night, as
they wakened for a minute from sleep. The big smile reached to them
across time and gave them a sense of the goodness of life before they
turned again and slept.
If he had been a little man, Uncle William would still have run hither
and thither through the crowd, a kind of gnome of usefulness. But his
great frame gave him advantage. He was like a mountain among them--with
the breath of winds about it--or some huge, quiet engine at sea, making
its way with throbbing power.
If the thought of the artist crossed Uncle William’s mind, it did not
disturb him. He was accustomed to do what he called his duty; and it had
for him the simplicity, common to big men, of being the thing next at
hand. Like a force of nature he laid hold on it, and out of the ground
and the sky and the thrill of life, he wrought beauty upon it. If this
were philosophy or religion, Uncle William did not know it. He called it
“jest livin’ along.”
It was ten o’clock before he reached the artist’s rooms, and his rap at
the door, gentle as a woman’s, brought no response. He rapped again.
“What’s wanted?” It was the querulous voice of a sick man.
Uncle William set the door ajar with his foot while he reached behind
him for his box.
The artist had sprung up in bed and was staring at the door. In the dim
light from the street below, his face stood out rigidly white.
Uncle William looked at it kindly as he came across. “There, there,” he
said soothingly. “I guess I’d lie down.” He put his hands on the young
man’s shoulders, pushing him back gently.
The artist yielded to the touch, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Who--are--you?” he said. The words were a whisper.
Uncle Williams’ smile deepened. “I guess ye know _me_ all right, don’t
ye?”
The artist continued to stare at him. “You came through the door. It was
locked.”
“Shucks, no!” said Uncle William. “‘T wa’n’t locked any more’n I be. You
jest forgot it.”
“Did I?” The tense look broke. “I thought you had come again.”
“Well, I hev.”
“I don’t mean that way. Sit down.” He looked feebly for a chair.
Uncle William had drawn one up to the bed. He sat down, bending forward
a little. One big hand rested on the young man’s wrist. “Now, tell me
all about it,” he said quietly.
The artist raised his eyes with a smile. He drew a deep breath.
“Yes--you’ve come,” he said. “You’ve come.”
“I’ve come,” said Uncle William. His big bulk had not stirred. It seemed
to fill the room.
The sick man rested in it. His eyes closed. “I’ve wanted--you.”
Uncle William nodded. “Sick folks get fancies,” he said.
“--and I kept seeing you in the fever--and you--” The voice droned away
and was still.
Uncle William sat quiet, one hand on the thin wrist. The galloping pulse
slowed--and leaped again--and fluttered, and fell at last to even beats.
The tense muscles relaxed. The parted lips closed with a half-smile.
Uncle William bent forward, watching it. In the dim light of the room,
his face had a kind of gentleness--a kindliness and bigness that watched
over the night and reached out beyond it to the ends of the earth.
X
In the morning the big form was still there. The artist turned to it as
he opened his eyes. “You are not gone!”
“Gone? Land, no!” Uncle William sat up from a cat-nap, rubbing his
eyes and blinking a little. “I cal’ate to stay quite a spell yet.” He
stretched his great legs slowly, first one and then the other, as if
testing them.
Reproach filled the artist’s eyes. “You’ve not lain down all night!”
“Didn’t need to,” said Uncle William. He got to his feet briskly. “I
slep’ a good deal comin’ down in the boat. There wa’n’t a great deal
goin’ on. If you’ve got a little water and soap handy, I reckon I could
use it.”
The artist half started to get up, but a firm hand held him back. “Now,
stay right there. You jest tell me where things be--”
He pointed to a door at the left. “You won’t find it in very good order,
I’m afraid.”
“Don’t you mind.” Uncle William had disappeared through the doorway. “It
won’t bother me a mite.” His voice came back sociably. “I’m considabul
ust to havin’ things mussed up.”
The artist lay with a smile, listening to the sounds that came through
the half-open door--thumping and blowing and splashing.
Uncle William reappeared with shining face. “It seems good to hev
suthin’ bigger’n a teacup to wash in,” he said. “I like the hull ocean,
myself, but a tub does putty well. Now, jest let me see.”
He drew up to the bed, looking at the young man with keen glance.
“Oh, I’m all right--now.”
“Had a fever?”
“A little--yes.”
“You all alone?”
“There’s a man comes in by and by. He’ll clean up and get things for
me.”
Uncle William ignored the pride in the tone. “Jest roll over a little
mite. There--” He placed his broad hand under the thin back. “Feel sore
there? Kind o’ hurts, don’t it? I thought so--There.” He laid him back
gently. “You jest wait a minute.” He was fumbling at the lock that held
his box.
“Are you a doctor?” The young man was watching him with half-amused
eyes.
“Well, not a doctor exactly.” Uncle William had taken out a small bottle
and was holding it up to the light, squinting through it. “But I had a
fever once, myself--kep’ a-runnin’.” He had come over to the bedside,
the bottle in his hand. “You got a doctor?”
The young man shook his head. “He will come if I send for him.”
Uncle William nodded. “That’s the best kind.” He held out the bottle.
“I’d like to give you ’bout five on ’em.”
“What are they?”
“Well, that’s what I don’t know, but it took about five on ’em to break
up mine.” He had poured one into the palm of his hand and held it out.
It was a small, roughly shaped pill, with grayish surface pitted with
black.
The young man eyed it doubtfully.
“It _don’t_ look very nice,” said Uncle William, “and the man that made
it never had a stitch of clothes on his back in his life; but I guess
you better take it.”
The young man opened his lips. The thing slid down, leaving a sickish,
sweetish taste behind it.
Uncle William brought him a glass of water. “I know how it tastes, but I
reckon it’ll do the work. Now, let’s see.” he stood back, surveying the
untidy room, a mellow smile on his lips. “‘T is kind o’ cluttered up,”
he said. “I’ll jest make a path through.” He gathered up a handful of
shoes and slippers and thrust them under the bed, drawing the spread
down to hid them. The cups and glasses and scattered spoons and knives
he bore away to the bath-room, and the artist heard them descending
into the tub with a sound of rushing water. Uncle William returned
triumphant. “I’ve put ’em a-soak,” he explained. The table-spread, with
its stumps of cigars, bits of torn papers, and collars and neckties and
books and paint-brushes and tubes, he gathered up by the four corners,
dumping it into a half-open drawer. He closed the drawer firmly. “Might
’s well start fresh.” He replaced the spread and stood back, surveying
it proudly. “What’s that door?” He pointed across the room.
“It’s your bedroom,” said the artist, a little uneasily. “But I don’t
believe you can get in.”
Uncle William approached cautiously. He pushed open the door and looked
in. He came back beaming. “The’ ’s quite a nice lot of room,” he said,
taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it away.
The artist lay looking about the room with brightening eyes. The
window-shades were still askew and there were garments here and there,
but Uncle William’s path was a success. The sun was coming over the tops
of the houses opposite, and Uncle William reappeared with shining face.
“You reely needed a man around,” he said. “I’m putty glad I come.”
“What made you come?” asked the artist.
“What made me?” Uncle William paused, looking about him. “Where’s my
spectacles? Must ’a’ left ’em in there.” He disappeared once more.
While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when
he opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a cup of
something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man’s head, raising it
while he drank.
The artist took his time--in slow, surprised sips. “It’s good!” he said.
He released the cup slowly.
Uncle William nodded. “I’ve been overhaulin’ your locker a little.”
“You didn’t find _that_ in it.” The artist motioned to the cup.
“Well--all but a drop or two,” said Uncle William, setting it down. “A
drop o’ suthin’ hot’ll make ’most anything tasty, I reckon. I’ll go out
and stock up pretty soon.”
A slow color had come into the artist’s face. He turned it away. “I
don’t need much,” he said.
“No more’n a robin,” said Uncle William, cheerfully; “but I can’t live
on bird-seed myself. I reckon I’ll lay in suthin’--two-three crackers,
mebbe, enough to make a chowder.”
The young man laughed out. “I feel better,” he declared.
“It’s a good pill,” said Uncle William. “Must be ’most time for
another.” He pulled out his great watch. “Jest about.” He doled out the
pill with careful hand.
The young man looked at the bottle. “You haven’t many left?”
“Eight more,” said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. “That
’lows for one more fever for me afore I die--I don’t cal’ate to have but
one more.” He looked about for his hat. “I’m goin’ out a little while,”
he said, settling it on his head.
“Wait a minute, Uncle William.” The young man stretched out his hand.
“How did you come to know I needed you?”
Uncle William took the hand in his, patting it slowly. “Why, that was
nateral enough,” he said. “When Sergia wrote me, sayin’ you was sick--”
“Sergia wrote you?” the young man had turned away his eyes. “She should
not have done it. She had no right--”
“Why not?” said Uncle William. He seated himself by the bed. There
was something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. “You’re goin’ to be
married, ain’t you?”
The head on the pillow turned uneasily. “No--not now.”
“Why not?”
“I shall never be able to take care of her.”
“Shucks!” said Uncle William. “Let her take care of you, then.”
The tears of weakness came into the young man’s eyes.
Uncle William’s gaze was fixed on space. “You’ve been foolish,” he
said--“turrible foolish. I don’t doubt she wants to marry you this
minute.”
“She shall not do it.” He spoke almost fiercely.
“There, there,” said Uncle William, soothingly, “I wouldn’t make such a
fuss about it. Nobody’s goin’ to marry you ’thout you want ’em to. You
jest quiet down and go to sleep. We’ll talk it over when I come back.”