It was fortunate that the artist was better, for Uncle William became
lost in the kittens and their welfare. The weakest thing at hand claimed
his interest. He carried them in a clam-basket from point to point,
seeing the best spots for their comfort and development. Juno marched at
his side, proud and happy. She purred approval of the universe and the
ways of man. Wherever Uncle William deposited the basket, she took up
her abode, serenely pleased; and when, a few hours later, he shifted it
on account of wind or rain or sun, she followed without demur. For her
the sun rose and set in Uncle William’s round face and the depths of the
clam-basket.
The artist watched the comedy with amused disapproval. He suspected
Uncle William of trifling away the time. The spring was fairly upon
them, and the _Andrew Halloran_ still swung at anchor alone at the foot
of the cliff. Whenever the artist broached the subject of a new boat,
Uncle William turned it aside with a jest and trotted off to his
clam-basket. The artist brooded in silence over his indebtedness and the
scant chance of making it good. He got out canvas and brushes and began
to paint, urged by a vague sense that it might bring in something, some
time. When he saw that Uncle William was pleased, he kept on. The work
took his mind off himself, and he grew strong and vigorous. Andy,
coming upon him one day on the beach, looked at his brown face almost
in disapproval. “You’re a-feelin’ putty well, ain’t you?” he said
grudgingly.
“I am,” responded the artist. He mixed the color slowly on his palette.
A new idea had come into his head. He turned it over once and then
looked at Andy. The look was not altogether encouraging. But he brought
it out quickly. “You’re a rich man, aren’t you, Andy?”
Andy, pleased and resentful, hitched the leg of his trousers. “I dunno’s
I be,” he said slowly. “I’ve got money--some. But it takes a pile to
live on.”
“Yes?” The artist stood away from his canvas, looking at it. “You and
Uncle William are pretty good friends, aren’t you?”
“Good enough,” replied Andy. His mouth shut itself securely.
The artist did not look at it. He hastened on. “He misses his boat a
good deal.”
“I know that,” snapped Andy. His green eye glowered at the bay. “Ef it
hadn’t been for foolishness he’d hev it now.”
The artist worked on quietly. “I lost his boat for him, Andy. I know
that as well as you do. You needn’t rub it in.”
“What you goin’ to do about it?” demanded Andy.
“I’m goin’ to ask you to lend me the money for a new one.”
“No, sir!” Andy put his hands in his pockets.
“I’ll give you my note for it,” said the artist.
“I do’ want your note,” retorted Andy. “I’d rather have William’s and
his ain’t wuth the paper it’s writ on.”
The artist flushed under his new color. “I don’t know just why you say
that. I shall pay all I owe--in time.”
“Well, you may, and then again you mayn’t,” said Andy. His tone was less
crusty. “All I know is, you’ve cost William a heap o’ money, fust and
last. You’ve et a good deal, and you lost the _Jennie_, and he had to
borrow a hunderd of me to go to New York with.” Andy spoke with unction.
He was relieving his mind.
The artist looked up. “I didn’t know that.” He began to gather up his
materials.
“What you goin’ to do?” asked Andy.
“I’m going to find Uncle William,” said the artist.
Andy fidgeted a little. He looked off at the water. “I wa’n’t findin’ no
fault,” he said uneasily. “I was just explainin’ why I couldn’t resk any
more o’ my money on him.”
“That’s all right,” said the artist. “I want to see him.”
He found Uncle William sunning the kittens at the east of the house. He
looked up with a nod as the artist appeared. “They’re doin’ fust-rate,”
he said, adjusting the clam-basket a little. “They’ll be a credit to
their raisin’. Set down.”
The artist seated himself on a rock near by. The sun fell warm on his
back. Across the harbor a little breeze ran rippling. At the foot of
the cliff Andy was making ready to lift anchor. The artist watched him a
minute. “You’ve wasted a good deal of money on me,” he said soberly.
Uncle William looked at him. He dropped an eye to the _Andrew Halloran_.
“He been talkin’ to ye?” he asked cheerfully.
“He told me you borrowed of him--”
“Now, don’t you mind that a mite. Andy don’t. He’s proud as Punch to
hev me owe him suthin’. He reminds me of it every day or two. All I mind
about is your frettin’ and takin’ on so. If you’d jest be easy in your
mind, we’d have a reel comf’tabul time--with the kittens and all.” He
replaced one that had sprawled over the edge. “The’ ’s a lot o’ comfort
in doin’ for dumb things,” he went on cheerfully. “They can’t find fault
with the way you fix ’em.” He chuckled a little.
The artist smiled. “Look here, Uncle William, you can’t fool me any
longer. You’re just pining for a boat. Look at that!” He waved his hand
at the water dimpling below.
Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly for a minute.
“And you sit here dawdling over that basket of kittens!” Scorn and
disgust struggled in the artist’s voice.
Uncle William laughed out. He stood up. “What is ’t you want me to do?”
he asked.
The artist eyed him miserably. “That’s the worst of it--I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell ye,” said Uncle William. “We’ll row down and get the
mail, and after that we’ll plan about the boat. I ain’t quite so daft as
I look,” he said half apologetically. “I’ve been turnin’ it over in my
mind whilst I’ve been doin’ the kittens, and I’ve ’bout decided what to
do. But fust, we’ll get the mail.”