andy eased in to the wharf with cautious eye. he threw the rope to uncle william and busied himself with the sail.
uncle william peered down upon him. “got quite a nice mess, didn’t ye?”
“yep.”
“how’d they run?”
“cod—mostly.”
“ye got some halibut.”
“a few.” andy admitted it grudgingly. his tone implied that the creator withheld halibut out of pure spite. the ways of the universe were a personal grievance to andy.
“quite a nice mess,” said uncle william. “goin’ to unload?”
“nope—wait for the tide.”
“ye’ll jest about make it,” said uncle william. he glanced at the sky. “i’ll come down and help ye clean, like enough, after supper.”
andy climbed up in silence. his somber face appeared above the edge of the wharf. uncle william looked down on it, smiling. “i’ve got good news for ye, andy.”
“huh?” andy paused half way.
uncle william nodded. “you’ll be reel tickled about it. i’m goin’ to have a new boat—right off.”
“ye be?” andy’s mouth remained open. it took in the sky and the bay and uncle william’s smile.
“right off. i knew ye’d be glad.”
the mouth came together. “where you goin’ to get it?”
“he’s got some money.” uncle william nodded toward the cliff.
andy looked. “he’s poor as poverty. he’s said so—times enough.”
uncle william smiled. “he’s had luck—quite a run o’ luck. he’s been sellin’ picters—three-four on ’em.”
“what’s picters!” said andrew, scornfully. he scrambled on to the wharf with a backward glance at the andrew halloran. “you won’t buy no boat off o’ picters, willum. a boat costs three hunderd dollars—a good one.”
“i was cal’atin’ to pay five hunderd,” said uncle william.
“you was?” andy wheeled about. “you wont’ get it out o’ him!” he jerked a thumb at the cliff.
uncle william chuckled. “now, ye’ve made a mistake, andy. he’s got that much and he’s got more.” the gentle triumph in uncle william’s tone diffused itself over the landscape.
andy took it in slowly. “how much?” he asked at last.
“six-seven thousand,” said uncle william.
“what!” andy’s feet scuffed a little. “‘t ain’t reasonable,” he said feebly.
“no, ’t ain’t reasonable.” uncle william spoke gently. “i was a good deal s’prised myself, andy, when i found how high they come—picters. ye can’t own a gre’t many of ’em—not at one time.”
“don’t want to,” said andy, caustically.
“no, you wouldn’t take much comfort in ’em,” said william. “‘t is cur’us ’t anybody should want a picter o’ my old hut up there ’nough to pay—how much d’ye s’pose they did pay for it, andy?”
andy glanced at it contemptuously. it glowed in the light of the late sun, warm and radiant. “‘t ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he said.
uncle william’s face fell a little. “well, i wouldn’t say jest that, andy.
“roof leaks,” said andrew.
“a leetle,” admitted uncle william, “over ’n the southeast corner, she’s weather-tight all but that.” he gazed at the little structure affectionately. the sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold. the artist’s face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. uncle william turned to andy. “a man give him two thousand for it,” he said. there was sheer pride in the words.
“for that?” andy looked at him for a minute. then he looked at the house and the bay and the flaming sky. his left eyelid lowered itself slowly and he tapped his forehead significantly with one long finger.
uncle william shook his head. “he’s as sensible as you be, andy—or me.”
andy pondered the statement. a look of craft crept into his eye. “what’ll ye bet he ain’t foolin’ ye?” he said.
uncle william returned the look with slow dignity. “i don’t speak that way o’ my friends, andy,” he said gently. “i’d a heap rather trust ’em and get fooled, than not to trust ’em and hev ’em all right.”
andy looked guilty. “when’s it comin’?” he said gruffly.
“it’s come a’ready,” replied uncle william; “this mornin’. we’ve been figgerin’ on a new boat all day, off and on. he’s goin’ to give me five hunderd to make up for the jennie.”
“she wa’n’t wuth it!” andy spoke with conviction. he dropped a jealous eye to the andrew halloran rising slowly on the tide.
“no, she wa’n’t wuth more’n three hunderd, if she was that,” admitted uncle william. “i’m goin’ to take the three hunderd outright and borrow the rest. i’m goin’ to pay you, too, andy.”
andy’s face, in the light of the setting sun, grew almost mellow. he turned it slowly. “when you goin’ to pay me, willum?”
“to-morrow,” answered william, promptly, “or mebbe next day. i reckoned we’d all go down and see about the boat together.”
andy looked at him helplessly. “everything seems kind o’ turnin’ upside down,” he said. he drew a deep breath. “what d’ye s’pose it is, willum—about ’em—picters—that makes ’em cost so like the devil?”
uncle william looked thoughtful. “i dunno,” he said slowly. “i’ve thought about that, myself. can’t be the paint nor the canvas.”
“cheap as dirt,” said andy.
“must be the way he does ’em.”
“just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and a-daubin’,” sneered andrew.
“i dunno’s i’d say that, andy,” said uncle william, reprovingly. “he sweat and fussed a lot.”
andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “‘t ain’t reasonable,” he said, jealously. “a thing o’t to be wuth more’n a picter of it. there’s more to a thing.” he struck the solid ground of fact with relief.
uncle william’s eye rested on him mildly. “ye can’t figger it that way, andy. i’ve tried it. a shark’s bigger’n a halibut, but he ain’t wuth much—‘cept for manure.”
“chowder!” the call rang down from the little house, clear and full.
both men looked up. “he’s a-callin’ ye,” said andrew. there was mingled scorn and respect in the tone.
“you come on up to supper, andy. we can talk it over whilst we’re eatin’.”
andy looked down at his clothes. “i’m all dirt.”
uncle william surveyed him impartially. “ye ain’t any dirtier ’n ye al’ays be.”
“i dunno’s i be,” admitted andy.
“well, you come right along, and after supper we’ll all turn to and help you clean.”
the artist looked up as they entered. “how are you, andy? the fish are running great to-day.”
andy grinned feebly. “i’ve heard about it,” he said. he drew up to the table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, glancing now and then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite side of the table. it was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a little resentment grazing the edges of it.
