Uncle William | Page 9

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