Uncle William | Page 3

pushed
forward the kettle. "Now, if you'll reach into that box behind you and
get the potatoes," he said, "I'll do the rest of the fixin's."
He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red
and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from
behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to
his blue eyes with a little frown. "They're a terrible bother," he said,
squinting through them and readjusting them. "But I don't dare resk it
without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the
salt--same shape. The chowder /was/ hot." He chuckled. "I can see a
boat a mile off," he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, "but a
pepper-box two feet's beyond me." He stood at the sink, rubbing the
clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the
window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that stretched below, far as
the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining
baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the
vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor fashion, about his throat.
Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered
with a kind of slow patience,--in a smaller man it would have been
fussiness,--and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out
with careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in spite
of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced toward
the window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. "Time to set
my light," he said. He lighted a ship's lantern and placed it carefully in
the window.

The artist watched him with amused eyes. "You waste a lot of oil on
the government, Uncle William," he said laughingly. "Why don't you
apply for a salary?"
Uncle William smiled genially. "Well, I s'pose the guvernment would
say the' wa'n't any reel need for a light here. And I don't s'pose the' is,
/myself/--not any /reel/ need. But it's a comfort. The boys like to see it,
comin' in at night. They've sailed by it a good many year now, and I
reckon they'd miss it. It's cur'us how you do miss a thing that's a
comfort--more'n you do one 't you reely /need/ sometimes." He lighted
the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam above, and surveyed the
table. He drew up his chair. "Well, it's ready," he said, "such as it is."
"That's all airs, Uncle William," said the young man, drawing up. "You
know it's fit for a king."
"Yes, it's good," said the old man, beaming on him. "I've thought a
good many times there wa'n't anything in the world that tasted better
than chowder--real good clam chowder." His mouth opened to take in a
spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing
gross in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the
big spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron- gray
bridge from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.
"There was a man up here to Arichat one summer," he said, chewing
slowly, "that e't my chowder. And he was sort o' possessed to have me
go back home with him."
The artist smiled. "Just to make chowder for him?"
The old man nodded. "Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he
wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o' got the idea that if he
could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He
offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him--said he'd give me
five hunderd a year and keep." The old man chuckled. "I told him I
wouldn't go for a thousand--not for two thousand," he said emphatically.
"Why, I don't s'pose there's money enough in New York to tempt me to
live there.

"Have you been there?"
"Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and
one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and
Liverpool once. It's a terrible shet-in place," he said suddenly.
"I believe you're right," admitted the young man. He had lighted his
pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. "You /do/ feel shut in
--sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you."
"That's what I meant," he said, quickly. "I can't stan' so many folks."
"You're not much crowded here." The young man lifted his head. Down
below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed
against the little house whirlingly.
The old man listened a minute.