Uncle William | Page 7

a little suthin' hot, and then we'll wash the dishes and go to bed."
The artist looked up with a start. "I must be getting back." He glanced
at the dark window with its whirling sleet.
"You won't get back anywheres to-night," said Uncle William. "You
couldn't hear yourself think out there--let alone findin' the path. I'll jest
shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it's a fust-rate bed; I've slep'
on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin' you'll be on hand
to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass and a
teaspoon. I want that biggest there--second one-- and a teaspoon. We'll
have things fixed up fust-rate here."
Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the
fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the
wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow.
Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat
through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house
creaked mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound
of flying missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof
and thudded to the ground with heavier crash.
About three o'clock Uncle William's round face was thrust through the
crack of the door. "You can go to sleep all right, now," he said
soothingly. "There wa'n't but seven bricks left in the chimney, anyhow,
and the last one's jest come down. I counted 'em fallin'."

IV
The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated
on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the
artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously.
Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and

pulling their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of work. The
summer was almost done. For weeks--since the night of the big
storm--he had worked incessantly. A new light had come over
things,--"The light that never was on sea or land," he called it,--and he
had worked feverishly. He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle
William saw them. Through his eyes, he painted them. They took on
color and bigness--simplicity. "They will call it my third style," said the
artist, smiling, as he worked. "They ought to call it the Uncle William
style. I didn't do it--I shall never do it again," and he worked fast.
But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded.
To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the
things he would like to remember.
He looked again at the man cleaning fish. "Pretty steady work," he said,
nodding toward the red pile.
The man looked up with a grunt. "Everything's steady--that pays," he
said indifferently.
The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. "So?"
"Yep." The man tossed aside another fish. "Ye can't earn money stan'in'
with your hands in your pockets."
"I guess that's so," said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the
hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them
merrily.
"There's Willum," said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife
toward the cliff. "He's poor--poor as poverty--an' he al'ays will be."
"What do you think is the reason?" asked the artist. The tone held
respectful interest.
The man looked at him more tolerantly. "Too fond of settin'."
The artist nodded. "I'm afraid he is."

"An' then he's al'ays a-givin'--a little here and a little there. Why, what
Willum Benslow's give away would 'a' made a rich man of him."
"Yes?"
"Yep. I don't s'pose I know half he's give. But it's a heap, Lord knows!
And then he's foolish--plumb foolish." He rested his arms on his legs,
leaning forward. How much d'you s'pose he give me for that land--from
here to my house?" He pointed up the coast.
The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It
glowed--a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky. "I
haven't the least idea," he said slowly.
"Well, you won't believe it when I tell you;--nobody'd believe it. He
paid me five hunderd dollars for it--five hunderd! It ain't wuth fifty."
The artist smiled at him genially. "Well--he's satisfied."
"But it ain't right," said the man, gloomily. He had returned to his fish.
"It ain't right. I can't bear to have Willum such a fool."
"I think I'll go for a sail," said the artist.
The other glanced at the horizon. "It's going to storm," he said
indifferently.
"I'll keep an eye out."
"Ye better not go."
"Think not?" He looked again at the harbor. "It's my last chance for