Uncle William | Page 8

a
sail--I'll watch out."
"All right. 'T ain't my business," said the man. He went on slitting fish.

The harbor held a still light--ominously--grey with a tinge of yellow in

its depths. Uncle William hurried down the face of the cliff, a telescope
in his hand. Now and then he paused on the zigzag path and swept the
bay with it. The grey stillness deepened.
On the beach below, the man paused in his work to look up. As Uncle
William approached he grunted stiffly. "She's off the island," he said.
He jerked a fishy thumb toward the water.
Uncle William's telescope fixed the boat and held it. His throat
hummed, holding a kind of conversation with itself.
The man had returned to his fish, slitting in rough haste and tossing to
one side. "Fool to go out--I told him it was coming."
The telescope descended. Uncle William regarded him mildly. "I o't to
'a' kept an eye on him," he said humbly. "I didn't jest sense he was goin'.
I guess mebbe he did mention it. But I was mixin' a batch of biscuit and
kind o' thinkin' to myself. When I looked up he wa'n't there." He slid
the telescope together and slipped it into his pocket. "I'll hev to go after
him," he said.
The other looked up quickly. "How'll you go?"
Uncle William nodded toward the boat that dipped securely at anchor.
"I'll take /her/," he said.
The man laughed shortly. "The /Andrew Halloran/? I guess not!" He
shut his knife with a decisive snap and stood up. "I don't trust her--not
in such a storm as that's going to be." He waved his arm toward the
harbor. The greyness was shifting rapidly. It moved in swift green
touches, heavy and clear--a kind of luminous dread. In its sallow light
the man's face stood out tragically. "I won't resk her," he cried.
"You'll hev to, Andrew." Uncle William bent to the bow of the dory
that was beached near by. "Jump in," he said.
The man drew back a step. The hand with the clasped knife fell to his
side. "Don't you make me go, William," he said pacifically. "You can

take the boat in welcome, but don't take /me/. It's too much resk!"
"It's al'ays a resk to do your duty," said Uncle William. "Jump in. I can't
stand talkin'." An edge of impatience grazed the words.
The man stepped in and seized the oars. "I'll help get her off," he said,
"but I won't go."
In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William's
face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. "I guess
you'll go, Andrew," he said; "you wouldn't want a man drowned right at
your door-yard."
"You can't live in it," said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light. Far to
the east a boat crawled against it. "It'll strike in five minutes," he said.
"Like enough," said Uncle William--"like enough. Easy there!" He
seized the stern of the /Andrew Halloran/ and sprang on board. They
worked in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail,--a
single reef,--making it fast. "All she'll stan'," said Uncle William. He
turned to the helm.
Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. "If she's
going out, I take her," he said.
"You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy," said Uncle
William.
In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with
cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The
boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the
murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.
The light thickened and grew black--clouded and dense and swift. Then,
with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in
sheets, gray-black planes that shut them in--blinded them, crushed them.
Andrew, crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer,
closer--hugging the wind with tense grasp. About them, the water

flattened like a plate beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second
they saw it, a gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach.
Uncle William bent to it, scanning the east. "Hold her tight, Andy," he
yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and his back strained to it.
His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed flat to the big skull, were
mere lines. "Hold her tight! Make fast!" he yelled again.
Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes
lengthened to ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and
clouds were all about them--underneath them, and over. The boat,
towering on each wave, dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy,
crouching on the bottom of the boat, held on like