Uncle William | Page 9

grim death. Then, in a
breath the storm was gone. With a sucking sound it had swept beyond
them, its black skirts hurtling behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of
foam.
Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle,
breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east.
Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length,
mopping off the wet. "There she is!" he said in a deep voice. "Let her
out, Andy."
With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef
and loosing it to the wind.
The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew past.
But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered,
monstrous and black.
With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller. "We'll
make it, Andy," he said quietly. "We'll make it yet if the /Jennie/ holds
out--" Suddenly he stood upright, his hand on the tiller, his eyes glued
fast.
"Luff her," he cried. "She's gone-- Luff her, I tell you!" He sprang back,
jamming the tiller from him. "Let her 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