Uncle William | Page 4

"I shall have to go down and reef her
down," he said thoughtfully. "It's goin' to blow."
"I should say it /is/ blowing," said the young man.
"Not yet," returned Uncle William. "You'll hear it blow afore mornin' if
you stay awake to listen--though it won't sound so loud up the shore
where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and nobody on
either side of you--for half a mile." A kind of mellow enthusiasm held
the tone.
The young man smiled. "You /are/ a hermit. Suppose somebody should
build next you?"
"They can't."
"Why not?"
"I own it."
"A mile?"
The old man nodded. "Not the shore, of course. That's free to all. But

where anybody could build I own." He said it almost exultantly. "I
guess maybe I'm part Indian." He smiled apologetically. "I can't seem
to breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once,
how I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought
it. I'm what they call around here 'land-poor.'" He said it with
satisfaction. "I can't scrape together money enough to buy a new boat,
and it's 's much as I can do to keep the /Jennie/ patched up and going.
But I'm comfortable. I don't really want for anything."
"Yes, you're comfortable." The young man glanced about the snug
room.
"There ain't a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me." He got up
with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "I'm goin' to make
things snug and put down the other anchor," he said. "You stay till I
come back and we'll have suthin' hot."
He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its hook,
went out into the night.
Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It glowed.
The cat purred in its depths.

III
The artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The
face within it was dark, like a boy's, with careless hair brushed from the
temples, and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and the
soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been
leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and spare,
with the rude grace of the Steppes, the freshness of the wind. . . . How
she would enjoy it--this very night--the red room perched aloft in the
gale!
A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned, and righted
itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With a
snap, the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on

Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out.
His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the fire,
shaking it off.
"It's goin' to blow all right," he said, nodding to the artist.
"And it's raining. You're wet."
"Well, not /wet/, so to speak." He took off his hat, shaking it lightly
over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the hot drops. Juno
lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man hung his
hat and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated himself by
the stove, opening wide the drafts. A fresh blaze sprang up. The artist
leaned forward, holding out his hands to it.
"You were gone a good while," he said. The locket had slipped from
his fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he
bent to the fire.
The old man nodded. "I see the /Andrew Halloran/ had dragged her
anchor a little, as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took quite a
spell. I couldn't find the extry anchor. He'd got it stowed away for'ard
somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin' putty bad. I
found a good bottom for her and made things fast before I left. I reckon
she'll hold."
"Won't he be down himself to look after her?"
"Mebbe not. It's a goodish step, from his place, down and back. He
knows I keep an eye out for her.
"Why doesn't he anchor up there," said the artist, "near by?"
The old man shook his head. "He's a kind o' set man, Andy is--part
Irish and part Scotch. He al'ays /has/ anchored here and I reckon he
al'ays /will/. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome
to."

"It was his land, then?"
"Most on it--I do' know as he /wanted/ to sell reely, but I offered him
more'n he could stan'. He's a little near--Andy is." He chuckled.
The artist laughed out.