Happy Island 1

Happy Island 1

Happy Island

A New "Uncle William" Story

 

Author: Jennette Lee

I

THE sunlight got in Uncle William’s eyes. He looked up from the map

spread on the table before him. Then he got up slowly and crossed to the

window and drew down the turkey-red curtain—a deep glow filled the room.

Juno, on the lounge, stirred a little and stretched her daws, and drew

them in and tucked her head behind them and went on sleeping.

 

Uncle William returned to his map. His big finger found a dotted line

and followed it slowly up the table with little mumbles of words.... The

room was very still—only the faintest whisper of a breeze came across

the harbor—and Uncle William’s head bent over the map and traveled with

his finger.... “They ’d run in here, like enough, and...”

 

A shadow crossed the curtain and he looked up.

 

Andy was in the doorway, grinning—a bunch of lobsters dangling from

his hand, stretching frantic green legs into space. Andy looked down at

them.

 

Uncle William shook his head. “You ’ll get into trouble, Andy, carryin’

’em that way, right in broad daylight—you can put ’em out there under

the bucket—so ’s ’t the sun won’t hit ’em.”

 

Andy departed and the scraping of the bucket on the hard rock came

cautiously in the window.... Juno lifted her ear and flicked it and went

on dreaming. Uncle William returned to the map.

 

“What you huntin’ up?” asked Andy. He was looking in the window.

 

“‘D you put a stone on top the bucket?”

 

“Yep—What you lookin’ for?” asked Andy.

 

“I was just seein’ where they ’d got to..... They must be up along

Battle Harbor way, by this time—”

 

“You heard from ’em?” said Andy. He came in and sat down.

 

“We’ve had a letter to-day—me and Benjy—”

 

“Where’s he gone?” asked Andy.

 

“He’s up to his place—seein’ about some plans they’re makin’—they bother

him quite a consid’abul.”

 

Andy’s face showed no concern. “They goin’ to begin working next week?”

he said.

 

Uncle William pushed back the map a little and took off his

spectacles.... “They don’t just seem to know,” he said slowly, “Benjy

wants it one way, and the man that’s doin’ it—Ordway—he says it can’t be

done—so they’re kind o’ stuck. I wish he ’d have George Manning.” Uncle

William’s face expanded. “George ’d do it—and do it for him good. You

see, Benjy, he wants—”

 

“He ’ll want money,” said Andy shortly—“unless he looks out—keeping that

contractor and fussing about whether they ’ll have the roof two inches

up or two inches down—or some such matter as that—and Harr’et feedin’

the contractor and getting board money right along whether he works or

don’t work.”

 

“I guess I’ll do the lobsters for supper,” said Uncle William. “Benjy

likes ’em.” He stirred about, gathering a few bits of kindling and paper

and striking a careful match.

 

Andy watched him with gloomy eye while he dived under the sink and

brought out a large kettle.

 

Uncle William lifted the tea kettle a little and drew it forward. “Most

full,” he said contentedly. “That’s good—and it ain’t fairly cooled off

since dinner—I didn’t wash any dishes this noon, you see.”

 

Andy’s eye roamed about the room.

 

“They’re tucked under the sink,” said Uncle William, “I don’t like ’em

clutterin’ round. I can’t seem to set so easy if I see ’em.” He opened

the sink door and peered in. “I guess there’s about enough left for a

meal—You goin’ to stay—?” He looked back hopefully over his shoulder.

 

Andy wriggled a little and looked at the door. “I didn’t say nothin’ to

Harr’et,” he said feebly.

 

“Well, I guess you better stay—” said Uncle William, “You don’t get a

chance to eat lobsters every day.”

 

“I don’t get ’em any day,” said Andy gloomily, “She won’t cook ’em for

me—and she says she won’t have ’em scrawling round.”

 

Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Now, that’s too bad—it’s

just come on, ain’t it?”

 

Andy nodded. “She says it’s the law and she’s going to keep it, and we

hain’t had tip nor claw for much as a week now.”

 

“My... my!” Uncle William’s tongue clicked in sympathy. “Well, you stay

right where you be, Andy, and we ’ll have one good meal.” He brought in

the lobsters. “Seem’s if women keep the law a little harder ’n men—when

they do keep it,” he said thoughtfully, swashing the lobsters happily

down into the kettle.

 

Andy nodded. “She got scared ’bout the fish-warden last week. She says

we can’t pay no three hundred dollars for lobsters—and I do’ ’no’s we

can.” His eye was on the steam that rose genially about the lid of the

kettle.

 

“Well, there won’t be any three hundred this time,” said Uncle William,

“—not without the fish-warden’s legs are longer ’n my spy-glass. Seems

kind o’ mean business—being a warden,” he added kindly.

 

“I don’t mind his bein’ a warden,” said Andy, “if they ’d let us have

Jim Doshy. We ’d got used to him—knew his ways, and he gen ’lly sent

us, word anyhow—day or two beforehand—But this one—” He looked at Uncle

William with reproachful eye. “The’ wa ’n’t one of us ready for him when

he come.”

 

Uncle William nodded. “I know—lively work wa ’n’t it?”

 

Andy grinned. “Lively—they was flyin’ round like hens with their

heads off—dumpin’ ’em out and scratchin’ ’em under and getting things

shipshape.” He grinned again. “I wa ’n’t to home, you know—I’d gone off

the Point—to haul a mess for dinner, and Harr’et had to run a mile in

the hot sun to yell at me to dump ’em out.” He drew a long breath as he

heaved the lobsters overboard and righted himself.

 

“Now, that ain’t right,” said Uncle William, “making Harr’et run in

the hot sun like that—all for them little squirming things,—and ’tain’t

reasonable. We ought to know how many lobsters we o’t to eat—much as

any fish-warden. Ain’t they our lobsters?” He shoved up his glasses and

looked at Andy kindly.

 

Andy’s eye was on the kettle. “You think they’re most done?” he said.

 

Uncle William took off the lid and peered in. The steam rose about his

big head like a halo and rolled away in light whiffs. Down on the beach

they could hear the washing of the little waves as the tide came up.

Uncle William’s face looked out of the steam, like a happy moon. “Just

about—” he said, “You run and see if Benjy’s anywheres in sight.” He

lifted the kettle and Andy got up stiffly and went to the door.

 

“I don’t see him nowheres,” he said indifferently.

 

“You can’t see him there, Andy. You got to go round the corner.” Uncle

William carried the kettle to the sink and Andy departed, reluctant—When

he returned the lobsters were on the middle of the table, red and

steaming, with their little white clouds over them. The map had been

hung on the wall and the table was scantily set—“There’s one spoon

apiece,” said Uncle William cheerfully, “—though I do’ ’no’s we need

spoons. I’m going to have a real good washin’ up after dinner—’D you see

him, Andy?”

 

“He’s comin’,” replied Andy—“up the road a piece.”

 

“He ’ll be right along then,” said Uncle William, “—if he don’t meet

somebody—that wants to advise him ’bout his house. I’d come home round

by the lots, if I was him, I tell him. It’s further—but he ’d get here

quicker. You sure ’t was him?”

 

“The’ ain’t anybody else got that kind o’ high-stepping walk, has the’.”

said Andy scornfully.

 

“I do’ ’no ’s the’ has,” said Uncle William. “You draw right up, Andy.

He ’ll be here any minute now.”

 

 

 

 

II

 

BENJAMIN BODET stood in the doorway and looked in. He was tall and thin

and distinguished—in spite of his rough suit and slouch hat and the

week’s growth of beard on his thin cheeks and pointed chin. His eye

fell on the steaming red mound in the center of the table and his face

lighted. “Lobsters!” he said.

 

Uncle William, who had been watching him, chuckled a little. “Andy’s

lobsters,” he said politely.

 

Andy shuffled in his chair. “They’re your claws, William—they’re on your premises—”