Happy Island 4

Happy Island 4

Benjamin moved with restless indecision and Uncle William glanced at

him. “You run along, Benjy,” he said kindly, “That contractor ’ll be

waiting for you—”

 

“He’s been waiting,” said Benjy quickly, “—an hour at least.”

 

“Yes, yes—I know. Don’t you wait—” Uncle William’s eye was on the

paper and he was mumbling words to the ink bottle.... “I’ll be—right

along—Benjy—sometime—”

 

The tall man turned from the window and strode over the rocks.

 

Uncle William’s face smoothed to its genial smile as the steps died

away. His fingers traced big, comfortable words on the paper and his

head nodded in a kind of cheerful, all-round assent while he wrote. The

clock struck ten and he looked up, blinking a little. His eyes strayed

to the window and he looked out. Then he got up and went across. After

a minute he took down the spy-glass and fixed it on a distant point. His

face radiated in little wrinkles of interest. “I do’ ’no’s I ever see

Andy run like that—and cross-lots, too—Harr’et wants suthin’—bad—like

enough.... My—my! He hadn’t ought to run like that!”... He bent from the

window. “Hello, Andy!—what you runnin’ for?”

 

Andy halted, panting—“He’s come!” he said. The words sank to a whisper

and he wheeled about, glaring at a man who was coming up the path from

the shore, trundling a bicycle before him. He was a young man, with

keen, quick glance and a look of determination. He glanced indifferently

at Andy and rapped sharply on the side of the door.

 

Uncle William came across with easy gait. “Good morning,” he

said—looking down from his height...

 

“You’re the owner of this house!” said the young man.

 

Uncle William’s eye traversed it kindly, “I reckon it belongs to me—yet

awhile. Will you come in—sir!” The figure towered still higher and Uncle

William’s presence exhaled dignity and welcome.

 

The young man stepped over the sill. Andy followed sulkily.

 

“Sit down, sir.” Uncle William’s hand motioned to the red lounge.

 

The stranger crossed and sat down, holding his hat in his hand and

glancing with quick eye about the little room.

 

Uncle William sat down opposite him, a hand on either knee, and looked

at him over large spectacles.

 

“I’m the new fish-warden,” said the young man—as if he answered a polite

question.

 

“I kind o’ reckoned you might be a fish-warden, or something like that,”

said Uncle William. “I’m glad to see you.”

 

The young man smiled a little. “You’re the first one that’s glad, I

guess—” The quick look had relaxed a little in his face. The warm, sunny

room seemed to reach out and surround him.

 

Juno, from her place on the lounge, leaped down and walked with

deliberate step across the room. She seated herself in the sunshine,

with her back to the company, and looked steadily into space.

 

Uncle William’s eye rested on her kindly.

 

“I’m looking for lobsters,” said the young man.

 

Uncle William nodded. “It’s a poor time of year for ’em,” he said,

“—close season, so.”

 

The man’s eyebrows lifted a little.

 

“I didn’t get your name, sir,” added Uncle William, leaning forward.

 

“My name is Mason,” said the young man.

 

“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Uncle William. He came across and held

out a big hand. “My name is Benslow—William Benslow.”

 

The young man took the hand, a little dazed, it might seem. “I knew

it was Benslow,” he said, “I inquired before I came up—down in the

village.”

 

“Now, did ye? That was kind in you!” Uncle William beamed on him and

sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he said

thoughtfully—“not as I can remember. I’m real glad to see you.”

 

The young man nodded stiffly—a little color had come into his face—as if

he did not propose to be tampered with.

 

“I’ve thought a good deal about fish-wardens,” went on Uncle William

comfortably, crossing his legs, “when I’ve been out sailing and

lobstering and so on—’Seems’s if it must be kind o’ unpleasant

business—knowing likely enough folks don’t want to see you come sailin’

into a harbor—night or day.”

 

The young man turned a little in his place, looking at him curiously.

 

“—And kind o’ havin’ to brace yourself,” went on Uncle William, “to do

your duty—feelin’, I suppose, as if there was spears always reachin’ out

from the shore and pinting at ye—to keep you off—sort of?”

 

The young man stirred uneasily. “I don’t know that I ever thought about

it that way,” he said.

 

“Like enough you didn’t,” said Uncle

 

William, “I do’ ’no ’s I’d ’a’ thought of it myself—only I’m al’ays kind

o’ possessed to know how folks feel inside—other folks, you know—and one

day, as I was comin’ in from lobsterin’, I says to myself—’Supposin’,

instead o’ bringing in these lobsters, nice and comfortable, I was a

fish-warden, a-sailin’ in to catch somebody, there on the shore’—and

then, all of a sudden, I seemed to see them spears, hundreds of ’em,

pointin’ right at me, kind of circle-like, from the shore. There was a

minute in that boat when I wouldn’t’ ’a’ known whether it was you or me,

and it felt uncomfortable—real uncomfortable,” said Uncle William.

 

Andy’s face held a wide, half-scared grin.

 

The young man looked at Uncle William curiously. “I could imagine things

like that—if I wanted to,” he said dryly.

 

Uncle William nodded. “I don’t doubt you could—a good deal better. But I

wouldn’t if I was you.”

 

“I don’t intend to,” said the young man. He half rose from his seat.

 

“It’s cur’us, ain’t it,” said Uncle William, “Now, I suppose you’ve got

a family—a wife, like enough, and children—”

 

The young man’s hand sought an inside pocket, as if by instinct. Then it

dropped to his side.

 

Uncle William smiled and chuckled a little. “Now, I never thought you

’d have pictures of ’em with you. But why shouldn’t yet Why shouldn’t a

fish-warden hev pictures of his wife and babies, same as other folks?”

He had turned to Andy, and sat, with spectacles pushed up on his

forehead, looking at him inquiringly.

 

“I do’ ’no’ why he shouldn’t,” said Andy feebly—but not as if convinced.

 

“Of course you ’d have ’em,” said Uncle William, turning ’to the young

man, “And I like you all the better for it. I’d taken a liking to you

anyhow—before that.”

 

The face opposite him was non-committal. But there was a look of

firmness about the chin.

 

“I’d like to see ’em,” said Uncle William, “if you wouldn’t mind my

seein’ ’em.” The tone was full of interest and kindly hope.

 

The young man took out a small leather case and handed it to him,

without speaking.

 

Uncle William received it in his big, careful fingers, and adjusted his

glasses before he bent to it.

 

Andy sat silent, with grudging, watchful eye, and the young man let his

glance wander about the room. Juno, seated in the sunshine, blinked a

little. Then she rose and moved toward the cupboard door and snuffed the

crack. She seated herself beside it, turning a reproachful, indifferent

eye in Uncle William’s direction.

 

Andy, from across the room, glared at her.

 

The young man’s eye had followed her with half-cynical smile.

 

Uncle William looked up from the leather case and pushed up his glasses.

“You’ve got a good wife, Mr. Mason.”

 

“I know about it,” said the young man quietly. He stood up, holding

out his hand for the case. Uncle William beamed helplessly at the

baby—handing it back.

 

The young man replaced the case in his pocket without comment, but the

comers of his smile softened a little—as if in spite of judgment.

 

“Well, now, you want to look round a little, don’t ye?” said Uncle

William, standing up, “‘Seems a pity to hev to—things are kind of

cluttered up so—if I’d known you was comin’ I’d ’a’ had ’em fixed up.”

 

The young man’s face broke a little. “I don’t doubt it,” he said.

 

Uncle William chuckled. “You’re used to havin’ ’em fixed up for you, I

suppose?—Well—let’s see. I’ll tell you the best places to look.... The’s

under the sink—”

 

Andy’s chair scraped the floor with sudden sound.

 

Uncle William looked at him mildly. “The’s under the sink,” he repeated

firmly, “and under the lounge and under the bed and up chimbley and

down cellar... but they’re all kind o’ hard places to get to.... That’s

another thing I never thought of, about being a fish-warden—havin’ to

scooch so much.”

 

“Never mind that,” said the young man, and there was a little impatient

flick to the words, “I’ll begin wherever you say—”

 

“Why, I don’t mind,” said Uncle William kindly. “If I was advising you,

I should say, ’Don’t look anywheres.’.rdquo;

 

Juno moved over and rubbed against Uncle William’s leg. Then she

returned to her seat by the cupboard and lifted her lip in a silent

miaouw.

 

“Byme-by, Juno,” said Uncle William cheerfully. “She’s hungry, like

enough,” he said, turning to the fish-warden.

 

But the man had stooped and was lifting the cover of the red lounge.

 

“It’s a dreadful clutter,” said Uncle William aside to Andy, “‘Seems’s if I hadn’t o’t to let him see it looking like that—”