Happy Island 5

Happy Island 5

“You ’d better wring her neck,” said Andy between his set teeth.

 

“Why, Andy!—You don’t find anything there, Mr. Mason?” said Uncle

William.

 

The man emerged with red face. “I didn’t expect to,” he said—“But it’s

my business to look—”

 

“Yes, it’s your business. That’s what I was sayin’ to myself when I was

out sailin’—”

 

“I’ll take the bedroom next,” said the man shortly.

 

They disappeared in the next room and the murmur of their voices, with

the moving of a heavy chest and the stir of papers, came out.

 

Andy cast a vicious eye at Juno. He half rose and took a step on tiptoe.

But the bedroom door opened again and he sat down.

 

“I haven’t hauled a trap—nor set one—since the season closed,” said

Uncle William’s voice.

 

“That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. But I have reason to think.... I’d

better make a thorough search—since I am here,” he finished quietly.

 

“You search all you want to,” said Uncle William cordially—“Get away,

Juno.” He pushed her aside with his foot. “This is my sink cupboard,”

he opened the door hospitably. “Lucky I washed some of the dishes this

morning,” he said, “You would ’a’ had a time if I hadn’t!” The man

reached in and drew out a pile of plates. His nose lifted itself as he

set them down and reached in again. He emerged with a quiet look in his

face—“I shall have to trouble you to take out all the things in that

cupboard,” he said with a motion of his hand.

 

Uncle William’s face had dropped a little. “I most knew you ’d want me

to do that,” he said, “I o’ ’t to ’a’ done it, this morning, before you

came.”

 

The man laughed out. “That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. I don’t mind your

bluffing—as long as you play fair. But that cupboard is a give-away,

dead easy.”

 

Uncle William sighed a little. “I wish had my clam-rake,” he said.

 

The man stared at him—

 

“I gen’ally use my clam-rake to haul ’em out,” explained Uncle William

kindly. “I can shove ’em in with the broom or a stick of wood or most

anything, but it’s kind o’ hard gettin’ ’em out—specially for a big man

like me—” He reached in and drew out an ample armful—dippers and pans

and plates and spoons and bowls—then another armful—mostly tinware and

kettles—and then a third—spreading them on the floor about him with

lavish hand. Now and then he stopped to exclaim over some lost treasure

as it came to light. If doom must come, Uncle William did not propose to

meet it more than half way nor with gloomy countenance.

 

The fish-warden watched him with his little cynical smile, and Andy

hitched uneasily in his chair.

 

“There—” Uncle William drew a breath and emerged from the cupboard.

“That’s the last one I can reach—without my rake. You get in, Andy.

You’re smaller ’n I be.”

 

Andy took firm hold of the seat of his chair. “I don’t want to, Willum.”

 

“Oh yes, you get right in and fetch ’em out, Andy. I’ll hold the candle

for ye.”

 

Uncle William lighted a candle and Andy crawled miserably into the

depths. His voice came out, gloomy and protesting, as he handed out a

few last articles. Then there was a long pause and a sound of scraping

on the boards.

 

Uncle William withdrew the candle.

 

“He’s comin’ out,” he said.

 

The fish-warden bent forward, a look of quick interest in his face.

 

Slowly Andy backed into the room and lifted an awed face. In his hand

he held a small monse-trap. “There ain’t a durned thing left,” he said,

“except this.” He held it up and looked at it—and blinked. Then he laid

it down on the table and looked at it again, fondly—and blinked. A large

grin stole into his face. “I put that monse-trap there—time Juno run

away,” he said—“the time you was down to New York.” He had turned to

William.

 

Uncle William was looking at the fish-warden, a kindly smile on his

face.

 

The warden ignored it. “I’ll trouble you for that candle,” he said,

“I’ll take a look myself.”

 

Uncle William handed it to him and he held it far into the cupboard,

peering at the top and sides and floor. He withdrew it, blowing it out

with a quick puff—“You’ve got off this time,” he said, “but that smell

ought to convict you—if there was any justice in law.”

 

“Well, I do’ ’no ’s there is,” said Uncle William, “do you? It does

smell good.” He sniffed a little. “‘Seems’s if they ought to put that in

the schedule they send us, ’Any lobsters, claws or smells found in the

possession of any person whatsoever.’.rdquo; Uncle William marked off

the count on his fingers with kindly eye and beamed. “You could fine me

fifty dollars, or some such matter as that—for that cupboard, I

should think.” The eyes behind the big spectacles twinkled with good

fellowship.

 

The fish-warden looked at him. Then he looked at the empty cupboard and

at Andy and the mouse-trap—He smiled a little. “You might speak to

them about the law yourself,” he said. “I can testify it ought to be

changed.”

 

“We ’d like to speak to ’em,” said Uncle William, “—about a good many

things. About this lobster-law, now,” He motioned toward the mouse-trap,

“We don’t want any such law. I ain’t a canning factory. We ain’t

pirates, nor lawbreakers here—”

 

The young man smiled a little.

 

“Not without we have to be,” said Uncle William quickly. “They’re our

lobsters, and mostly we know what’s good for ’em—and what’s good for us,

and if we want to ketch a few and eat, now and then, we don’t need no

inspector.... Not but what we’re always glad to see you,” he said.

He held out his hand kindly. “I know—by the looks of your wife and

babies—you’re a good man.”

 

The young man took the big hand, smiling a little. “I’m glad to have

met you, Mr. Benslow,” he said slowly. He looked at him a minute, as if

something in the big face puzzled him. Then he turned away with a little

shake of his head. “I shouldn’t want to meet you regularly—not if I’m

going to keep on being fish-warden,” he said.

 

Uncle William chuckled a little. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Mason—there’s

lots of jobs for them that needs ’em—some of ’em right and some of ’em

wrong—and I reckon the main thing is to do what we hev to do as well as

we can and not worry.”

 

He watched the young man down the rocky path, trundling his wheel beside

him. Then he turned back to the red room. He stooped and ran his big

hand along Juno’s back, as it arched to his touch, smoothing it slowly.

 

Andy looked at him with sheepish grin. “Where ’d you put ’em, Willum?”

he said.

 

Uncle William glanced out of the window at the dimpling harbor. A little

breeze blew across it and the waves darkened and ran. He smiled at them

and then at Andy. “I see his lights last night,” he said, “along about

midnight, off the Point, and I says to myself, ’Least said, soonest

mended,’ so I took ’em down and heaved ’em. It hurt Juno some—” He

smoothed the gray back gently, “But she feels all right about it now, I

guess, same as we do.”

 

 

 

 

V

 

UNCLE WILLIAM was wondering whether he could leave the frying-pan

another day. He had promised Benjy he would come up... the sun was

shining and Benjy needed him. He went to the door, with the pan in his

hand, and looked out. He took in great sniffs of salt air, looking

over his spectacles at the moor and the sky light on the rocks and the

stretch of his face was mild and happy, and his look rested casually

on a figure that had left the beach and was coming up the rocky path.

Presently he leaned forward, waving the frying-pan back and forth.

“‘Morning, George,” he called.

 

The young man came on, with even, swift steps that did not hurry. He

held an envelope in his hand. “Letter for you, Uncle,” he said.

 

Uncle William laid down the frying-pan and held out his hand. A mild

and benevolent curiosity held the big face. His look welcomed the

whole world shut up in the bit of envelope. He took it and studied the

inscription and pushed up his spectacles, looking at the young man with

satisfaction. “Set down, Georgie,” he said—“It’s from Celia.”

 

“Who’s Celia?” asked the young man. He seated himself on a rock and

plucked a stem of grass, taking it in his teeth.

 

Uncle William looked at him again and settled slowly into the

doorway—filling it, with the big, checked apron about him—“You ain’t

ever seen Celia, I reckon?” he said.

 

“Don’t believe I have,” responded

 

George. He was looking across the harbor, turning the bit of grass

between his teeth. His glance sought the envelope again, “Come from

around here?” he asked.

 

Uncle William opened it with slow, careful fingers. “Well, not exactly

round here.” He drew out the sheet and smoothed it on his knee and

rubbed his fingers on his apron, and took up the paper, holding it

arm’s length. “It’s somebody ’t ’s coming to live with us,” he explained

kindly.

 

“Oh—?”

 

Uncle William read on. He laid down the paper and took off his glasses,

waving them at the landscape. “Some like a woman!” he said.

 

George turned and looked behind him.

 

“I don’t mean off there,” said Uncle William, “I mean here—what she

says,” He took up the letter, “She says she can’t come yet—not just

yet.” He mumbled to the words kindly.... “It’s her clothes,” he

volunteered, “She’s got to get some new ones or fix her old ones, or

suthin—I don’t just understand what ’tis she’s doin’.”

 

“Don’t need to, do you!” said the young man. His tone was even, and a

little contemptuous.

 

Uncle William eyed him a minute. “You wa ’n’t ever much acquainted with

women, was ye, George?”

 

“I don’t know as I was,” said the young man. “Too busy, I guess.”