XX
t was fortunate that the artist was better, for Uncle William became lost in the kittens and their welfare. The weakest thing at hand claimed his interest. He carried them in a clam-basket from point to point, seeing the best spots for their comfort and development. Juno marched at his side, proud and happy. She purred approval of the universe and the ways of man. Wherever Uncle William deposited the basket, she took up her abode, serenely pleased; and when, a few hours later, he shifted it on account of wind or rain or sun, she followed without demur. For her the sun rose and set in Uncle William’s round face and the depths of the clam-basket.
The artist watched the comedy with amused disapproval. He suspected Uncle William of trifling away the time. The spring was fairly upon them, and the Andrew Halloran still swung at anchor alone at the foot of the cliff. Whenever the artist broached the subject of a new boat, Uncle William turned it aside with a jest and trotted off to his clam-basket. The artist brooded in silence over his indebtedness and the scant chance of making it good. He got out canvas and brushes and began to paint, urged by a vague sense that it might bring in something, some time. When he saw that Uncle William was pleased, he kept on. The work took his mind off himself, and he grew strong and vigorous. Andy, coming upon him one day on the beach, looked at his brown face almost in disapproval. “You ’re a-feelin’ putty well, ain’t you?” he said grudgingly.
“I am,” responded the artist. He mixed the color slowly on his palette. A new idea had come into his head. He turned it over once and then looked at Andy. The look was not altogether encouraging. But he brought it out quickly. “You ’re a rich man, aren’t you, Andy?”
Andy, pleased and resentful, hitched the leg of his trousers. “I dunno ’s I be,” he said slowly. “I ’ve got money—some. But it takes a pile to live on.”
“Yes?” The artist stood away from his canvas, looking at it. “You and Uncle William are pretty good friends, are n’t you?”
“Good enough,” replied Andy. His mouth shut itself securely.
The artist did not look at it. He hastened on. “He misses his boat a good deal.”
“I know that,” snapped Andy. His green eye glowered at the bay. “Ef it had n’t been for foolishness he’d hev it now.”
The artist worked on quietly. “I lost his boat for him, Andy. I know that as well as you do. You need n’t rub it in.”
“What you goin’ to do about it?” demanded Andy.
“I ’m goin’ to ask you to lend me the money for a new one.”
“No, sir!” Andy put his hands in his pockets.
“I ’ll give you my note for it,” said the artist.
“I do’ want your note,” retorted Andy. “I ’d rather have William’s and his ain’t wuth the paper it ’s writ on.”
The artist flushed under his new color. “I don’t know just why you say that. I shall pay all I owe—in time.”
“Well, you may, and then again you may n’t,” said Andy. His tone was less crusty. “All I know is, you ’ve cost William a heap o’ money, fust and last. You ’ve et a good deal, and you lost the Jennie, and he had to borrow a hunderd of me to go to New York with.” Andy spoke with unction. He was relieving his mind.
The artist looked up. “I did n’t know that.” He began to gather up his materials.
“What you goin’ to do?” asked Andy.
“I ’m going to find Uncle William,” said the artist.
Andy fidgeted a little. He looked off at the water. “I wa’n’t findin’ no fault,” he said uneasily. “I was just explainin’ why I could n’t resk any more o’ my money on him.”
“That ’s all right,” said the artist. “I want to see him.”
He found Uncle William sunning the kittens at the east of the house. He looked up with a nod as the artist appeared. “They ’re doin’ fust-rate,” he said, adjusting the clam-basket a little. “They ’ll be a credit to their raisin’. Set down.”
The artist seated himself on a rock near by. The sun fell warm on his back. Across the harbor a little breeze ran rippling. At the foot of the cliff Andy was making ready to lift anchor. The artist watched him a minute. “You ’ve wasted a good deal of money on me,” he said soberly.
Uncle William looked at him. He dropped an eye to the Andrew Halloran. “He been talkin’ to ye?” he asked cheerfully.
“He told me you borrowed of him—”
“Now, don’t you mind that a mite. Andy don’t. He ’s proud as Punch to hev me owe him suthin’. He reminds me of it every day or two. All I mind about is your frettin’ and takin’ on so. If you ’d jest be easy in your mind, we ’d have a reel comf’tabul time—with the kittens and all.” He replaced one that had sprawled over the edge. “The’ ’s a lot o’ comfort in doin’ for dumb things,” he went on cheerfully. “They can’t find fault with the way you fix ’em.” He chuckled a little.
The artist smiled. “Look here, Uncle William, you can’t fool me any longer. You ’re just pining for a boat. Look at that!” He waved his hand at the water dimpling below.
Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly for a minute.
“And you sit here dawdling over that basket of kittens!” Scorn and disgust struggled in the artist’s voice.
Uncle William laughed out. He stood up. “What is ’t you want me to do?” he asked.
The artist eyed him miserably. “That ’s the worst of it—I don’t know.”
“Well, I ’ll tell ye,” said Uncle William. “We ’ll row down and get the mail, and after that we ’ll plan about the boat. I ain’t quite so daft as I look,” he said half apologetically. “I ’ve been turnin’ it over in my mind whilst I ’ve been doin’ the kittens, and I ’ve ’bout decided what to do. But fust, we ’ll get the mail.”