“To make the young world move—He has eyes,
And ears, and he can read the sun....
In tune with all the children who laugh best
And longest through the sunshine, though far off
Their laughter, and unheard.”
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.”
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—”
“Yes, yes,” said Uncle William soothingly, “I know ’bout that. You just eat all you want and I’ll pay the bill—when it comes in. You all ready, Benjy?”
“All ready—and hungry for anything you’ve got—especially lobster.”
They drew up to the table and reached out to the red pile—breaking it down slowly.... Juno, from her lounge, came across and rubbed against Uncle William’s big leg. Then she sat up. When Uncle William’s hand reached down with casual motion, and a hard, red morsel, she snuffed at it daintily before her teeth opened on it. Then she bent her head and growled a little, and crouched over it, crushing it under her paw and moving her tail in swift, restrained joy... to eat was good—but to hold it—there under her paw—caught fast—and growl a little.... Up above Uncle William rumbled on—about the weather and fishing and house building and lobsters.... Presently he reached up and took down a spy-glass and went to the window. The red curtain was up and the sun came in with soft, side slants. Down below, the water of the harbor slowly filled with dusk and reached away. Uncle William looked out across it toward the west.
“I’ve been kind o’ watching her,” he said, “for some time—I guess she’s goin’ by.”
Benjamin Bodet came and stood beside him, looking out.
Uncle William glanced at him affectionately as he handed him the glass. He was not quite used—even yet—to having Benjy around. Sometimes he waked in the night and remembered Benjy was there—before he heard the sound of the waves on the beach or the wind coming across the moor behind the house.... This sometimes gave him a feeling that perhaps it might be heaven instead of Arichat... and it kept him from getting used to Benjy’s presence in the house.
Andy, from his seat at the table, looked at them with grudging eye. “You see anything?” he said.
“She’s running by,” said Uncle William. He came and sat down and looked contentedly at the untidy table. “That was a pretty good meal, Andy.”
Andy nodded, without enthusiasm. “The last one I’ll have this season—like as not,” he said.
“Oh, you bring ’em up here any time and we ’ll help you out, Benjy and me.” The tall man had come back from the window and he smiled down at them. “I’ll do my share,” he said.
Uncle William looked at him, as if fearing a little that he might vanish in his thinness. “You set down, Benjy,” he said, “I’m going to clear the table and then we ’ll get down the map—”
“Have you heard—?” asked the man quickly.
“It come today—while you was gone, and it’s to both of us,” said Uncle William.
He held the pan of red shells in his hand, looking at it doubtfully. Juno, with her back to the stove, licked her paw and rubbed it down her nose and rubbed again—and licked it and rubbed again—in gentle rhythm.
Uncle William glanced at her with benignant eye. “She does set store by lobster,” he said, “much as anybody I ever see. I guess I’ll save ’em for her.” He moved toward the sink.
Andy’s eye followed him with disapproving glance. “I’d heave ’em out,” he said.
“Don’t you worry, Andy, I’m goin’ to put ’em under the sink—way back. The’ won’t no fish-warden get ’em in there. It’s much’s I can do to find things myself—when they get under here—” He emerged from the depths with serene face. “I see some things in there now, I’ve been looking for quite a spell. Tomorrow I’m going to have a real good clarin’-up time—You see!”
“I wanted you to go up to my place tomorrow,” said Bodet whimsically. “I thought perhaps you could work that contractor around to let me have my house the way I want it.”
“Well, I’ll go if you want me to,” said Uncle William placidly, “The dishes can wait a spell—some of ’em can wait,” he added, with a touch of conscience.
Benjamin smiled. “You might do them before we go.”
“And you could wipe,” said Uncle William cheerfully.
Benjamin’s face was perhaps a trifle less glowing than Uncle William’s, but his assent was cheerful. “All right, William, I’ll do my part—You help me with that contractor and I’ll wipe dishes for you—all day, if you say so.”
Uncle William regarded him thoughtfully. “You ought to have George Manning to help you about your house, Benjy. He could do it for you—nice.”
“Manning?” Bodet looked at him with lifted eyebrows—“You mean that boy—?”
“He ain’t a boy exactly, Benjy. He looks kind o’ young—not having any whiskers, and chewing a piece of grass the way he does when he’s thinking. But he’s old enough. He’s built a good many houses on the Island, fust and last—much as eighteen or twenty, I should think, counting barns—and hen-coops and fish-houses.”
Bodet smiled. “My house isn’t a hencoop, William.”
“I know, Benjy—it’s going to be a nice house—when you get it started,” said William.
Bodet sighed and threw out an impatient hand.
Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Does bother ye a good deal, don’t it?—You might talk with George about it,” he added hopefully, “‘Twon’t hurt any to talk to him—he’s chuck full of ideas. He’s about the best man we’ve got on the Island, I guess,” he added slowly. “The’ ain’t but one thing wrong about George.”
“What’s wrong with him!” asked Bodet with a little, skeptical smile.
“He ain’t married,” said Uncle William.
Bodet laughed out. “Neither are you, William.”
“No, I ain’t married and you ain’t married. But that’s different—we’re old men.”
“Just tottering around,” laughed Bodet.
“It ain’t the tottering, Benjy—It’s the hevin’ had your chance—and lost it.... That’s what’s happened to us.” He was looking at him with affectionate eyes, over the big spectacles.
Bodet nodded. “That’s what’s happened to us. And George Manning, I suppose—”
“George never had a chance,” said Uncle William thoughtfully.... “I don’t mean that nobody would ’a’ had him. I guess the’ ain’t a girl on the Island but what’s set her cap for George, one time or another—set it kind o’ modest, you know. But George don’t see ’em. He just goes around looking at the sky and things—kind o’ thinkin’ in his mind—might bump right up against a girl and not know she was there—” Uncle William chuckled. “I’ve talked to him about ’em,” he added conscientiously—“I’ve told him, a good many times, how interestin’ they be—but it don’t seem to do any good.” Uncle William sighed a little.
Bodet stood up, shaking himself. “Did you say there was a letter—?” he suggested.
Uncle William blinked a little and took it from his pocket, regarding it fondly. “You read it,” he said, “whilst I get down the map.”
Andy watched him, a little morosely, as he mounted a chair and reached for the map on its nail—“When you two going to get a girl!” he said.
Uncle William looked down at him with open mouth. “Now that’s an idea!” he said slowly.
“What’s an idea?” asked Andy.
Uncle William’s mouth closed firmly. “Nothin’—I didn’t mean nothin’, I guess. I was just a-thinking.” He chuckled softly. “We’ve got a girl,” he added kindly. “We heard from her yesterday.” He reached again to the map.
“When’s she coming?” demanded Andy.
“Well—?” Uncle William climbed slowly from the chair with his map, “She can’t come—exactly—”
Andy stared at him. “Then you ain’t got her, Willum—”
“Oh, yes, we’ve got her—and she wants to come—worst way. She’s the one I told you about—down to New York?” He looked at Andy over his spec-tades. “She’s a nice girl,” he added. His face held a deep glow. “‘Bout the nicest girl you ever see, I reckon.”
“I don’t know her,” said Andy coldly. “Well, mebbe you forget—But I remember well enough telling you about her one day—down to your house—when Harr’et had gone fox-berrying—and you and me was there alone, and we was makin’—”
“Like enough I do remember,” said Andy hastily.
“That’s the one,” said Uncle William, “the one I kind o’ helped to get home from New York—and she ’d come—any day—if there was a place to sleep. Benjy’s in the other room and I’m in this one—and the’ ain’t any other—” His forehead wrinkled at the problem. “She’s got to come—and she’s got to hev a place,” he said with decision.
“She could sleep down to my house,” said Andy.
“Why, so she could—She could sleep down to his house, Benjy,” said Uncle William.
The tall man swung his glasses from his nose and looked at them—first one and then the other. Then a smile came into his face. “The Lord bless you, Andy,” he said, “I think I had come about to the end of my dish-washing powers—”
“All you’ve done, was wipe ’em, Benjy,” said Uncle William anxiously.
“I know, William—and it’s all right—and I liked it!”
“You ’d pay a little suthin’,” suggested Andy.
“Oh, anything reasonable,” responded the tall man. “Now let’s see the map.”
THEY bent over the table, following Uncle William’s finger. The room was filled with light smoke from Uncle William’s pipe and the cigarette that Bodet held in his fingers and whiffed from time to time. The dusk outside crept in and mingled with the smoke.
“It’s along up here somewheres....” said Uncle William, peering at the map—“Here—! Here it is!” He glued his finger to a tiny spot—“They stopped here, they said—off St. Pierre, and then run along up through Placentia Bay and stopped off two-three times, and back to St. Mary’s—kind o’ edgin’ along—They struck a squall here—off Lance Point—and that kep’ ’em back a spell—”
“The boat’s all right!” said Bodet quickly.
“Oh, she’s all right, I guess. They didn’t say nothin’ about the boat. They was writin’ about the scenery and about their feelings, and so on; but I managed to make out their course—puttin’ this and that together. Your boat’s all right, Benjy. She ’ll stand any weather they ’ll get this time o’ year.”
“Yes—she ’ll stand it—with good handling—”
“Well, you’ve got a captain knows his business.... They ’ll bring her ’round to your back door some day, safe and sound.... You ain’t worryin’ to have ’em back, Benjy?”
The other shook his head. “Not a bit—I’m contented here.” He gave a little puff to the cigarette and wrinkled his eyes, smiling across the map and dreaming a little.
Uncle William’s eyes were on his face, kindly and glad. The pipe in his lips gave out a gentle volume of smoke and rumbled a little down below—“You can’t find a much better place ’n this is, can you?” He moved his hand toward the window where the dusk was coming in... and across the harbor where the lights glowed faintly—like stars.
Benjy’s eye rested on them. “Best place in the world,” he said.
“We all like it,” said Uncle William, “Andy likes it, too—”
The green in Andy’s eye retreated a little—“I’d like to see some of them other places,” he said.... “Now, that,” he shoved his finger at a point on the map—“That’s the farthest north I ever went.” Uncle William bent to it.... “Dead Man’s Point.” He chuckled a little. “‘Tis kind o’ rough, Andy, ain’t it!”
“I’ve started times enough,” said Andy—“once for Labrador and once in a whaler ’twas going way up—they said. Seem’s if we always got stuck or got a cargo—or suthin’—before we’re fairly under way—and had to turn around and come back.”
Uncle William nodded. “You’ve had a hard time, Andy—and I do’ ’no’s I’d risk taking you along myself—not if I wanted to get anywhere.”
Andy grinned. “You’ve been,” he said. “You don’t care.”
Uncle William’s eye swept the map and he laid his great hand on it affectionately, spreading the fingers wide. “It does feel good to think you’ve seen it,” he said, “But I’d rather be right here with you and Benjy a-traveling this way—after them young things, that don’t know where they’re sailing or what kind of waters they’re comin’ to—and not trusting the Lord even—not fairly trustin’ him, so to speak—just kind o’ thinkin’ of him as suthin’ to fall back on if a storm comes up—a real hard one—kind of a tornado like.”
“She’s a good boat,” said the tall man.
“She’s all right, Benjy—and they’re nice children,” responded Uncle William, “and I hope they won’t hurry a mite about getting round the earth.... The rate they’re goin’ now—when they wrote—I reckon it ’ll take just about twenty-five years,” he said reflectively.... “They don’t say how far North they plan to make, but I kind o’ reckon they ’ll cut across from here—from Battle Harbor to Disco, and then skirt along down the Cape, and up,”... His finger followed the course with slow touch and the smoke curled about his head with deep, contemplative puffs. His eye ran back over the course and lingered on a bit of clear water to the North. “It does seem a pity not to go up there—when they’re so near,” he said regretfully, “and best kind of weather, too.”... His eye grew dreamy—“It was along ’71, I sailed there—along with Captain Hall—You know that last voyage of his? We had one eye on whales and one on the Pole, I reckon... and the Polaris, she edged and edged, up and up. Some days I didn’t know but she would strike the Pole—run smack into it.... We ’d got up here through the Strait and up Smith’s Sound... and on beyond—the farthest of anybody’t that time—and Captain Hall, he was for pushing on—and all of ’em, except Buddington—he was sailing master and that slow, cautious kind—no sort o’ timber to go after the North Pole with—but he said we ’d winter right there—’twas somewheres along in August then—and we run back a little to a good place—and that’s where it got its name now, ’Polaris Bay’—we was the ones that named it.” Uncle William looked at it, with the pride of possession, and rubbed his finger on it. “Well, we stayed there.... But Captain Hall—you couldn’t hold him still, and he was all the time sledgin’ off, one way and another—to see what the earth was doin’ up that way—and it run along into October—the last of the month—It all seems like yesterday,” said Uncle William slowly.... “I was a young fellow, you see—not more ’n twenty-two-three, and I’d left Jennie down here, and gone up there—so’s to make money faster.”—His eye traveled about the red room... and came back to the map... “and there we was, settin’ down up there—waitin’ for winter and not a whale in sight—and then, all of a sudden, before you could say Jack Robinson—Captain Hall died.... There was whisperin’s around among the crew about the way he was took and the Navy went into it later—but nothin’ was proved... and Captain Buddington wa’ n’t the kind of man you could stand up to—captain or sailin’ master, or what, he ’d have his way... and we stayed there best part of a year. Then he said we was goin’ home—I remember,’. if it was yesterday, the day we got wind what he was plannin’ for. I’d been out off from the boat all day.... and when I came in George Pelman, he whispered to me we was goin’ home—and then, all in a minute, out there in the snow, I see Jennie’s face looking to me and smilin’, and my eyes kind o’ blurred—with the snow and all that—and that was the last time I see her—” said Uncle William slowly. “She died that winter.... When we got home, along in the spring, they told me she had waited—seems ’s if she kind o’ made her body wait till I’d come—They said it was like her spirit died out, faint, till it just wa ’n’t there.... So that’s the way I come to be here alone... and it seemed pretty good when Benjy come back so, one day, all out o’ nothin’—and there he was standin’ in that door....”
The tall man went to the window and stood with his back to the room looking out. When he turned about, his eyes were shining—like the lights across the water. “It was like getting home,” he said.