Uncle Andy

“ What is it, Uncle Andy?"
"Lynx!" replied Uncle Andy, puffing at his pipe.
"What did he go and do that for?"
"Well," said Uncle Andy presently, "if you'll try your level best to listen without interrupting, I'll tell you."
"I'm not interrupting!" protested the Babe.
"Of course not!" agreed Uncle Andy. "Well, you see, the lynx is the slyest thing that goes on four legs. You think, maybe, a fox is sly. That fool guide Bill's told you that. Now, a fox is sly when he chooses to be, and when he wants to be impudent he'd sass King Solomon to his face. ”

“ He’d go to sleep standin’ up keepin’ the flies off the table, that Gabe would.”
“Nobody could do nothin’ wid dat boy noways,” said Uncle Andy, reflectively; “he’ll hab to wait till all de folks dat know him is gone dead afore he plays dat game ob de rheumatiz an’ de pore-house. Jis’ now he’s like de folks dat wear eye-glasses to pop on an’ off as suits de ’casion; when he done gits de rheumatiz right, he’ll be like de people dat wears specs; dat means business.”
“Uncle Andy, won’t you sing, and let the others join in the chorus?” asked Cecil. “It will be splendid now that Israel is here.” ”

“ Babe.
"There you go!" exclaimed Uncle Andy. Then he stopped and thought for quite a while. But as the Babe never spoke a word he soon went on again.
"You see, I was just coming to that. That awful screech is one of the slyest things he does. That fellow has been hunting a while without catching anything. Creeping, creeping on his great furry feet, making no more sound than the shadow of the leaf on the moss; for all his quietness he hasn't had any luck. So at last, hiding behind a bush, he let out that screech just to start things moving. ”

“ Babe, refusing to stir.
"Well, now," protested Uncle Andy in an injured voice, "you know I ain't like Bill and some other folk. I don't know everything. But I've every reason to believe that, with any kind of otter luck, they lived to grow up and have families of their own—and taught every one of them, you may be sure, to slide down hill. As likely as not, that very slide over yonder belongs to one of their families. ”

“ Andy had women folks to do for him.
As the winter wore on, letters came from the artist—sometimes gay and full of hope sometimes a little despondent. Uncle William read the letters to Andy, who commented on them according to his lights. “He don’t seem to be makin’ much money,” he would say from time to time. The letters revealed flashes of poverty and a kind of fierce struggle. “He’s got another done,” Uncle William would respond: “that makes three; that’s putty good.” Andy had ceased to ask about the money for the boat—when it was coming. ”

“ Uncle Andy was wont to say that there was only one man in all the world who knew all about all the animals—and that he was not Andrew Barton, Esq. At this, Bill would smile proudly. At first this modesty on Uncle Andy's part was a disappointment to the Babe. But it ended in giving him confidence in whatever Uncle Andy told him; especially after he came to realize that when Uncle Andy spoke of the only man in the world who knew all about animals, he did not mean Bill. ”

“ Uncle William looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said slowly. “I’ve thought about that, myself. Can’t be the paint nor the canvas.”
“Cheap as dirt,” said Andy.
“Must be the way he does ’em.”
“Just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and a-daubin’,” sneered Andrew.
“I dunno’s I’d say that, Andy,” said Uncle William, reprovingly. “He sweat and fussed a lot.”
Andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said, jealously. “A thing o’t to be wuth more’n a picter of it. There’s more to a thing.” He struck the solid ground of fact with relief. ”

“ Before consenting to the Child's initiation, Uncle Andy had impressed upon him with the greatest care the enormity of breaking the spell of stillness by even the slightest and most innocent-seeming movement.
"You see," had said Uncle Andy, "it's this way! When we get to the place where we are going to hide and watch, you may think that we're quite alone. But not so. From almost every bush, from surely every thicket, there'll be at least one pair of bright eyes staring at us—maybe several pairs. They'll be wondering what we've come for ”

“ Andy’s face held no comment.
Uncle William sighed a little. “You can’t help wantin’ things the way you want ’em,” he said. “And Benjy ain’t ever been married—no more ’n me. Now, you’ve been married—”
“Yes, I’ve been married—a good many year,” said Andy sombrely.
“That’s it! An’ you know what ’tis to want things—’t you can’t have! But Benjy ’n’ me—” Uncle William looked around him—at the great rocks on either side and the big, cloudless sky and the road running to the horizon and dipping beyond—“Me and Benjy—we’ve missed it—somehow.” ”

“ Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late sun, warm and radiant. “‘T ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he said.
Uncle William’s face fell a little. “Well, I wouldn’t say jest that, Andy.
“Roof leaks,” said Andrew.
“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William, “over ’n the southeast corner, She’s weather-tight all but that.” He gazed at the little structure affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold. The artist’s face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. Uncle William turned to Andy. “A man give him two thousand for it,” he said. ”

“ The two were going fishing—for Uncle Andy, with a finely human inconsistency, was an enthusiastic fisherman, and the stream toward which they were making their way was one of deep pools and cool "stillwaters" where the biggest fish were wont to lie during the hot weather. Uncle Andy had a prejudice against those good people who were always sternly consistent, and he was determined that he would never allow himself to become a crank ”

“ Andy looked guilty. “When’s it comin’?” he said gruffly.
“It’s come a’ready,” replied Uncle William; “this mornin’. We’ve been figgerin’ on a new boat all day, off and on. He’s goin’ to give me five hunderd to make up for the Jennie.”
“She wa’n’t wuth it!” Andy spoke with conviction. He dropped a jealous eye to the Andrew Halloran rising slowly on the tide.
“No, she wa’n’t wuth more’n three hunderd, if she was that,” admitted Uncle William. “I’m goin’ to take the three hunderd outright and borrow the rest. I’m goin’ to pay you, too, Andy.” ”

“ ANDY’S RESOLVE.
“Poor uncle Simon!” said Mrs. Gordon, after the letter had been read. “He seems to be in a difficult position.”
“Why doesn’t he send that man Brackett packing?” asked Andy, indignantly. “He can’t have much spirit.”
“You forget, Andy, how old he is. An old man is not so well able to contend for his rights as a man of middle age. Besides, it appears that his son-in-law has possession of the farm.” ”

“ I guess likely there’ll be prizes. He o’t to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters, fust-rate—”
“The whole lot wa’n’t wuth the Jennie.” Andy spoke with sharp jealousy.
“Well, mebbe not—mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?”
“I don’t care,” sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.
Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.
“It’s your move, Andy.”
Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers. “Go ahead.” ”

“ I loved your uncle, lad. He had a rugged, manly nature, and just sufficient folly, bravado, and sinfulness to keep a poor Irishman in countenance. Thurot, one must apologise for taking from your very lips the suggestion I see hesitating there, but sure 'tis an Occasion this; it must be a bottle—the best bottle on your adorable but somewhat ill-found vessel. Why 'tis Andy Greig come young again. Poor Andy! I heard of his death no later than a month ago, and have ordered a score of masses for him—which by the way are still unpaid for to good Father Hamilton. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Uncle William shook his head again, returning the gaze with a kind of sternness. “I dunno,” he says. “When a man treats her like Andy has, she must kind o’ hate him—like pizen.”
The artist sat up, a look of hope faint and perplexed, dawning beneath his stare. He leaned forward, speaking slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about that.” Uncle William held out the letter. “It’s from Andy, and Juno’s left him. Took to the woods. She couldn’t stan’ havin’ him round, I guess.” Uncle William chuckled a little. ”

“ Now and then Andy grunted or moved a leg, and once or twice Uncle William arose to put more wood into the glowing stove. But he did it with the gaze of a sleep-walker. Outside the wind had risen and dashed fiercely against the little house. Neither man lifted his head to listen. Their hands reached mechanically to the pieces. They jumped men and placed them one side with impassive faces. The board was clearing fast. Only seven men remained. Andy moved forward a piece with a swift flourish. ”

“ Andy glanced at the sun. “We ’ll be late,” he said.
“Yes, we ’ll be late, like enough. Smells good up here, don’t it!” Uncle William snuffed the salt air with relish. “I al’ays like to stop along here somewheres. It makes a putty good half-way place.”
Andy sat down. “Benjy’s wastin’ time on that house of his,” he said glumly.
“Yes, he’s wastin’ time.” Uncle William looked about him placidly. “Benjy don’t mind time—nor wastin’ it. What he wants is a house that he wants. I do’ ’no’s I blame him for that—I like a house that suits me, too.” ”

“ Well, I believe,’ said Uncle Andy, seating himself on the bank and getting out his pipe, “that at last the unexpected has happened. I believe, in other words, that you are right. I once knew of a couple of youngsters who might have saved themselves and their parents a lot of trouble 1f they could have made some such sound as you did, at the right time. ”

“ 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. ”

“ The fewer women know things, the better.” The man smiled genially, and his light, smooth steps bore him away—out of Andy’s sight.
When he had disappeared, Andy looked down at the bills. He drew out from his coat a large rumpled handkerchief and tied the bills skillfully in one corner and thrust it back into his pocket. Then he walked, with firm step, past the darkened window, into the house.
XVIII THERE was a gathering cloud in the air—brooding, like a storm. Uncle William looked up to it, then he went on dragging his dory down the beach to the water’s edge. ”

“ 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 rose cautiously from his keg and motioned to Andy who was disappearing behind a pile of lumber down on the dock.
Andy came out, a little grudgingly, it seemed, and the man moved forward to meet him.
Uncle William went on mending his net.
When the man returned his face had a reddish look and his voice was a little controlled and stiff. “Halloran tells me you’ve put an injunction on my work up there?” He moved his hand toward the cliff.
Uncle William held up his net and squinted at it. “We-l-l,” he said slowly, “we told ’em they better not do any more building—not till you come.” ”

“ Uncle Charlie rubbed his jaw. “Well, Biff, I still don’t like the idea at all. But it surely would give us the time we need. We’ve got to get the working permit. And I’ve got to fuel my seaplane.”
“You’re weakening, aren’t you, Uncle Charlie?”
“I guess I am, Biff. I’ll come back for you in a couple of days. Dietz will free you once I convince him you aren’t the real Derek Zook.”
“Good. We’ll do it then. But before I go back to the hacienda and surrender myself, I could use some FOOD! How about you, Derek? Hungry? You missed your nightly feed.” ”

“ The gloom in Andy’s face lifted.
“I’ve thought about that a good many times,” went on Uncle William. “It’s cur’us. You get to know folks that’s a good deal nicer than your own folks that you was born and brought up and have lived and quarreled with,—and you get to know ’em a good deal better some ways—but they ain’t the same as your own.” ”