“I’d let him go, Benjy,” said Uncle
William. The two men stood in front of the new house, looking toward it. “He’s got her closed in tight—” went on Uncle William, “Windows all in. The’ can’t anything happen to her now.... He’s stood by ye putty well,” he suggested craftily—“better ’n I’d ’a’ done—with all that goin’ on out there!” He waved his hand at the water.
Bodet’s eye followed the motion. “I want him for the inside work,” he said.
Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “I know you want him, Benjy. But here on the Island we al’ays kind o’ give and take—Ain’t you been taking quite a spell?” he added gently.
Bodet turned a little. “A contract’s a contract,” he said uneasily.
“Well, mebbe,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s why we ain’t ever had many contracks here on the Island—We’ve al’ays liked to live along kind o’ humanlike.”
Bodet smiled a little. “I’ll let him off,” he said, “—if he ’ll get things along so we can paint—I can look after the painting for him myself—” his chest expanded a little.
Uncle William’s eye was mild. “I reckoned you ’d come around to doin’ it, Benjy. We wouldn’t ever ’a’ felt comfortable, sitting in your house—when ’twas all done,” Uncle William looked at it approvingly—“We wouldn’t ’a’ wanted to set there and look at it and remember how George Manning didn’t get a chance to put down a net all this season.... I reckon I’d al’ays kind o’ remember his face—when I was settin’ there—the way he looks in there, and the mackerel ripplin’ round out there in the water—and him hammerin’.”
Bodet grunted a little. “All right—I’ll let him off—tomorrow.”
Uncle William beamed on him. “You ’ll feel a good deal better, Benjy—now ’t you’ve done it. I see it was kind o’ making you bother?”