“It ’ll take you an hour to get that brush clean,” said Andy.
“Do ye think so?” Uncle William beamed. “That’s just about what I cal’-lated—an hour.”
“I’m going to work,” said Andy virtuously. He moved toward the house.
Uncle William cast an eye at him. “I do’ ’no’s I’d go in, Andy, if I was you—not just yet.”
“Why not?” He wheeled about.
“Well—” Uncle William hesitated a second—and looked at the little clouds and the big moor, “I don’t think Benjy’s ready,” he said, “not just ready.”
“What’s he doing?” asked Andy.
“Kind o’ stewin’,” said Uncle William, “He’s got suthin’ on his mind—about paint.”
“Come—ain’t it!” Andy’s eye was curious.
“Yes—it’s come—loads of it has come—” Uncle William drew the brush thoughtfully back and forth, making little red dabs along the rock. “The’s a good many kinds—and colors—and sizes—piled up in there—but the’ ain’t any of ’em what Benjy wants.” He lifted his brush with a flourish.