Benjy waved them toward the stairs. “Go up and look,” he said.
Jim Gunnion, on the floor, was stirring a pot of paint with a stick. There was a set look in his face as he stirred.
Uncle William looked at him and winked. The look in Jim’s face moved a little.
“There’s a color for you!” said Bodet. He moved his hand proudly toward the door panel.
Uncle William put on his glasses and inspected it—“’.is a good color, Benjy,” he said cordially, “I’m glad ye held out—both of ye.”
Bodet, with his head thrown back, stared at the streak of old-fashioned green on the panel. The man on the floor stirred the pot of paint. Uncle William looked at them both with benignant eye.... “I reckon I’m all ready to begin.” He drew the paint brush down the leg of his trousers and looked at it inquiringly—“Putty clean,” he said with satisfaction. “Now, where ’ll you have me?”
The man on the floor handed him a pot of paint in silence and pointed to the mop-board. Uncle William sighed a little and let himself down. Andy, seizing another pail, attacked the unfinished panel. The painter went on mixing color. Benjy, over by the window, studied the harbor.
Presently he looked back into the room. “Fog’s setting in,” he said. Andy came across and looked out.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
Uncle William, from the floor, looked up. “They’ve had quite a spell of weather,” he said cheerfully, “and this ’ll give ’em a chance to rest up a little and overhaul their tackle....’.is too bad about George—I kind o’ reckoned he ’d ketch suthin’ today.” He got up and came to the window. A great blanket of white was moving toward them, over the water. All the little distant boats were hidden behind it.... “They ’ll hev to come in keerful,” said Uncle William. “I reckon I won’t paint any more today.” He laid his brush carefully along the top of the pail.