“You going to make coffee?” asked Bodet.
Uncle William looked at him. “You ’d like some, wouldn’t you, Benjy?”
“I shouldn’t object,” said Bodet, “—if you’re making it.”
“Well, I might’s well make some—’twon’t take long—if you ’ll go fetch a pail of water.”
Benjy laughed and took up the pail. Uncle William watched him benignantly. “—And you might kind o’ holler to George—tell him to come up when he’s done.”
“All right.” Bodet departed with his pail and Uncle William pottered about, singing a little, a kind of rolling chant, and grinding coffee—measuring it with careful eye.... “She couldn’t ’a’ run faster if the ’d been snakes after her.” He chuckled into the coffee pot and looked up—Benjy had come in. “He says he ’ll be right up,” he said, finding a place for his pail on the sink.
“I’d better hurry,” said Uncle William. He made coffee and cut bread and served the fish, with accustomed hand. “The’s suthin’ about cooking your own things,” he said, “I do’ ’no’ what ’t is—Hallo, George!” he looked up. “Come right in. We’re all ready for ye.”
They drew up to the table and Uncle William beamed on them. “Seems like old times, don’t it!—Help yourself, George—You made a putty big catch—!”
“Pretty fair,” said the young man with a twinkle.
“What ’ll they figger up?” asked Uncle William.