Uncle William’s eye rested on her kindly.
“I’m looking for lobsters,” said the young man.
Uncle William nodded. “It’s a poor time of year for ’em,” he said, “—close season, so.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted a little.
“I didn’t get your name, sir,” added Uncle William, leaning forward.
“My name is Mason,” said the young man.
“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Uncle William. He came across and held out a big hand. “My name is Benslow—William Benslow.”
The young man took the hand, a little dazed, it might seem. “I knew it was Benslow,” he said, “I inquired before I came up—down in the village.”
“Now, did ye? That was kind in you!” Uncle William beamed on him and sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he said thoughtfully—“not as I can remember. I’m real glad to see you.”
The young man nodded stiffly—a little color had come into his face—as if he did not propose to be tampered with.