“Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will come back to you by that time, maybe.”
Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come back to me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.”
Bodet stared at him. “You told him—”
“I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’ ’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout that well—I’ll have to have one.”
Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some reason—”
Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things that ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.”
He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland cement, out there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’ kind o’ smudgy.”
Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the big harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black steamer was coming in.