“You’re not going out?”
Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a start, you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and threw the match on the floor.
Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.”
“Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.”
Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll see of you—this season.”
Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two, mebbe,” he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look out and see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day you won’t see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern.
Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed over to it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind the dock. He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a letter!” he said.
“Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted the letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he said sternly.
“Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible good eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back.
Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s from the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out.