Andy wriggled a little and looked at the door. “I didn’t say nothin’ to Harr’et,” he said feebly.
“Well, I guess you better stay—” said Uncle William, “You don’t get a chance to eat lobsters every day.”
“I don’t get ’em any day,” said Andy gloomily, “She won’t cook ’em for me—and she says she won’t have ’em scrawling round.”
Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Now, that’s too bad—it’s just come on, ain’t it?”
Andy nodded. “She says it’s the law and she’s going to keep it, and we hain’t had tip nor claw for much as a week now.”
“My... my!” Uncle William’s tongue clicked in sympathy. “Well, you stay right where you be, Andy, and we ’ll have one good meal.” He brought in the lobsters. “Seem’s if women keep the law a little harder ’n men—when they do keep it,” he said thoughtfully, swashing the lobsters happily down into the kettle.
Andy nodded. “She got scared ’bout the fish-warden last week. She says we can’t pay no three hundred dollars for lobsters—and I do’ ’no’s we can.” His eye was on the steam that rose genially about the lid of the kettle.
“Well, there won’t be any three hundred this time,” said Uncle William, “—not without the fish-warden’s legs are longer ’n my spy-glass. Seems kind o’ mean business—being a warden,” he added kindly.
“I don’t mind his bein’ a warden,” said Andy, “if they ’d let us have Jim Doshy. We ’d got used to him—knew his ways, and he gen ’lly sent us, word anyhow—day or two beforehand—But this one—” He looked at Uncle William with reproachful eye. “The’ wa ’n’t one of us ready for him when he come.”
Uncle William nodded. “I know—lively work wa ’n’t it?”