Uncle William’s face assumed an air of explanation. “It’s good as far as it goes. The’ ain’t anything the matter with it—not anything you can lay your finger on—not till you get over there, a little east by sou’east. Don’t you see anything the matter over there?” He asked the question with cordial interest.
The Frenchman held the eyeglass chain in his fingers. He swung the glasses to his nose and stared at the spot indicated.
Uncle William regarded him hopefully.
The glasses dropped. He faced about, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I don’t see it.” He spoke in polite deprecation. “It seems to me very nearly perfect.” He faced it again. “I can breathe that air.”
“So can I,” said Uncle William. “So can I.”
They stood looking at it in silence. “It’ll be fo’-five hours before it strikes,” said Uncle William, thoughtfully.
“Before it—” The Frenchman had half turned. The rapt look in his face wrinkled a little.
“Before it strikes,” repeated Uncle William. “That cloud I p’inted out to you means business.”
The Frenchman looked again. The wrinkles crept to the corners of his eyes. He turned them on Uncle William. “I see. You were speaking of the weather?”
“Wa’n’t you?” demanded Uncle William.