The artist looked up. “I didn’t know that.” He began to gather up his materials.
“What you goin’ to do?” asked Andy.
“I’m going to find Uncle William,” said the artist.
Andy fidgeted a little. He looked off at the water. “I wa’n’t findin’ no fault,” he said uneasily. “I was just explainin’ why I couldn’t resk any more o’ my money on him.”
“That’s all right,” said the artist. “I want to see him.”
He found Uncle William sunning the kittens at the east of the house. He looked up with a nod as the artist appeared. “They’re doin’ fust-rate,” he said, adjusting the clam-basket a little. “They’ll be a credit to their raisin’. Set down.”
The artist seated himself on a rock near by. The sun fell warm on his back. Across the harbor a little breeze ran rippling. At the foot of the cliff Andy was making ready to lift anchor. The artist watched him a minute. “You’ve wasted a good deal of money on me,” he said soberly.
Uncle William looked at him. He dropped an eye to the Andrew Halloran. “He been talkin’ to ye?” he asked cheerfully.
“He told me you borrowed of him—”
“Now, don’t you mind that a mite. Andy don’t. He’s proud as Punch to hev me owe him suthin’. He reminds me of it every day or two. All I mind about is your frettin’ and takin’ on so. If you’d jest be easy in your mind, we’d have a reel comf’tabul time—with the kittens and all.” He replaced one that had sprawled over the edge. “The’ ’s a lot o’ comfort in doin’ for dumb things,” he went on cheerfully. “They can’t find fault with the way you fix ’em.” He chuckled a little.