“I didn’t know it,” said Uncle William, with a long, easy pull, “but I reckoned suthin’ ’d be along putty soon. If it hadn’t come to-day, I was goin’ to make Andy give us enough to begin on.”
“He wouldn’t have done it.”
“Oh, yes, he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ squirmed and twisted some, but he’d ’a’ done it. He’d ’a’ had to!”
The artist laughed out happily. “Well, now you can do as you like. We’ll have the best boat there is going.”
Uncle William nodded. “I knew you’d want to. I’ve been kind o’ plannin’ for it. We’ll go down to-morrow or next day and see about it.”
The artist looked at him curiously. “I don’t believe you care half as much as I do!”
Uncle William returned the look, smiling broadly. “It’ll seem putty good to feel my own boards under me again,” he said cheerfully.
“But you didn’t care when you didn’t have them,” said the artist. “You just toted those infernal kittens—”
Uncle William’s chuckle was genial. “Kittens ain’t everything,” he said mildly. “But I’ve seen the time when kittens wa’n’t to be despised. You jest set that way a little mite, Mr. Woodworth, and I’ll beach her even.”
“One thing I’m glad of,” said the artist, as the boat grated along the pebbles. “You can pay Andy.”