The artist looked at him curiously. “Some people call that the devil, you know.”
Uncle William cleared his throat. He picked up a little stone and balanced it thoughtfully on the palm of his hand. Then he looked up with a slow smile. “I ain’t so well acquainted with the devil as I ust to be,” he said. “I ust to know him reel well; ust to think about him when I was out sailin’—figger how to get ahead of him. But late years I’d kind o’ forgot—He’s livin’ still, is he?”
The artist laughed quietly. “They say so—some of them.”
Uncle William’s smile grew wider and sweeter. “Well, let him live. Poor old thing! ’T won’t hurt none, and he is a kind o’ comfort to lay things on when you’ve been, more’n usual, cussed. That’s the Andrew Halloran over there to the left.” He pointed to a dusky boat that was coming in slowly. “That’s his last tack, if he makes it, and I reckon he will. Now, if you’ll go in and start the chowder, I’ll see if he want’s any help about makin’ fast.”
XXII
Andy eased in to the wharf with cautious eye. He threw the rope to Uncle William and busied himself with the sail.
Uncle William peered down upon him. “Got quite a nice mess, didn’t ye?”
“Yep.”
“How’d they run?”