“Right off. I knew ye’d be glad.”
The mouth came together. “Where you goin’ to get it?”
“He’s got some money.” Uncle William nodded toward the cliff.
Andy looked. “He’s poor as poverty. He’s said so—times enough.”
Uncle William smiled. “He’s had luck—quite a run o’ luck. He’s been sellin’ picters—three-four on ’em.”
“What’s picters!” said Andrew, scornfully. He scrambled on to the wharf with a backward glance at the Andrew Halloran. “You won’t buy no boat off o’ picters, Willum. A boat costs three hunderd dollars—a good one.”
“I was cal’atin’ to pay five hunderd,” said Uncle William.
“You was?” Andy wheeled about. “You wont’ get it out o’ him!” He jerked a thumb at the cliff.
Uncle William chuckled. “Now, ye’ve made a mistake, Andy. He’s got that much and he’s got more.” The gentle triumph in Uncle William’s tone diffused itself over the landscape.
Andy took it in slowly. “How much?” he asked at last.