“Six-seven thousand,” said Uncle William.
“What!” Andy’s feet scuffed a little. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said feebly.
“No, ’t ain’t reasonable.” Uncle William spoke gently. “I was a good deal s’prised myself, Andy, when I found how high they come—picters. Ye can’t own a gre’t many of ’em—not at one time.”
“Don’t want to,” said Andy, caustically.
“No, you wouldn’t take much comfort in ’em,” said William. “‘T is cur’us ’t anybody should want a picter o’ my old hut up there ’nough to pay—how much d’ye s’pose they did pay for it, Andy?”
Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late sun, warm and radiant. “‘T ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he said.
Uncle William’s face fell a little. “Well, I wouldn’t say jest that, Andy.
“Roof leaks,” said Andrew.
“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William, “over ’n the southeast corner, She’s weather-tight all but that.” He gazed at the little structure affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold. The artist’s face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. Uncle William turned to Andy. “A man give him two thousand for it,” he said. There was sheer pride in the words.
“For that?” Andy looked at him for a minute. Then he looked at the house and the bay and the flaming sky. His left eyelid lowered itself slowly and he tapped his forehead significantly with one long finger.