Uncle William shook his head. “He’s as sensible as you be, Andy—or me.”
Andy pondered the statement. A look of craft crept into his eye. “What’ll ye bet he ain’t foolin’ ye?” he said.
Uncle William returned the look with slow dignity. “I don’t speak that way o’ my friends, Andy,” he said gently. “I’d a heap rather trust ’em and get fooled, than not to trust ’em and hev ’em all right.”
Andy looked guilty. “When’s it comin’?” he said gruffly.
“It’s come a’ready,” replied Uncle William; “this mornin’. We’ve been figgerin’ on a new boat all day, off and on. He’s goin’ to give me five hunderd to make up for the Jennie.”
“She wa’n’t wuth it!” Andy spoke with conviction. He dropped a jealous eye to the Andrew Halloran rising slowly on the tide.
“No, she wa’n’t wuth more’n three hunderd, if she was that,” admitted Uncle William. “I’m goin’ to take the three hunderd outright and borrow the rest. I’m goin’ to pay you, too, Andy.”
Andy’s face, in the light of the setting sun, grew almost mellow. He turned it slowly. “When you goin’ to pay me, Willum?”
“To-morrow,” answered William, promptly, “or mebbe next day. I reckoned we’d all go down and see about the boat together.”
Andy looked at him helplessly. “Everything seems kind o’ turnin’ upside down,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “What d’ye s’pose it is, Willum—about ’em—picters—that makes ’em cost so like the devil?”