Uncle William looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said slowly. “I’ve thought about that, myself. Can’t be the paint nor the canvas.”
“Cheap as dirt,” said Andy.
“Must be the way he does ’em.”
“Just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and a-daubin’,” sneered Andrew.
“I dunno’s I’d say that, Andy,” said Uncle William, reprovingly. “He sweat and fussed a lot.”
Andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “‘T ain’t reasonable,” he said, jealously. “A thing o’t to be wuth more’n a picter of it. There’s more to a thing.” He struck the solid ground of fact with relief.
Uncle William’s eye rested on him mildly. “Ye can’t figger it that way, Andy. I’ve tried it. A shark’s bigger’n a halibut, but he ain’t wuth much—‘cept for manure.”
“Chowder!” The call rang down from the little house, clear and full.
Both men looked up. “He’s a-callin’ ye,” said Andrew. There was mingled scorn and respect in the tone.
“You come on up to supper, Andy. We can talk it over whilst we’re eatin’.”