Andy looked down at his clothes. “I’m all dirt.”
Uncle William surveyed him impartially. “Ye ain’t any dirtier ’n ye al’ays be.”
“I dunno’s I be,” admitted Andy.
“Well, you come right along, and after supper we’ll all turn to and help you clean.”
The artist looked up as they entered. “How are you, Andy? The fish are running great to-day.”
Andy grinned feebly. “I’ve heard about it,” he said. He drew up to the table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, glancing now and then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite side of the table. It was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a little resentment grazing the edges of it.
XXIII
The noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was in the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling the surface of the water. The artist, from his perch on the rock, looked out over it with kindling eye.
His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the water, and the scudding breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl held his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished in swift delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over—to wait for. Some day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it could slip away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke—he would wait. His eye wandered to the horizon.