A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It was Uncle William, puffing a little and warm. “Hello.” He climbed up and seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun. “I reckoned I’d find ye here. Been doin’ her?” He nodded toward the horizon.
The artist looked into the distance with puzzled eyes. “Her?” He put the word doubtingly.
Uncle William glanced at him sharply. “Don’t you see nuthin’ over there?” He waved a huge arm at the horizon.
The artist looked again and shook his head slowly. “I see a color I’d give my eyes to get.”
Uncle William chuckled a little. “Reckon they ain’t wuth much to ye.” His hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small spy-glass. He slipped the parts into place and adjusted it to his eye. “There!” He handed it to the young man. “See if that’ll help ye any.”
The young man took it, looking out over the bay. “Yes, I see her now. She’s a schooner.” He put down the glass. “Do you mean to say you can see that with the naked eye?”
“Al’ays could.” Uncle William held out his hand again for the glass. “I don’t make her out a schooner, though.”
“She’s two-masted.”
“Yes.” Uncle William’s eye was glued to the glass. “But she’s lighter built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, like enough. You can see her walk—same as if she was a lady—a-bowin’ and bobbin’.” He laid down the glass, a look of pleasure in his face. “She’s comin’ right in, whoever she is. She’ll drop anchor by noon-time.” He glanced at the easel. “You been paintin’?”
“Trying to.”