No one paid any attention to it—Andy least of all. He sat with one leg swinging over the other, chewing a bit of grass and staring gloomily out to sea. The look of baffled humility in his face made it almost tragic. The artist fell to sketching it under cover of his hand. Uncle William studied the approaching boat. “She’s never been in these waters afore,” he announced. “She’s comin’ in keerful.” No one replied. Andy stared at fate and the artist worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the glass. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the young man, who was working with serene touch—oblivious to the bay. Uncle William looked through the glass again—a long, slow look. Then he slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. “Comin’ in to dinner, Andy?”
Andy looked up mildly. “I reckon Harr’et’s waitin’ for me.” He got slowly to his feet. “You’ve got another done, I s’pose?” He glanced enviously at the easel.
The artist laughed out. “Want to see it?” He withdrew his hand.
Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin crept into this face, and spread. “You’ve made me look kind o’ queer, hain’t you?” He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face.
Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great nose. “It’s Andy!” he said with shrewd delight. “It’s Andy! And it’s the spittin’ image of him!” He pushed up the glasses, beaming upon Andrew.
Andrew returned the look somberly. “It’s a good likeness, you think, do you?”
“Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; couldn’t be better.” Uncle William laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It looks jest as mean as you do—and jest as good, too, Andy.”
Andy cast a glance at the young man. “How long was ye makin’ it?”
“Half an hour, perhaps; while we’ve been sitting here.”
Andy sighed heavily. “Wuth more’n I be, too, I reckon?”