XXIV
Uncle William set the table, with one eye on the harbor. As he pottered about with the bread and cheese and salmon, a smile widened his round face.
The artist looked up from the brushes he was cleaning at the door. “You look as happy as if you’d had a fortune left you,” he said.
“Well, I’m considabul contented. I gen’ally am, ain’t I?” he added quickly.
“So-so,” admitted the young man. “You’re shiftless, that’s what’s the matter with you.”
Uncle William gave his long, low chuckle. “I guess I be,” he said softly. “I guess I be. But I do take a sight o’ comfort.”
The young man finished the brushes and brought them in, standing them up in a quart cup. “Dinner ready?” he asked.
“I reckon it is.” Uncle William scowled at the lavish table. “‘Pears to me there’s suthin’ I’ve forgot. Oh, pickles!” He said it triumphantly. “If you wouldn’t mind takin’ that plate, Mr. Woodworth, and goin’ down cellar?”
“All right.” The young man took the plate and disappeared down the ladder that served as a stairway to the tiny hole beneath.