“Right on deck; jest slid down the rock here this minute,” said Uncle William.
The man’s eyes twinkled. “Remember the day he took my lobster-pot?”
“Borrowed it,” said Uncle William, dryly.
“Borrowed it,” assented the man. He chuckled a little. “He got his pay.”
Uncle William nodded. “He al’ays does. Andy’s borrowin’ lobster-pots now—same Andy—gets his pay every time. He’s great on gettin’ his pay, Andy is.”
“He ought to have made a mean man,” said the other, thoughtfully.
“Well, he hain’t, not so to speak,” said Uncle William, slowly. “There’s mean spots—rocks; you hev to steer some, but it’s sandy bottom if you know how to make it. I’ve anchored on him a good many year now and I never knew him to slip anchor. It may drift a little now and then. Any bottom will drift.”
The man laughed out. “So it will.” He took up his hat. “I must go and look up a place to stay,” he said.
Uncle William looked at him sternly. “Not a step. You don’t stir a step, Benjy Bodet.” He pointed to the red lounge.
The Frenchman paused, irresolute. “I’m going to stay some time, you know.” He glanced about the little room. “I shall be in the way.”