“An’ then he’s al’ays a-givin’—a little here and a little there. Why, what Willum Benslow’s give away would ’a’ made a rich man of him.”
“Yes?”
“Yep. I don’t s’pose I know half he’s give. But it’s a heap, Lord knows! And then he’s foolish—plumb foolish.” He rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward. “How much d’you s’pose he give me for that land—from here to my house?” He pointed up the coast.
The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It glowed—a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky. “I haven’t the least idea,” he said slowly.
“Well, you won’t believe it when I tell you;—nobody’d believe it. He paid me five hunderd dollars for it—five hunderd! It ain’t wuth fifty.”
The artist smiled at him genially. “Well—he’s satisfied.”
“But it ain’t right,” said the man, gloomily. He had returned to his fish. “It ain’t right. I can’t bear to have Willum such a fool.”
“I think I’ll go for a sail,” said the artist.
The other glanced at the horizon. “It’s going to storm,” he said indifferently.
“I’ll keep an eye out.”