Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hev suthin’ to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully.
They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby black heads inquiringly in the water and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks.
Andrew’s eyes rested impassively on their gambols. “Wuthless critters,” he said.
Uncle William’s face softened as he watched them. “I kind o’ like to see ’em, Andy—up and down and bobbin’ and sloppin’ and scramblin’; you never know where they’ll come up next.”
“Don’t need to,” grumbled Andy. “Can’t eat the blamed things—nor wear ’em. I tell you, Willum,”—he turned a gloomy eye on his companion,—“I tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things.”
“Mebbe I do,” said William, humbly.
“This one, now—this painter fellow.” Andrew gave a wave of his hand that condensed scorn. “What’d you get out o’ him, a-gabblin’ and sailin’ all summer?”
“I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put into words,” said William, thoughtfully, “what I did get out o’ him.”
“Ump! I guess you couldn’t—nor anybody else. When he sends you anything for that boat o’ yourn, you jest let me know it, will you?”
“Why, yes, Andy, I’ll let you know if you want me to. I’ll be reel pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William.