Andy glanced at the sky. “I’m going to take in the Andrew Halloran.” He was already on his way down the ladder.
Uncle William pursued him, peering over. “You’ll have to have me to help ye, Andy. Can’t you jest wait till to-morrow—till I get my chimbley done?”
“You’ve been a month now,” said Andy. He was glowering at the bay and the little boat bobbing below.
“I know it, Andy, I know it.” Uncle William was descending the ladder with slow care. “But I don’t want my mortar to freeze, and I’m kind o’ ’fraid of its comin’ off cold again to-night. I was jest goin’ to begin to hurry up. I was goin’ to begin to-day.”
“I can get along without you,” said Andrew, doggedly.
“Why, no, you can’t, Andy. How you goin’ to haul her up?” Uncle William spoke reproachfully.
Andy moved away. “I can do it, I guess.” He was mumbling it to his teeth. “I don’t need anybody’s help.”
With a sigh and a look of affection at the platform and the pail and the blue sky above, Uncle William followed him down the rocky path.
They worked busily all the morning, towing in the Andrew Halloran, cleaning her up and stowing away tackle, making her ready for the winter.
In the afternoon Uncle William mounted the roof again. His face, under its vast calm, wore a look of resolve. He looked thoughtfully down the chimney hole. Then he sat down on the platform and took up his trowel. He balanced it on his palm and looked at the pile of bricks. His gaze wandered to the sky. It swept the bay and came back across the moors. A look of soft happiness filled it; the thin edges of resolve melted before it. “Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William, “best kind—” His eye fell on the pile of bricks and he took up one, looking at it affectionately. He laid it in place and patted down the mortar, rumbling to himself.