“Eph is your husband?”
“That’s him—Ephraim Clover.”
“And—doesn’t he do anything else but—caretake?”
“Lord bless you, he don’t even do that; I’m the caretakeress. Eph don’t do nothing but potter round with the motor-boat and go to town for supplies and fish a little and ’tend to the garden and do the chores and—”
“I should think he must keep pretty busy.”
“Busy? Him? Eph? Lord! he’s the busiest thing you ever laid your eyes on—poking round doing nothing at all.”
“And does nobody ever come here ...?”
“Nobody but the boss.”
“Does he often—?”
“That’s as may be and the fit’s on him. He comes and goes, just as he feels like. Sometimes he’s on and off the island half a dozen times a week, and again we don’t hear nothing of him for months; sometimes he just stops here for days and mebbe weeks, and again he’s here one minute and gone the next. Jumps round like a flea on a griddle, I say; you can’t never tell nothing about what he’s going to do or where he’ll be next.... My land o’ mercy, Mr. Searle! What a start you did give me!”