“No doubt,” I said; but I knew not how to take it, and I glanced at Eve to see. “Yes, no doubt it is the weather.”
Then I went in, for I would change my boots. And Old Goodwin wandered, that meanwhile, about my place with Eve beside him. When I came again I found him on the seat under the pine; and he was gazing at the stones, and then off over my clam beds, where the water danced in the sun and the little waves broke upon the sands. But Eve was not there. I marveled somewhat at it.
“She is gone to see her mother,” he said, answering the thought unspoken. “She will be back presently. And how are the clams, Adam?”
I laughed, it was so exactly what I expected of him. “Pretty well, I thank you,” I replied; “or they were, two weeks ago. I have not seen them lately, for I have been busy. You may dig whenever you will. They thrive, I think.”
He smiled again—his thanks. “And the stones—you have put some fresh ones in, I see—they are all ready?”
“They are all ready,” I answered, “and the weed lies in heaps along the shore. But I find that my appetite for baked clams is not yet ripe”—
But he interrupted. “Ah, Adam,” he said, “but you have this with you all the year.” He waved his hand about. “That is much to be thankful for. But I—the memory of those baked clams is all that has carried me over many a hard place. For I realize—sometimes—that I am an old man; but when I am here”—
“You are not,” I finished for him. “And that is reason enough for staying. You have a roof over your head—such as it is—and a crust of bread—with a chop or two when there is need. No man, however poor, can ask more—and no man, however rich, can get more. So I foretell”—
Old Goodwin was roaring with laughter. “Yes,” he said, as soon as he could speak, “I have a roof over my head—such as it is—and the tiles upon it may last through a winter; and I shall have—no doubt—a crust of bread—with a chop or two when there is need. And so you would have me give up my house in town. Well, well, there is something to be said for it. We shall see. We shall see.”
“Your house in town would be but a burden,” I said then. “No man can live in two houses—two at once—having but one body. And you might well give up—it is time to retire, having enough of means. And these fields and this water and the woods are a never-ending delight. You need not fear your nerves. For look at me. Am I nervous? And I have retired—retired these many years—retired before my career was well begun. I find amusement—and I am like to live long. And you should know Judson—you must know him. He has lived long and will yet live some while. He should have been here this morning.”