Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 9

Andy moved a little farther away. He was very near the edge of the bench.

Uncle William moved over by him, and laid a hand on his knee. "I was goin' to ask you to lend me a hunderd, Andy."

Andy wriggled a little. "You don't _hev_ to go," he said feebly.

"If he needs me, I'll have to. I ain't ever been needed much--livin'

alone so. You don't know how 't is. You have somebody to need you.

Harriet needs you--"

"Lord, yes, Harr'et needs me. Don't doubt she needs me this minute--pail o' water or suthin'." Andrew chuckled gloomily.

"And you hev your chickens, too." Uncle William fixed his glance placidly on a strutting fowl that had appeared around the corner, c.o.c.king a surprised eye at them. William regarded her thoughtfully.

"When a man's alone, there ain't much he can do for folks," he said slowly, "except feed Juno night and mornin',--and she catches so many mice it ain't really wuth while. Now a hen needs to be fed."

"Guess they do," grumbled Andy.

"And a cow," went on Uncle William, "but there--" he checked himself.

"What am I talkin' about? How'd I ever keep a cow? What'd I do with the milk? I couldn't eat a whole cowful." He sat gazing with far-off eyes at the glimpse of blue water.

Andy chewed scornfully on a bit of dry gra.s.s.

William turned to him suddenly. "We'll go down and draw out the money to-morrow morning," he said.

Andy chewed anxiously. "I dunno as I can let you have it," he protested.

"Oh, yes, you'll let me. You see I _need_ it, Andy, and I'm goin' to pay you six per cent. How much do you get at the bank? Not more'n five, do you?"

"Four and a half," said Andy, grudgingly.

"Four and a half. Well, you see, I give you six. So there's a dollar and a half clear gain."

Andrew's eyes narrowed to the dollar and a half and fed on it awhile. "I shall hev to ask Harr'et," he said.

"Now, I wouldn't ask Harriet." Uncle William spoke soothingly. "She don't agree with you and me a good many times--Harriet don't."

Andrew admitted it. He chewed awhile in silence. "You'll give me a mortgage?" he said at last. The tone was crafty.

"On my place!" Uncle William was roused. "No, sir, I don't give mortgages to n.o.body."

"Then I don't see as I can let you hev it," said Andy. "It's fair to ask for a mortgage. What if anything should happen to ye--down there in New York? Where'd _I_ be?" He looked at him reproachfully.

"You _would_ miss me, Andy, and I know it. I'm goin' to be careful. I shan't take no more resks 'n I have to."

"Nor me, neither," said Andy.

"That's right, Andy, you be careful, too, while I'm gone. Why, 't wouldn't ever be like home--to come back and not find you here."

Andy's eyes widened. "What you talkin' 'bout?" he said.

Uncle William's gaze was on him affectionately. He looked a little puzzled. "I dunno jest what I _did_ start to say," he said apologetically. "I was thinkin' what a store I set by you, Andy."

Andy's face softened a trifle. "Now, look here, Willum, a mortgage is fair. It wouldn't hurt you none, nor your place--"

William shook his head. "I couldn't do it, Andy. I wouldn't reely trust you with a mortgage. You might get scared and foreclose some day if I couldn't pay the interest, and you'd be ashamed enough--doin' a thing like that."

The next day Andy drew the hundred from the bank and turned it over to William without even a note to guard his sacred rights. Andy had tried in the night watches to formulate a note. He had selected the best, from a row of crafty suggestions, about four o'clock. But later, as he and William went up the road, the note dropped by the way.

Uncle William stowed the money in his pocket with a comfortable smile.

"You've done the right thing, Andy, and I shall pay you back when I can.

You'll get your interest reg'lar--six per cent."

Andy's face held a kind of subdued gloom. He mourned not as those without hope, but with a chastened expectancy. To lend William money had almost the fine flavor of gambling.

He saw him off the following morning, with a sense of widened interests.

He carried, moreover, an additional burden. "Remember, Andy," Uncle William called to him as the boat moved away, "she don't like potato, and she won't touch a mite of fish--'ceptin' herrin'." Juno had been intrusted to him.

Andy grinned a sickly good-by. "Good-by, Willum; I'll do as well as I can by her." He turned away with a sudden sense of loss. The island seemed very empty. Juno did not like Andy, and he was needed at home.

The mental effort of thinking up a menu three times a day that did not include fish and potato for a magnificent creature like Juno weighed heavily on him. He had proposed bringing her down to the house, thinking to s.h.i.+ft the burden on to Harriet, but Uncle William had refused sternly. "She wouldn't be comfortable, Andy. The' 's a good deal of soap and water down to your house and she wouldn't like it. You can run up two or three times, easy, to see she's all right. Mebbe you'll get fond of her."

Andrew had no rosy hopes of fondness, but as he turned away from the wharf, there seemed no place on the island that would hold him so comfortably as the little house on the cliff. He climbed the rocky path to it and opened the door. Juno sprang down from her lounge. When she saw who it was she gave an indifferent lick to her front leg, as if she always jumped down to lick her leg. Then she jumped back on the lounge and tuned her back to the room, looking out of the window and blinking from time to time. The smoke of the steamer was dwindling in the distance.

Andy sat down in a vacant chair by the stove, staring at nothing. The sun poured in. It filled the room with warmth. Andy's eyes rested on it vacantly. The stillness was warm and big. It seemed a kind of presence.

Andy drew his hand across his eyes and got up. He went over and stood by the lounge, peering out. The smoke was gone. Juno turned her head and blinked an eye or two, indifferent. She ignored him pointedly. Her gaze returned to the sea. Andy had half put out his hand to stroke her. He drew it back. He had a sudden bitter desire to swear or kick something.

He went out hastily, closing the door behind him. Juno, with her immovable gaze, stared out to sea.

IX

Uncle William sniffed the air of the docks with keen relish. The spring warmth had brought out the smells of lower New York teemingly. There was a dash of salt air and tar, and a dim odor of floating--of decayed vegetables and engine-grease and dirt. It was the universal port-smell the world over, and Uncle William took it in in leisurely whiffs as he watched the play of life in the dockshed--the backing of horses and the shouting of the men, the hollow sound of hoofs on the worn planks and the trundling hither and thither of boxes and barrels and bales.

He was in no hurry to leave the dock. It was a part of the journey--the sense of leisure. Men who travel habitually by sea do not rush from the vessel that has brought them to port, gripsack in hand. There are innumerable details--duties, inspections and quarantines, and delays and questionings. The sea gives up her cargo slowly. The customs move with the swift leisure of those who live daily between Life and the Deep Sea--without hurry and without rest.

Uncle William watched it all in good-humored detachment. He made friends with half the shed, wandering in and out through the crowd, his great bulk towering above it. Here and there he helped a fat, heavy baby down the length of the shed, or lifted aside a big box that blocked the way.

He might have been the Presiding Genius of the place. Men took him in with a good-humored wink, as he towered along, and women looked after him gratefully. Amid the bustle and enforced waiting, he was the only soul at rest. Time belonged to him. He was at home. He had played his part in similar scenes in hundreds of ports. The city bubbling and calling outside had no bewilderments for Uncle William. New York was only one more foreign port, and he had touched too many to have fear of them. They were all alike--exorbitant cab-men, who came down on their fare if you stood by your box and refused to let it be lifted till terms were made; rum-shops and gambling-holes, and worse, hedging the way from the wharf; soiled women haunting one's steps, if one halted a bit or turned to the right or left in indecision. He had talked with women of every port. They were a huge band, a great sisterhood that reached thin hands about the earth, touching it with shame; and they congregated most where the rivers empty their burden of filth into the sea. Uncle William knew them well. He could steer a safe path among them; and he could turn a young man, hesitating, with foolish, confident smile on his face.

Uncle William had not been in New York for twelve years, but he had a sailor's unerring instinct for the dangers and the comforts of a port.

He knew which way h.e.l.l lay, and which of the drivers, backing and cursing and calling, one could trust. He signaled to one with his eye.

"What'll ye charge to give this young feller a lift?" Uncle William indicated the youth beside him.

The driver looked him over with keen eye. "That's all right." He moved along on the seat to make room. "Come on, young man."

The youth climbed up with clumsy foot.

"You might know of a job," suggested Uncle William. "He looks strong and willin'."

The man nodded back. "I'll keep an eye on him, sir." The van rumbled away and Uncle William faced the crowed once more.