“He’s a genius,” said Bodet thoughtfully, “He ought to be somewhere besides on this island—somewhere he ’d have a chance.” “Chance for what?” asked Uncle William, with simple interest. “A chance to rise,” said Bodet with emphasis. “It’s all right for you and me, William—old men—with our work done—” “Mine ain’t quite done,” said William, “—your bed and two-three things,” and he flaxed around softly as if he were doing something. Bodet smiled at him. “Now what do you think you are doing, William?” he said. “We’re out of it. We’ve had our day—we’ve worked and fought and suffered—” “That’s it, Benjy.” Uncle William nodded, “We hev had a good time, ain’t we? But I do’ ’no’s I ever had a better one ’n I’m having right here on the Island—specially since you come,” he added. The other shook his head. “It won’t do, William. A young man must go out into the world—and do things.” Uncle William hung his dish towel on the line. The big face in its tufts of beard glowed at Benjy over the top—“I suppose folks ’d say there’s bigger things I could be doin’—than wash dishes—but I do’ ’no’ what they be,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s things I’d like better—it’s terrible fussy—getting ’em clean and keepin’ ahead, so ’s ’t you ’ll have enough for a meal—and I’m putty glad Celia’s coming back.... I’ve thought about it, Benjy—a good many times—” He came over and sat down, “—’bout living here on the Island. We don’t hurry much, but seems to me we get about as much—about as much living as other folks do.” He looked at him over his glasses. “We’ve got enough to eat, and beds—putty good beds—and things to wear.... I keep a-thinking and a-thinking about it,” he went on, “and I don’t see just what ’tis we o’t to scratch around so for.” “There’s education,” said the other, swinging his long glasses on their slender chain. “Yes, you’ve got eddication, Benjy. I can see it—kind o’ the way you set in a chair—different from my way.” Uncle William regarded his great legs with kindly eye. “But I do’ ’no’ ’s you’re any happier—or your legs any happier?” he said slowly. “You know I’m not happier.” The man turned with a quick smile, “There are not many men happier than you are, William.” “No, I suppose the’ ain’t. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think how happy I be—Seems kind o’ shiftless,” he added thoughtfully, “Like enough, I ought to be out hustling for suthin’—But I do’ ’no’ what it ’d be?” “Manning ought to get out into the world—and he’s going to—when he’s finished my house.... It’s all right for you, William. You’ve earned a rest.” Uncle William smiled. “I don’t want any rest, Benjy—no more ’n George Manning—I like to keep a-doing—kind o’ gradual-like—al’ays did.... I can’t see ’s the Lord hurries much,” he added, with a glance at the little window. “You’re not the Lord, William,” said Benjy.