“That’s good!” The real-estate man beamed on him benignantly. “Tomorrow we will draw up the papers, and you can look about you for a place. You ’ll find something to suit, and I sha ’n’t hurry you—Take your time.” He moved off slowly, waving his hands in a kind of real-estate benediction, and Andy stared after him, entranced. “Oh, by the way—” The man came back. “I wouldn’t say anything about it if I were you—not for a while. There are always people ready to make trouble—and you ’ll be able to buy cheaper if they don’t know you’ve got to buy.” He beamed on him. “Of course, if you have to tell your wife—?” “I don’t have to,” blurted Andy. “All the better—all the better. The fewer women know things, the better.” The man smiled genially, and his light, smooth steps bore him away—out of Andy’s sight. When he had disappeared, Andy looked down at the bills. He drew out from his coat a large rumpled handkerchief and tied the bills skillfully in one corner and thrust it back into his pocket. Then he walked, with firm step, past the darkened window, into the house. XVIII THERE was a gathering cloud in the air—brooding, like a storm. Uncle William looked up to it, then he went on dragging his dory down the beach to the water’s edge. A voice sailed through the air, and he paused and looked up. Benjy, coming down the rocky path, was signalling to him violently. Uncle William dropped the dory and stood up. He advanced up the beach and the two men faced each other. Great clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and down behind them the sea boomed. “Have you heard what’s going on?” demanded Bodet. He was breathing a little grimly. “I kind o’ got it out of Andy this morning,” admitted Uncle William. Bodet looked at him in silence. “I do’ ’no’ why I didn’t get the idee sooner,” went on Uncle William. “Their lumber must have been lying around here fo-five days, now. But you’ve had such a lot of stuff clutterin’ up the dock, that I didn’t take no notice. I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d ’a’ seen it this morning—only Andy looked so kind o’ queer and meachin’ down ’t the dock—that I said plain out to him, I said, ’What you been doing, Andy?’ An’ he had to tell me. He hated to—like pizen. Uncle William smiled a little. I told him he ’d been putty foolish,” he added slowly. “Foolish!” Bodet fizzed. “It’s a crime! Building a hotel!—up there!” He waved his hand up over the great cliffs. Uncle William looked up to them with kindly eye. “‘Tain’t a hotel—exactly—” “Seventy-five rooms,” said Bodet. “‘Tis a good many,” said Uncle William. “Traipsing all over the place—I’ll shoot ’em,” said Bodet savagely. “Shootin’ won’t do any good, Benjy.” Uncle William was mild. “I thought about shootin’ ’em myself—whilst I was bein’ mad this mornin’.” “They sha ’n’t step on my land—nor yours,” said Bodet. “Do you think I’d have come up here—to the ends of the earth—to be tramped on?”