The man looked at him a moment. Then he sat down on the keg, adjusting his weight nicely. “I understand your feeling, Mr. Benslow, I understand it perfectly—and it’s natural. But you don’t foresee, as I do, what a hotel will do for this Island. I’ve had experience in these matters, and I can tell you that in three years—” he looked about him proudly, “you wouldn’t know the place!” Uncle William cast a quick glance at the cliff—“I don’t suppose I should,” he said hastily. “And as for values—” The man’s hand swept the horizon. “You could sell at your own price. I’m really doing you a favor, Mr. Benslow—” he leaned toward him, “if you had foresight.” “Yes, I reckon it takes foresight,” said Uncle William. He looked at him mildly. “I might just as well tell ye, Mr. Carter—you can’t build no hotel—not up here. You can build down ’t the village, if you want to,” he added. “In that hole—?” The man looked at him cynically. “Do you think anybody would board in that hole?” “I shouldn’t want to myself,” admitted William, “but folks are different—some folks are different.” The man rose to his feet. “I shall be sorry to have any ill feeling with you, Mr. Benslow. But you can’t expect me to sacrifice my plans—not unless you are willing to buy the place yourself.” He dropped a narrow eye on him for a minute. “That’s what I was thinking,” said Uncle William cordially. The man smiled a little. “What would you consider it worth?” he asked pleasantly. “Well—” Uncle William considered, “I do’ ’no’ just what ’tis worth. We paid Andy two thousand for it.” The man’s mouth looked at him for a minute, then it closed, in a little smile. “You mean you would pay that,” he suggested. “I mean we did pay it,” said Uncle William stoutly, “—last week. An’ then I told ’em not to drive another nail, or I’d sue ’em!” He was sitting erect now and there was a little glint in the blue eyes. “Set down, Mr. Carter.” He motioned to the nail keg. “I might jest as well tell ye—plain out—so ’s ’t you can understand. Andy didn’t own that place. He ain’t owned it for years. He don’t own stock nor stone on the Island—Don’t own his own boat out there—” Uncle William nodded to the dark boat, rocking beside the Jennie. Andy, on the deck, was busy hauling up the sail and making ready to cast off. Uncle William’s eye rested on him, with a little humorous gleam. “You see, Andy, he got scared, fo-five years ago, ’bout his property. He’s a kind o’ near man, Andy is, and he got the idee he ’d make everything over to Harr’et—to have it safe. So that’s what he done. He give her a paper saying he ’d made it all over to her—everything. Nobody knew it, I guess—except me. And I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if it hadn’t been for one day, when we was out sailin’—We got to talking about one thing and another—and fust thing he knew, he ’d told me. He made me promise not to tell, and I ain’t told—not a soul—not till now.” Uncle William beamed on him. “I reckon ’twon’t do any harm now.”