The man’s gaze was fixed on him. “I shall see what the law has to say about it,” he said quietly. “Well, I would if I was you,” said Uncle William cordially, “I did, when I bought my piece. I see a lawyer—a good one—and he said my deed wa ’n’t wuth the paper ’twas writ on if Harr’et didn’t give a quit-claim deed—So she give it.” The man’s gaze was looking out to sea. Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “It ain’t a just law—anybody can see it ain’t just! How was you going to know ’t Harr’et owns Andy? I wouldn’t ’a’ known it if we hadn’t been sailing that way. And you couldn’t ’a’ known it—You didn’t know,” said Uncle William with conviction. The narrow eyes turned on him for a minute. “There’s such a thing as law,” he repeated. “Law’s ticklish,” said Uncle William. “Far as I make out, the man that’s got the most money, beats—after a spell.” There was silence again. “I suppose you know I paid Halloran five hundred down,” said the man. “Yes, Andy told me about the five hundred down—and five hundred the first of the month.” Uncle William’s hand sought his pocket. “Andy give that five hundred to me. I reckon he kind o’ hated to hand it to ye.” Uncle William’s eye sought the dark boat that had lifted sail and was creeping out of the harbor. “I told him I’d just as lives give it to you as not—I’d be real glad.” He held out the roll of bills. The man took them, in thick fingers, and counted them. Uncle William watched him, with deep, detached eye—“I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Carter—You wouldn’t ever ’a’ been happy here on the Island—not really happy. You see, here on the Island, we gen’ally fish, or cut bait, or go ashore. You ’d like it better to go ashore.” The man moved away a few steps. “To tell you the truth, I am glad to be out of it,” he said, “I was making your land altogether too valuable—and nothing in it for me.” “That’s the way I felt,” said Uncle William cordially. “I don’t like things ’t I own to get too val’able. It makes a lot of bother owning ’em.... You ’ll just about get the boat—if you was thinkin’ of going today,” he suggested. The man looked at him—then he smiled and held out his hand. “Good-by, Mr. Benslow. I think I know a gentleman—when I meet him.” Uncle William rubbed his hand down his trouser leg and took the one that was held out. “Good-by, Mr. Carter. I don’t suppose I’ll see you again. You won’t be comin’ back to the Island, I suppose. But we ’ll buy your lumber—we can work it in somehow, I reckon.” The man moved away, and Uncle William returned to his net. Now and then his eyes sought the little dark boat that sailed back and forth against the misty horizon—and a smile crept up to the eyes and lingered in them—a little smile of humor and gentleness and kindly pity and strength. XX