He looked after her, a curious glint in his eye. Then he looked at his boat, riding at anchor, and the look changed subtly, “You needn’t worry,” he said softly—but not too softly to reach the pink ears—“You needn’t worry, Miss Celia—there will never be but one captain on a boat.” She opened the door into the fish-house and took her pan and went up the rocky path without a look behind her. XXIII A NDY stepped up the road, a sombre look in his face. Now and then he cast an eye at the mouth of the harbor where the mackerel fleet sailed. Then he strode on with stately step. He had been fishing for a week and had caught nothing—twice his net had been hung up on the rocks and yesterday the dog-fish had run it through—and Harr’et’s temper was worn thin.... He looked his grievance at the horizon. Harriet had been firm. If he could not fish, he should paint, and Bodet was offering three-fifty a day. She had rented the boat, over his head—his boat—and she had talked about Jonah, and had sent him out of the house—with his paint brushes! Andy fizzed a little and stepped higher and looked ahead up the road. A figure, seated in the sunshine, was making strange pantomimic gestures with a paint brush. Andy stopped a minute to look at it—then he came steadily on. Uncle William looked up and nodded. “Hello, Andy—goin’ to help?” “Guess so,” said Andy. He glared at the harbor. Uncle William spatted his brush along the rock and dipped it again in the tin can beside him. “What you doin’.” asked Andy. Uncle William squinted at the brush and rubbed it thoughtfully back and forth—a deep red smudge followed it. “Kind o’ getting my brush ready,” he said. Andy sniffed. “Bodet inside?” “Why, yes—he’s there—” Uncle William hesitated—“Yes—he’s there—” He drew a long flourish of red on the rock and looked at it approvingly. “It ’ll take you an hour to get that brush clean,” said Andy. “Do ye think so?” Uncle William beamed. “That’s just about what I cal’-lated—an hour.” “I’m going to work,” said Andy virtuously. He moved toward the house. Uncle William cast an eye at him. “I do’ ’no’s I’d go in, Andy, if I was you—not just yet.” “Why not?” He wheeled about. “Well—” Uncle William hesitated a second—and looked at the little clouds and the big moor, “I don’t think Benjy’s ready,” he said, “not just ready.” “What’s he doing?” asked Andy. “Kind o’ stewin’,” said Uncle William, “He’s got suthin’ on his mind—about paint.” “Come—ain’t it!” Andy’s eye was curious. “Yes—it’s come—loads of it has come—” Uncle William drew the brush thoughtfully back and forth, making little red dabs along the rock. “The’s a good many kinds—and colors—and sizes—piled up in there—but the’ ain’t any of ’em what Benjy wants.” He lifted his brush with a flourish. “What does he want, then!”