The man on the floor handed him a pot of paint in silence and pointed to the mop-board. Uncle William sighed a little and let himself down. Andy, seizing another pail, attacked the unfinished panel. The painter went on mixing color. Benjy, over by the window, studied the harbor. Presently he looked back into the room. “Fog’s setting in,” he said. Andy came across and looked out. “Uh-huh,” he said. Uncle William, from the floor, looked up. “They’ve had quite a spell of weather,” he said cheerfully, “and this ’ll give ’em a chance to rest up a little and overhaul their tackle....’.is too bad about George—I kind o’ reckoned he ’d ketch suthin’ today.” He got up and came to the window. A great blanket of white was moving toward them, over the water. All the little distant boats were hidden behind it.... “They ’ll hev to come in keerful,” said Uncle William. “I reckon I won’t paint any more today.” He laid his brush carefully along the top of the pail. Andy looked at him and looked at his panel and hesitated. “You better stay here, Andy,” said Uncle William encouragingly. “You ’ll get quite a lot done if you stay.” He went cheerfully out, and Benjamin, watching from the window, saw him enter the blanket of fog and disappear. XXIV UNDER its white garment, the Island lay muffled and still. Tiny specks moved about on it—under some great canopy of space—they emerged and drifted and ran—calling into the fog. Out at sea the bell sounded its note, swinging to and fro with a deep, sharp clang. Men on the shore listened to it and peered into the fog.... The boats had come creeping in, one by one—some of them loaded to the rail—some grumbling at fog, and riding high. Only two were out now, and the day had come on to dusk—the dusk of the fog and of the night sliding silently in together. The whole Island had gathered on the beach, looking into the fog—peering for glimpses of water, and the darker shapes of the boats out there.... George Manning had not come in—and about noon Uncle William had lifted anchor and drifted out, looking for absent boats—“Sometimes I kind o’ sense where they be without seein’ ’em,” he had said.... The boats were all in now, swinging at their moorings under the soft dusk—all but Manning’s and Uncle William. The last boats in had had glimpses of the Jennie and had heard Uncle William’s voice booming through the fog. “He was off the Point, last I heard,” said a voice on the beach.... “He was drifting along, sort o’ looking out—told us how things was ahead—then the fog drove in and shut him off—then we heard him quite a spell after we couldn’t see him”... the voice ran along the beach and ceased. Someone had lighted a bonfire, and the children went fitfully back and forth in the glow.... The night was coming down.... “I don’t mind a blow,” said a complaining voice, “I don’t care how hard a gale it blows, but I can’t, stan’ fog.... I wish they was in.”