Uncle William’s gaze broke. He pushed up his spectacles and leaned forward. “That’s just where ’tis, Benjy. It’s different—on the Island. When you’ve lived here a spell, you don’t want to finish things up lickety-cut, and then set down and look at the water.... You kind o’ spin ’em out and talk about ’em—paint one end, mebbe, and go out fishin’ or suthin’—not paint the other for fo-five months, like enough—not ever paint it.” He beamed on him. Bodet moved restlessly. “Did you ever do any painting with Gunnion!” he demanded. Uncle William’s smile deepened. “I’ve painted with him—yes... ’tis kind o’ fiddlin’ work, painting with Jim Gunnion.” He pushed back the dishes and rested his arms on the table—“This is the way I see it, Benjy.... I woke up the other night—along in the night—and got to thinkin’ about it. We ’d have a real good time buildin’ your house if you wa ’n’t so kind o’ pestered in your mind. You see—the’s you and me and George and Gunnion—and Andy some days—and we could visit along whilst we was working—have real good times.... Like enough the boys ’d sing some—they most al’ays do sing when they’re building on the Island—Sounds nice, when you’re out on the water to hear ’em—two or three hammers goin’, and singin’... I don’t believe they’ve done much singin’ on your house, Benjy?” He looked at him inquiringly. “I don’t believe they have,” said Bodet. His face was thoughtful. “They might have got along faster if they had sung,” he added. He looked up with a little smile. Uncle William nodded. “I do’ ’no’s they ’d ’a’ got along any faster—but you ’d ’a’ liked buildin’ better. The’s suthin’ about it—” Uncle William gazed about the little red room—“suthin’ about the Island—when you’re settin’ up nights and the wind’s a-screeching and howling and the waves poundin’, down on the beach.... You get to thinking about how snug the boys made her, and you kind o’ remember ’em, up on the roof, and how the sun kept shining and the sou’-west wind blowing and the boys singing.... It all seems different, somehow.” Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it. Bodet took up his hat. “I think I’ll go down to the beach,” he said soberly. Uncle William’s eye followed him. “You don’t think I’m scoldin’ ye, Benjy, do you?” Bodet paused beside him and laid a hand on the great shoulder. “I’d rather have you scold me, William, than have any other man I know praise me.” Uncle William’s mouth remained open a little and the smile played about it. “I do’ ’no’ why you say that, Benjy. I ain’t any different from anybody—’cept’t I’m fond of ye,” he added. “You’re fond of everybody,” declared Bodet laughing. Uncle William’s face grew guilty. “There’s Harr’et,” he said slowly. “Some days I can’t even abide Harr’et!” XXVI BODET had taken largely to sitting about on nail-kegs, listening to the men talk and joining in now and then.... The little fretted look had left his eyes, and his voice when he spoke had a quiet note.