“Oh,” I answered simply, “the look of the sky.” “And in what does the look of the sky differ from its look on any other day?” he asked. “I see no difference.” “It is hard to tell,” I said; “but this is the hurricane season. I may be quite mistaken. But I think it will storm to-morrow.” And so he was forced to be content, though he was but half convinced; and he would have betaken him to the digging of clams, but the tide was not half down. This he mourned, with frequent upward glances at the sky. For Old Goodwin was become more skilled in the finding of clams than he had been. Indeed, I marveled what he could do with the clams he dug, for he no longer gave them to us. I mentioned it to Eve. She laughed, whispering. “I fear, Adam,” she said, “that he is contaminated. He sits up late at night, after everybody else is gone to bed--and I met him yesterday coming from the kitchen. He looked furtive as he smiled in passing. Yes, I fear that he is contaminated.” “Steamed clams?” I whispered, in reply. “But steamed clams are not baked clams. They are, to clams from a bake, what--a bath in a tub is to a dip in that great ocean.” “It is the best that he can do,” she said. “He may not have a clambake. My mother”-- “Ah,” said I, illuminated, “the poor man! We will have one for him. And we will ask your mother, too. She can but refuse, at the worst. And perhaps”-- Eve shook her head. “She will refuse,” she said,--“or take no notice of your asking. But father will be grateful. There are so few things the rich may do simply. Father would like to muss around, himself,--to help you with the bake, Adam,--and wear his old clothes. He generally has a horrid time.” She was smiling and eager, and her eyes shone. I nodded. “He shall have his clambake.” So Eve went in early, and Old Goodwin, for the sky was become all gray and nothing to see. And to me there is nothing so dismal as a dull gray sky when there is neither wind nor rain. There is the same gray light on the water, the same wherever I look, and all nature seems waiting. After a day of it, I am fit for battle and murder. But now a little breeze came creeping in out of the east, chill and drear. And I was wakened in the night by the wind, howling like a lost soul in torment. I turned over and drew the covers closer and slept again. And when the day broke, it was not tranquil, and no sun to see; and the wind shrieking and yelling out of the southeast like some wild thing, with gusts of drenching rain. I thought of my late corn, which was heavy with great ears--and had been tall, too, the night before. It was like to be blown flat in that wind--as flat as if it had been harvested--and what was a clambake without fresh corn? But there was no help for it. I ate my breakfast at my leisure,--there would be more wind before there was less,--put on oilskins, boots, and sou’wester, and fared forth.