Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 7

"Picters," responded Uncle William, spelling it out slowly. "There's one of my house,"--lofty pride held the voice,--"and one of the cove down below, and two up by the end of old Bodet place, and one on the hill, this side of your place. Now, that's quite a nice lot, ain't it?"

"What's he going to do with 'em," asked Andy.

"There's a kind of exhibit goin' on." Uncle William consulted the letter. "'The Exhibition of American Artists'--suthin' like a fair, I take it. And he's goin' to send 'em."

"Thinks he'll take a prize, I s'pose." Andy's tone held fine scepticism.

"Well, I dunno. He don't say nuthin' about a prize. He does kind o' hint that he'll be sendin' me suthin' pretty soon. I guess likely there'll be prizes. He o't to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters, fust-rate--"

"The whole lot wa'n't wuth the _Jennie_." Andy spoke with sharp jealousy.

"Well, mebbe not--mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?"

"_I_ don't care," sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.

Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.

"It's your move, Andy."

Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers.

"Go ahead."

Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward.

"Same move you al'ays make," said Andy, contemptuously.

"Sometimes I beat that way, don't I?"

"And sometimes you don't." Andy shoved forward another piece. The quick movement expressed scorn of dawdlers.

Uncle William met it mildly. He set his man in place with slow care.

Andy paused. He snorted a little. He bent above the board, knitting his forehead. His hand reached out and drew back. The fingers reached out and drew back. The fingers drummed a little on the edge of the board.

Uncle William, leaning forward, a hand on either knee, beamed on him benignantly.

Andy shifted a little in his chair. "You're going to get into trouble,"

he said warningly, "if you move that way."

"Like enough, like enough. I gen'ally do. Is it my move?"

"No," growled Andy. He returned to the board. The game was on in earnest. Now and then Andy grunted or moved a leg, and once or twice Uncle William arose to put more wood into the glowing stove. But he did it with the gaze of a sleep-walker. Outside the wind had risen and dashed fiercely against the little house. Neither man lifted his head to listen. Their hands reached mechanically to the pieces. They jumped men and placed them one side with impa.s.sive faces. The board was clearing fast. Only seven men remained. Andy moved forward a piece with a swift flourish. He gave a little growl of triumph.

Uncle William studied the board. At last, with a heavy sigh, he lifted a piece and moved it cautiously.

Andy made the counter move in triumphant haste. "King," he announced.

Uncle William covered the man, a little smile dawning in his eye. He looked at the pieces affectionately. A chuckle sounded somewhere in the room.

Andy looked up quickly. He glanced again at the board. Wrath froze his gaze.

Uncle William leaned back, nodding at him with genial meaning. A little conscious triumph flavored the nod.

Andy shoved back from the board. "Well, why don't you take it? Take it if you're goin' to, and don't set there cackling!"

"Why, Andy!" Uncle William moved the man mildly.

Andy shoved the counter in place with scornful touch.

Uncle William moved again.

Andy got up, looking sternly for his hat.

"Can't you stay to dinner, Andy?"

"No."

"I was goin' to have a little meat."

"Can't stay."

"It's stormin' putty hard."

"_I_ don't care!" He moved toward the door.

Uncle William took down an oil-skin coat from its peg. "You better put this on if ye can't stay. No use in gettin' wet through."

Andy put it on and b.u.t.toned it up in fierce silence.

Uncle William watched him benignly. "If 't was so 's 't you could stay, we could play another after dinner--play the rubber. You beat _me_ last time, you know." He took off the stove-lid and peered in.

Andy's eye had relaxed a little under its gloom. "When you goin' to have dinner?" he asked.

"I was thinkin' of havin' it putty soon. I can have it right off if you'll stay--must be 'most time." He pulled a great watch from its fob pocket and looked at it with absent eye. His gaze deepened. He looked up slowly. Then he smiled--a cheerful smile that took in Andy, the board with its scattered checkers, Juno on the lounge, and the whole red room.

"Well, what time is it?" said Andy.

"It's five minutes to three, Andy. Guess you'd better stay," said Uncle William.

VIII

Uncle William carried the letter up the zigzag rocks in his big fingers.

A touch of spring was in the air, but the _Andrew Halloran_ rocked alone at the foot of the cliff. Uncle William turned back once to look at her.

Then he pursued his way up the rocky cliff. He had not heard from the artist for over a month. He glanced down curiously at the letter in his hand, once or twice, as he climbed the cliff. It was a woman's handwriting.