THERE was a gathering cloud in the air—brooding, like a storm. Uncle William looked up to it, then he went on dragging his dory down the beach to the water’s edge. A voice sailed through the air, and he paused and looked up. Benjy, coming down the rocky path, was signalling to him violently. Uncle William dropped the dory and stood up. He advanced up the beach and the two men faced each other. Great clouds were rolling up from the horizon, and down behind them the sea boomed.

“Have you heard what’s going on?” demanded Bodet. He was breathing a little grimly.

“I kind o’ got it out of Andy this morning,” admitted Uncle William.

Bodet looked at him in silence.

“I do’ ’no’ why I didn’t get the idee sooner,” went on Uncle William. “Their lumber must have been lying around here fo-five days, now. But you’ve had such a lot of stuff clutterin’ up the dock, that I didn’t take no notice. I do’ ’no’ ’s I’d ’a’ seen it this morning—only Andy looked so kind o’ queer and meachin’ down ’t the dock—that I said plain out to him, I said, ’What you been doing, Andy?’ An’ he had to tell me. He hated to—like pizen. Uncle William smiled a little. I told him he ’d been putty foolish,” he added slowly.

“Foolish!” Bodet fizzed. “It’s a crime! Building a hotel!—up there!” He waved his hand up over the great cliffs.

Uncle William looked up to them with kindly eye. “‘Tain’t a hotel—exactly—”

“Seventy-five rooms,” said Bodet.

“‘Tis a good many,” said Uncle William.

“Traipsing all over the place—I’ll shoot ’em,” said Bodet savagely.

“Shootin’ won’t do any good, Benjy.” Uncle William was mild. “I thought about shootin’ ’em myself—whilst I was bein’ mad this mornin’.”

“They sha ’n’t step on my land—nor yours,” said Bodet. “Do you think I’d have come up here—to the ends of the earth—to be tramped on?”

“Why, no, Benjy—an’ you ain’t goin’ to be tramped on.” Uncle William’s voice was soothing. “But, you see—they’ve got a right to go acrost your land, and across mine.”

Bodet looked at him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and put the handkerchief back. “What do you mean William?” he said.

“Set down, Benjy.” Uncle William found a convenient rock. “It’s in the deed. You see, Andy, he wanted it that way and I never thought much about it, one way or the other—I reckon he wouldn’t ever ’a’ sold it without,” Uncle William added slowly. “Anyway I give it to him, and it runs right by your place—near as I can make out. I’ve been kind o’ thinking about it since I found out.”

Benjy groaned a little.

“I know jest how you feel, Benjy.” Uncle William’s voice held a deep note in in it, “—about rusticators, and havin’ ’em go by your windows, all hours, day and night, a-gabbling and so kind o’ cheerful-like. I do’ ’no’ ’s I could stand it myself.”

“I’m not going to stand it,” said Bodet, “I’ll sell out—leave the Island.”

“Mebbe that’s what he wants—what he’s countin’ on,” said William slowly. Benjy glared at him.

“Don’t you worry, Benjy.” Uncle William looked out to sea where the big waves tumbled under the wind and the whitecaps gathered and bobbed and rode high—“Don’t you holler ’fore you’re hurt. The’ ain’t anybody gone past your windows yet.... I’m figgerin’ on it,” went on Uncle William, “an’ I can’t stan’ it, no more ’n you can—to have ’em a-settin’ on the beach here—” Uncle William’s gaze dwelt on it fondly. “‘Twouldn’t be the same place—if I’d got to look up, any minute, and see two-three of ’em settin’, or kind o’ gettin’ into the boats, and squealin’.... It’s partly the clo’es, I reckon,” said Uncle William after a minute, “—the women’s things like men’s—and the men’s like women’s. Can’t tell which from ’tother, half the time. Look up, and see a hat and coat and shoes, mebbe, and think it’s a man and get your mind all fixed for a man&............