I’d LET him go, Benjy, if I was you.” Two weeks had gone by and the mackerel continued to run. George Manning had stayed by the house, driving nails with big, fierce strokes and looking out over the harbor with his set face.... The house had come on rapidly—the shingling was done and most of the inside woodwork was up. A new set of men had been put on, to replace the mackerel men, and Manning drove them hard. It had not been easy to get men, or to keep them—with the mackerel schooling red out there in the harbor. But something in Manning’s eye held them to their work.

“I’d let him go, Benjy,” said Uncle

William. The two men stood in front of the new house, looking toward it. “He’s got her closed in tight—” went on Uncle William, “Windows all in. The’ can’t anything happen to her now.... He’s stood by ye putty well,” he suggested craftily—“better ’n I’d ’a’ done—with all that goin’ on out there!” He waved his hand at the water.

Bodet’s eye followed the motion. “I want him for the inside work,” he said.

Uncle William looked at him benevolently. “I know you want him, Benjy. But here on the Island we al’ays kind o’ give and take—Ain’t you been taking quite a spell?” he added gently.

Bodet turned a little. “A contract’s a contract,” he said uneasily.

“Well, mebbe,” said Uncle William, “I reckon that’s why we ain’t ever had many contracks here on the Island—We’ve al’ays liked to live along kind o’ humanlike.”

Bodet smiled a little. “I’ll let him off,” he said, “—if he ’ll get things along so we can paint—I can look after the painting for him myself—” his chest expanded a little.

Uncle William’s eye was mild. “I reckoned you ’d come around to doin’ it, Benjy. We wouldn’t ever ’a’ felt comfortable, sitting in your house—when ’twas all done,” Uncle William looked at it approvingly—“We wouldn’t ’a’ wanted to set there and look at it and remember how George Manning didn’t get a chance to put down a net all this season.... I reckon I’d al’ays kind o’ remember his face—when I was settin’ there—the way he looks in there, and the mackerel ripplin’ round out there in the water—and him hammerin’.”

Bodet grunted a little. “All right—I’ll let him off—tomorrow.”

Uncle William beamed on him. “You ’ll feel a good deal better, Benjy—now ’t you’ve done it. I see it was kind o’ making you bother?”

“I could have stood it—quite a while yet—if you could have,” said Bodet dryly.

Uncle William chuckled and looked toward the house—“There’s George in there now—You go tell him—why don’t you, Benjy.”

He moved away and Bodet stepped toward the house. He disappeared inside and Uncle William seated himself on a rock and studied the boats that dotted the harbor. Only two were at anchor—the new Jennie, riding in proud, fresh paint, near by, and George Manning’s great boat—dark green, with crimson lines and gleams of gold along the prow. She was a handsome boat, large and finely built, and Maiming had refused more than one offer for her for the mackerel season....

He would take her out himself—or she should ride the season at anchor.

Uncle William turned toward the house—The young man was coming from the door. “Hello, George—I hear you’re going out!”

The sombre face smiled a little. “‘Bout time!” His eye dropped to the big boat and lingered on it. “She’s all ready—and I’ve got my pick of men.” He gathered a stem of grass from the cliff and took it in his teeth. “I don’t believe I was going to hold out much longer,” he said.

“Oh, yes—you ’d ’a’ held out. I wa ’n’t a mite afraid of your not holdin’ out,” said Uncle William. “All I was afraid of was that Benjy ’d hold out—I kind o’ thought he ’d be ’shamed byme-by—when he come to see how ’twas on the Island.... It’s different, living on an island, George. We can’t expect everybody to see what we do—right off, I guess. There’s something about living on an island, perhaps. You just get little handy samples o’ things and see how ’tis—right off. Bein’ born on an island’s a dretful good thing—saves you hurryin’ and repentin’.” Uncle William gazed at the horizon. “Benjy don’t like repentin’ any more ’n you do. He ’ll be real glad ’bout your going—byme-by.”

“I’m going down to fix things up a little—I’ll be back along towards night.”

“Oh—George—?” Uncle William’s fingers fumbled in his pocket.

The young man held his step.

“I’ve got it here—somewheres—” murmured Uncle William. “Yes—here ’tis.... You just give this to Celia, will you?” He held out a torn envelope. “You tell her to put it behind the clock for me.” Uncle William’s face was impassive.

The young man eyed it a minute....

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