The old man shook his head. "He's a kind o' set man, Andy is--part Irish
and part Scotch. He al'ays _has_ anchored here and I reckon he al'ays
_will_. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome to."

"It was his land, then?"

"Most on it--I do' know as he _wanted_ to sell reely, but I offered him
more'n he could stan'. He's a little near--Andy is." He chuckled.

The artist laughed out. "So he keeps the anchorage and right of way and
you look after his boat. I don't see but he's fairly well fixed."

"Yes, he's putty well fixed," said the old man, slowly. "'S fur as
_this_ world's goods go Andy is comf'tably provided for." His eyes
twinkled a little, but most of the big face was sober. "We've been
neighbors, Andy 'n' me, ever sence we was boys," he said. "I guess there
ain't a mean thing about Andy that I don't know, and he the same about
me. I should feel kind o' lonesome nights not to hev his boat to look
after--and know, like as not, in the mornin' he'll come down, cussin'
and swearin' 'cause she wa'n't fixed jest right." He peered into the
kettle on the stove. "'Most empty." He filled it from the pail by the
sink, and resumed his seat, stretching his great legs comfortably. Juno
sprang from the lounge and perched herself on his knee. He tumbled her a
little, in rough affection, and rubbed his big fingers in her neck. She
purred loudly, kneading her claws with swift strokes in the heavy cloth.
He watched her benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. "Wimmen
folks is a good deal alike," he remarked dryly. "They like to be
comf'tabul."