The artist watched the comedy with amused disapproval. He suspected
Uncle William of trifling away the time. The spring was fairly upon
them, and the _Andrew Halloran_ still swung at anchor alone at the foot
of the cliff. Whenever the artist broached the subject of a new boat,
Uncle William turned it aside with a jest and trotted off to his
clam-basket. The artist brooded in silence over his indebtedness and the
scant chance of making it good. He got out canvas and brushes and began
to paint, urged by a vague sense that it might bring in something, some
time. When he saw that Uncle William was pleased, he kept on. The work
took his mind off himself, and he grew strong and vigorous. Andy,
coming upon him one day on the beach, looked at his brown face almost
in disapproval. "You're a-feelin' putty well, ain't you?" he said
grudgingly.

"I am," responded the artist. He mixed the color slowly on his palette.
A new idea had come into his head. He turned it over once and then
looked at Andy. The look was not altogether encouraging. But he brought
it out quickly. "You're a rich man, aren't you, Andy?"

Andy, pleased and resentful, hitched the leg of his trousers. "I dunno's
I be," he said slowly. "I've got money--some. But it takes a pile to
live on."

"Yes?" The artist stood away from his canvas, looking at it. "You and
Uncle William are pretty good friends, aren't you?"

"Good enough," replied Andy. His mouth shut itself securely.

The artist did not look at it. He hastened on. "He misses his boat a
good deal."