Andy.

"Roof leaks," said Andrew.

"A leetle," admitted Uncle William, "over 'n the southeast corner,
She's weather-tight all but that." He gazed at the little structure
affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold.
The artist's face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. Uncle
William turned to Andy. "A man give him two thousand for it," he said.
There was sheer pride in the words.

"For that?" Andy looked at him for a minute. Then he looked at the house
and the bay and the flaming sky. His left eyelid lowered itself slowly
and he tapped his forehead significantly with one long finger.

Uncle William shook his head. "He's as sensible as you be, Andy--or me."

Andy pondered the statement. A look of craft crept into his eye.
"What'll ye bet he ain't foolin' ye?" he said.

Uncle William returned the look with slow dignity. "I don't speak that
way o' my friends, Andy," he said gently. "I'd a heap rather trust 'em
and get fooled, than not to trust 'em and hev 'em all right."

Andy looked guilty. "When's it comin'?" he said gruffly.

"It's come a'ready," replied Uncle William; "this mornin'. We've been
figgerin' on a new boat all day, off and on. He's goin' to give me five
hunderd to make up for the _Jennie_."