respectful interest.

The man looked at him more tolerantly. "Too fond of settin'."

The artist nodded. "I'm afraid he is."

"An' then he's al'ays a-givin'--a little here and a little there. Why,
what Willum Benslow's give away would 'a' made a rich man of him."

"Yes?"

"Yep. I don't s'pose I know half he's give. But it's a heap, Lord knows!
And then he's foolish--plumb foolish." He rested his arms on his legs,
leaning forward. "How much d'you s'pose he give me for that land--from
here to my house?" He pointed up the coast.

The artist turned and squinted toward it with half-closed lids. It
glowed--a riot of color, green and red, cool against the mounting sky.
"I haven't the least idea," he said slowly.

"Well, you won't believe it when I tell you;--nobody'd believe it. He
paid me five hunderd dollars for it--five hunderd! It ain't wuth fifty."

The artist smiled at him genially. "Well--he's satisfied."

"But it ain't right," said the man, gloomily. He had returned to his
fish. "It ain't right. I can't bear to have Willum such a fool."

"I think I'll go for a sail," said the artist.