In the green light of the harbor a smile played over Uncle William's
face grotesquely. He gave a shove to the boat and sprang in. "I guess
you'll go, Andrew," he said; "you wouldn't want a man drowned right at
your door-yard."

"You can't live in it," said Andrew. He lifted his face to the light.
Far to the east a boat crawled against it. "It'll strike in five
minutes," he said.

"Like enough," said Uncle William--"like enough. Easy there!" He seized
the stern of the _Andrew Halloran_ and sprang on board. They worked
in swift silence, hoisting the anchor, letting out the sail,--a single
reef,--making it fast. "All she'll stan'," said Uncle William. He turned
to the helm.

Andrew, seated on the tiller bench, glared at him defiantly. "If she's
going out, I take her," he said.

"You get right over there and tend the sheet, Andy," said Uncle William.

In silence the other obeyed. He undid the rope, letting it out with
cautious hand. The low sail caught the breeze and stiffened to it. The
boat came round to the wind, dipping lightly. She moved through the
murky light as if drawn by unseen hands.

The light thickened and grew black--clouded and dense and swift. Then,
with a wrench, heaven parted about them. The water descended in sheets,
gray-black planes that shut them in--blinded them, crushed them. Andrew,
crouching to the blows, drew in the sheet, closer, closer--hugging the