swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and
poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. "That's all right," he
said. "She'll heat up quick." He thrust in some light sticks and pushed
forward the kettle. "Now, if you'll reach into that box behind you and
get the potatoes," he said, "I'll do the rest of the fixin's."

He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red
and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from
behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to
his blue eyes with a little frown. "They're a terrible bother," he said,
squinting through them and readjusting them. "But I don't dare resk
it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the
salt--same shape. The chowder _was_ hot." He chuckled. "I can see a boat
a mile off," he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, "but
a pepper-box two feet's beyond me." He stood at the sink, rubbing the
clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the
window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that stretched below, far
as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining
baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the
vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor fashion, about his throat.

Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered
with a kind of slow patience,--in a smaller man it would have been
fussiness,--and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out with
careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in spite
of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced toward the
window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. "Time to set my
light," he said. He lighted a ship's lantern and placed it carefully in
the window.