The artist watched him with amused eyes. "You waste a lot of oil on the
government, Uncle William," he said laughingly. "Why don't you apply for
a salary?"

Uncle William smiled genially. "Well, I s'pose the guvernment would say
the' wa'n't any reel need for a light here. And I don't s'pose the' is,
_myself_--not any _reel_ need. But it's a comfort. The boys like to see
it, comin' in at night. They've sailed by it a good many year now, and
I reckon they'd miss it. It's cur'us how you do miss a thing that's a
comfort--more'n you do one 't you reely _need_ sometimes." He lighted
the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam above, and surveyed the
table. He drew up his chair. "Well, it's ready," he said, "such as it
is."

"That's all airs, Uncle William," said the young man, drawing up. "You
know it's fit for a king."

"Yes, it's good," said the old man, beaming on him. "I've thought a good
many times there wa'n't anything in the world that tasted better
than chowder--real good clam chowder." His mouth opened to take in a
spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross
in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big
spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge
from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.

"There was a man up here to Arichat one summer," he said, chewing
slowly, "that e't my chowder. And he was sort o' possessed to have me go
back home with him."

The artist smiled. "Just to make chowder for him?"