Happy Island

where the top was piled high with pots and kettles. He found a place for the saucepan and depo

ide, was whistling softly. “You

e traveled about the room. “Pretty near, Benjy,” he said. “You

alive with the freshness of summer. He strolled to the window and looked in.... Uncle Wi

r, and carried them across to the sink. He opened the cupboard door underneath and thrust them in.... “The’s a few things left,” he said apologetically, “if I raked way in under for

ment and a little impatience, “Oh, come on, William. You

’s right, Benjy. That’s just the w

in dryly, “and I’ve been living

he thin hand resting on the sill. “I’m coming right along, now, soon’s I get my apron of

“You ’ll get rid of all that fuss

forgot her,” he said slowly, “and if I don’t send her word today, she can’t come for two weeks—nor four, m

illiam glanced at him. “You run along, Benjy,” he s

said Benjy quickly,

ye was on the paper and he was mumbling words to the

from the window and

nd he looked up, blinking a little. His eyes strayed to the window and he looked out. Then he got up and went across. After a minute he took down the spy-glass and fixed it on a distant point. His face radiated in little wrinkl

ho was coming up the path from the shore, trundling a bicycle before him. He was a young man, with keen, quick

asy gait. “Good morning,” he sai

of this house!”

me—yet awhile. Will you come in—sir!” The figure towered still

ed over the sill. A

e William’s hand moti

lding his hat in his hand and glancin

im, a hand on either knee, and lo

said the young man—as if he

h-warden, or something like that,” sai

lad, I guess—” The quick look had relaxed a little in his fac

deliberate step across the room. She seated herself in the sunsh

’s eye rested

r lobsters,” sa

poor time of year for ’em,”

yebrows lif

e, sir,” added Uncle W

ason,” said t

lliam. He came across and held out a big h

might seem. “I knew it was Benslow,” he said, “I

and sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he sa

color had come into his face—as if h

s, “when I’ve been out sailing and lobstering and so on—’Seems’s if it must be kind o’ unpleasant

little in his place, lo

do your duty—feelin’, I suppose, as if there was spears always rea

“I don’t know that I ever thou

you didn’t,

in’, instead o’ bringing in these lobsters, nice and comfortable, I was a fish-warden, a-sailin’ in to catch somebody, there on the shore’—and then, all of a sudden, I seemed to see them spears, hundreds of ’em,

ld a wide, hal

curiously. “I could imagine things lik

oubt you could—a good deal bette

aid the young man. He

lliam, “Now, I suppose you’ve got a fa

inside pocket, as if by instinc

ut why shouldn’t yet Why shouldn’t a fish-warden hev pictures of his wife and babies, same as other folks

dn’t,” said Andy feebly—

ing ’to the young man, “And I like you all the better

-committal. But there was a l

“if you wouldn’t mind my seein’ ’em.” The

all leather case and handed

big, careful fingers, and adjuste

, seated in the sunshine, blinked a little. Then she rose and moved toward the cupboard door and snuffed t

oss the room,

had followed her wit

ther case and pushed up his glasses.

tood up, holding out his hand for the case. Uncle W

without comment, but the comers of his smile

William, standing up, “‘Seems a pity to hev to—things are kind of c

broke a little. “I do

xed up for you, I suppose?—Well—let’s see. I’ll tell

aped the floor w

ge and under the bed and up chimbley and down cellar... but they’re all kind o’ hard places to get

nd there was a little impatient flick to

m kindly. “If I was advising you, I sh

am’s leg. Then she returned to her seat by the

heerfully. “She’s hungry, like enough

d and was lifting the

liam aside to Andy, “‘Seems’s if I hadn’t

her neck,” said Andy

nd anything there, Mr. M

“I didn’t expect to,” he said

at’s what I was sayin’ to my

droom next,” said

rmur of their voices, with the moving of a h

rose and took a step on tiptoe. But the b

et one—since the season closed

ason to think.... I’d better make a thorough

I washed some of the dishes this morning,” he said, “You would ’a’ had a time if I hadn’t!” The man reached in and drew out a pile of plates. His nose lifted itself as he set the

t knew you ’d want me to do that,” he said, “I o’

w. I don’t mind your bluffing—as long as you play

little. “I wish had m

stared

g man like me—” He reached in and drew out an ample armful—dippers and pans and plates and spoons and bowls—then another armful—mostly tinware and kettles—and then a third—spreading them on the floor about h

his little cynical smile, and A

the cupboard. “That’s the last one I can reach—witho

he seat of his chair. “I

and fetch ’em out, Andy. I

His voice came out, gloomy and protesting, as he handed out a few last ar

am withdrew

in’ out,”

orward, a look of quic

xcept this.” He held it up and looked at it—and blinked. Then he laid it down on the table and looked at it again, fondly—and blinked. A large g

g at the fish-warden, a

ouble you for that candle,” he

and sides and floor. He withdrew it, blowing it out with a quick puff—“You’ve got off th

, ’Any lobsters, claws or smells found in the possession of any person whatsoever.’.rdquo; Uncle William marked off the count on his fingers with kindly eye and beame

at Andy and the mouse-trap—He smiled a little. “You might speak to them

bout this lobster-law, now,” He motioned toward the mouse-trap, “We don’t want

man smiled

hat’s good for us, and if we want to ketch a few and eat, now and then, we don’t need no inspector.... Not but what we’re al

e looked at him a minute, as if something in the big face puzzled him. Then he turned away with a little shak

obs for them that needs ’em—some of ’em right and some of ’em wrong—and I reck

e him. Then he turned back to the red room. He stooped and ran his big

eepish grin. “Where ’d you

at Andy. “I see his lights last night,” he said, “along about midnight, off the Point, and I says to myself, ’Least said, soonest mended,’ so I took ’em