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Scientific Reasoning The Bayesian Approach 3rd Edition
Colin Howson Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Colin Howson, Peter Urbach
ISBN(s): 9780812695786, 081269578X
Edition: 3rd
File Details: PDF, 12.75 MB
Year: 2006
Language: english
 SCIENTIFIC
REASONING
THE BAYESIAN
APPROACH

Colin Howson and Peter Urbach

THIRD EDITION

... if this [probability] calculus be condemned, then the

whole of the sciences must also be condemned.
-Henri Poincare

Our assent ought to be regulated by the

grounds of probability.
-John Locke

OPEN COURT
Chicago and La Salle, Illinois
To order books from Open Court, call toll-free 1-800-815-22110, or visit our
website at www.opencourtbooks.com.

O pen Court Publi shing Company is a divisi on of Carus Publishin g Company.

CopyrightC 2006 by Cani s Publishing Company

First printing 2006

All ri ghts reserved. No part of this publicati on may be reproduced. stored in a

ret ri eva l system. or transmitted, in any form or by any means. electronic. mcchani ea l.
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publi sher, Open Court Publi shing Company. a division of Caru s Publishing Company.
315 Fi fth Street. P.O. Box 300. Peru , Illinoi s 6 1354-0300.

Printed and bound in the l; nited States of America.

Library of Congress Cata loging-in-Publication Data

Howson. Colin.
Scient ific reasonin g : the Bayesian approac h Colin lIowson an d Peter
Urbaeh.- 3rd cd.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographi ca l references (p. ) and index.
ISB 'J-IJ: 9n-0-81 2(, -'}578-6 (trade pbk. : alk. paper)
IS8'J -10: 0- gI26-9578-X (trade pbk.: alk. papcr)
I. Se ic ncc--Philosophy. 2. Reasoning. 3. Bayesi an statistica l dccision theory.
I. Urbac h, Peter. II. Titl e.
Q1 75. 11 87 2005
50 I de22
200502486S
Contents

Preface to the Third Edition Xl

Introduction

The Problem of Induction

Popper on the Problem of Induction 2
l ~r Sc ientific Method in Practice 3
.iI Probabi listic Induction: The Bayes ian
Approach 6
The Objectivity Ideal 9
The Pl an of This Book 10

The Probability Calculus 13

The Axioms 13
." ~

=c., Useful Theorems of the Calculus 16

Discussion 22
Countable Additivity 26
Random Variables 29
Distributions 30
Probability Densities 31
2.11 Expected Values 32
The Mean and Standard Deviation 33
VI CO NTENTS

•.1 Probabilistic Independence 35

~; Conditional Distributions 37
The Bivariate Normal 38
The Binomial Distribution 39
.n The Weak Law of Large Numbers 41

The laws of Probability 45

Prologue: Frequency-Probability 45
Measuring Uncertainty 51
Utilities and Probabilities 57
Consistency 63
The Axioms 67
The Principal Principle 76
Bayesian Probability and Inductive
Scepticism 79
3.h Updating Rules 80
The Cox-Good Argument 85
Exchangeability 88

Bayesian Induction:
Deterministic Theories 91
Bayesian Confirmation 91
Checking a Consequence 93
The Probability of the Evidence 97
The Ravens Paradox 99
The Duhem Problem 103
Good data, Bad Data, and Data Too
Good to be True 114
CONTENTS VII

Ad Hoc Hypotheses 118

Designing Experiments 127
Under-Determination and Prior
Probabilities 128
Conclusion 130

Classical Inference:
Significance Tests and Estimation 131

Falsificationism in Statistics 131

Fisherian Significance Tests 133
Neyman-Pearson Significance Tests 143
S.d Significance and Inductive
Significance 149
Testing Composite Hypotheses 161
Classical Estimation Theory 163
Point Estimation 163
Interval Estimation 169
Sampling 177
Conclusion 181

Statistical Inference in Practice:

Clinical Trials 183

Clinical Trials: The Central Problem 183

Control and Randomization 185
Signi fic ance-Test Defences of
Randomization 188
6.d The Eliminative-Induction Defence of
Randomization 194
viii CONTENTS

Sequential Clinical Trials 197

Practical and Ethical Considerations 202
Conclusion 203

Regression Analysis 205

Simple Linear Regression 205

7.. The Method of Least Squares 207
7 Why Least Squares? 209
Prediction 217
I. e Examining the Form of a Regression 220
7. 1' Conclusion 235

Bayesian Induction:
Statistical Theories 237

The Question of Subjectivity 237

",
{ '~

The Principle of Stable Estimation 245

Describing the Evidence 247
Sampling 252
Testing Causal Hypotheses 254
Conclusion 262

Finale: Some General Issues 265

The Charge of Subjectivism 265
I The Principle of Indifference 266
Invariance Considerations 273
Informationlessness 276
~) .aA Simplicity 288
9.13 Summary 296
CONTENTS IX

The Old-Evidence Problem 297

Conclusion 301

Bibliography 303
Index 319
Preface to the Third Edition

How should hypotheses be evaluated, what is the role of evidence

in that process, what are the most informative experiments to per-
form? Questions such as these are ancient ones. They have been
answered in various ways, often exciting lively controversy, not
surprisingly in view of the important practical implications that
different answers carry. Our approach to these questions, which
we set out in this book, is the Bayesian one, based on the idea that
valid inductive reasoning is reasoning according to the formal
principles of probabi lity.
The Bayesian theory derives from the Memoir of the mathe-
matician and divine, Thomas Bayes, which was published posthu-
mously by his friend Richard Price in 1763. The principles set out
by Bayes had considerable influence in scientific and philosophi-
cal circles, though worries about the status of the prior probabili-
ties of scientific theories meant that the whole approach continued
to be dogged by debate. And by the 1920s, an alternative approach,
often called 'Classical', achieved dominance, due to powerful
advocacy by R. A. Fisher and many other distinguished statisti-
cians, and by Karl Popper and similarly distinguished philoso-
phers. Most of the twentieth century was dominated by the
classical approach, and in that period Bayesianism was scarcely
taught in universities, except to disparage it, and Bayesians were
widely dismissed as thoroughly misguided.
But in recent years, there has been a sea-change, a paradigm
shift. A search of the Web of Science database shows, during the
1980s, a regular trickle of around 200 articles published annually
with the word or prefix 'Bayes' in thei r titles. Suddenly, in 1991 ,
this number shot up to 600 and by 1994 exceeded 800; by 2000
it had reached almost 1,400. (Williamson and Corfield, 200 I,
p. 3). This book was one of the first to present a comprehensive,
XII PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION

philosophical case for the Bayesian approach to scientific rea-

soning and to show its superiority over the classical. Its first and
second editions were published in 1989 and 1993 , and from the
figures quoted it is clear that the book anticipated a powerful and
sophisticatcd resurgence of the once-domin ant Bayesian
approach.
This new edition amends, updates, re-organi zes, and seeks to
make the subject more access ible. The text is intended to be sclf-
contained, calling, in the main, on only elementary mathcmatical
and statistical ideas. Nevertheless, somc parts are more complex,
and some more essential to the overall argument than others.
Accordingly, wc would suggest that readers who are not already
familiar with mathcmatica l probability but who wish to gain an
initial understanding of the Bayesian approach, and to appreciate
its power, adopt the following plan of attack. First, read Chapter
I, which sets the scene, as it werc , with a brief historical
ovcrview of various approaches to sc ientific inference. Then,
look at section a of Chapte r 2, which gives the simple principles
or axioms of the probability calculus, and section b, where there
are so me of the probabi lity theorems that will be found useful in
the scientific context: the central theorem here is Bayes's theo-
rem in its various forms. We then suggest that the reader look at
the first few section s of Chaptcr 4, where Bayes's theorcm is
applied to some simple reasoning patterns that are found partic-
ularly when determini stic theorems arc handled; thi s chapter also
compares the Bayesian approach with some others, such as
Popper's well-known falsificationist methodology. C hapters 5 to
7 deal with non-determini stic, that is, statistical hypotheses, giv-
ing a critical exposition of thc classical, or frequ entist, methods
that constitute the leadi ng alternative to the Bayesia n approach;
the main classical ideas can be gleaned from sections a to d and
f and g of Chapter 5. The final part of the mini-course we are
suggesting is to examine Chapter 9, where somc of the more
widespread criticisms that have becn levell ed against the
Bayesian approach are discussed (and rejccted).
There are some marked differences between this third edition
and the preceding ones. For example, some of the objec tions to
the Bayesian theory we considered in the second edition have not
stood the test of time. There have also been changes of mind: one
PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION XIII

of the most prominent examples is the fact that now we accept the
strength of de Finetti's well-known arguments against countable
additivity, and have accordingly dropped it as a generally valid
principle. Other changes have been largely dictated by the desire
to make this edition more compact and thereby more accessible.
We hope that this ind eed turns out to be the casco
CHAPTER 1
Introduction

1.0 The Problem of Induction

Scientific hypotheses have a general character relative to the

empirical observations they are supposed to explain, carrying
implications about phenomena and events that could not possibly
figure in any actual evidence. For instance, Mendel's genetic the-
ory concerns all inherited traits in every kind of flora and fauna ,
including those that are now extinct and those that are yet to
evolve. There is therefore a logical gap between the information
derived from empirical observation and the content of typical sci-
entific theories. How then can such information give us reason-
able confidence in those theories'? This is the traditional Problem
of Induction.
One answer that has been suggested claims that our stock of
information is not in fact restricted to the empirical. A number of
philosophers have taken the view that there are certain principles
which are sufficiently rich to bridge the logical gap between
observations and theories, whose truth we are able to cognize a
priori. Kant, for example, held the proposition 'every event has a
cause' to be such a principle and he devoted much space and dif-
ficult argumentation to proving that it was indeed a priori. But
whether or not the argument is valid is beside the point, because
the principle would not solve the problem of induction anyway.
That problem is not essentially concerned with causality; and
where specifically causal theories are at issue, the question is not
whether every event has a cause, but what the particular cause or
causes of a particular observed effect are. Kant (1783 , p. 9) tells
us that his "dogmatic slumber" was disturbed by Hume's brilliant
analysis of the problem of induction, yet he seems not to have
fully woken up to its significance.
2 CH APTER 1

Another bridging principle that has been proposed is the so-

called Principle of the Uniformity of Nature, which Humc (1 777,
Section 32) summed up in the phrase "the future will resemble the
past". Some philosophers have held that whcn scientists defend
their thcorics, they are tacitly relying on this principle. But it too
cannot help with induction. The problem is that the principle is
empty, since it does not say in what particular rcspects the future
and the past are similar. And if it is to connect particular observa-
tions with a particular theory, it needs a more specific formula-
tion. For example, in ordcr to act as a bridgc between observations
that certain metals expandcd on certain occasions when they wcre
heated and the general proposition that those metals will expand
when they are heated in future, the principle nceds to be framed
in terms of those particular properties. And to infer that all met-
als expand when they are heated would require a more elaborate
formulation still. But, as Hume observed, such versions of the
Uniformity of Nature Principle are themselves general cmpirical
propositions, whose own claims are no less problematic than the
theories they are dcsigncd to guarantee.

l.b Popper on the Problem of Induction

It seems, then-and this is no longer controversial-that there is

no solution to the problem of induction that could demon strate
with logical ccrtainty the truth of general scientific theories.
Some, like Paul Fcycrabcnd, havc concludcd from the fact that no
theory is conclusivcly proved that all thcories arc therefore equa l-
ly unproved, and epistemically on a par, and that the trust we com-
monly repose in science is completely irrational.
But Karl Popper, amongst others, was concerned to resist such
a sweeping scepticism, whose consequcnccs, if accepted, would
be alarming. In his attempt to defend the rationality of science and
to solve the problem of induction, he drew upon two familiar log-
ical facts. First, that while scienti fic theories cannot be deci sivcly
proved from observational evidence, observations may sometimes
refute them. Popper's strong emphasis of this possibility ex pla ins
why his philosophy is known as Falsificationism. The second log-
ical fact that Poppcr drew on is that deductive consequences of a
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
because I’m out in a boat so much—kind o’ sailin’ around and
watching how he does things—and kind o’ enjoying his ways,” he
added softly.... “The’s suthin’-about it—suthin’ about the way the
tides come in and the sun goes down and the stars come out—that
makes you feel glad. I’ve seen George Manning, a good many times
—when we was out, and had a ketch, and was coming along in,
towards dark—I’ve seen him set and look... and I knew he wa ’n’t
thinkin’ ’bout how many fish we ’d got—any more ’n. I was. You
can’t think how many fish you’ve got—more ’n about so long—” said
Uncle William thoughtfully.
He glanced down the road. “There’s Celia comin’,” he said happily.
He went over and watched her come—“Don’t she kind o’ skim along
good, Benjy!” The smile on his big face kindled and deepened. “It’s
most too bad George ain’t here.” He looked back into the room with
a shrewd glance. “He never see anybody just like her—I reckon.”
Bodet shook his head. “You better let well enough alone, William.”
“Well, mebbe I will,” said Uncle William. “‘Twon’t hurt none for him
to see her—will it?... You got back pretty quick, Celia.”—He looked
kindly at her glowing cheeks, “How’s Harr’et?”
“She’s feeling better,” said the girl. She glanced about the room,
“You did the dishes!—I didn’t mean you to do the dishes.”
“I didn’t do ’em so very well,” said Uncle William. “We had
company whilst you was gone,” he added craftily.
She looked at him—“That young fellow that’s building his house
for him?” She nodded at Bodet, who had taken his hat and gone
outside.
Uncle William nodded back—“That’s the one, Celia—You ain’t ever
seen him, have you?”
“I’ve seen him out of the window,” she said shortly, “That’s near
enough for me—seeing him go by.”
Uncle William’s face fell a little. “I guess I’ll go ’long up with
Benjy,” he said.
 XI

G
EORGE MANNING looked about him with satisfaction. The
walls of the new house were up and boarded in—so much
was safe. He knew Bodet might appear any minute with a
completely new plan—unless it could be staved off—but he reflected
comfortably, as he looked up at the great broadside of boards before
him, that he probably would not tear down the whole thing any
more.... The sound of saws and hammers came with a cheerful
falling rhythm—now together, and now in hurried broken notes—and
the men on the roof were singing—a great blond Swede leading
them.
Manning stepped into the living-room and stopped and gave a few
directions to the masons and then moved over to the window and
looked out. Far below him, the harbor reflected the dear sun and he
squinted across it, scanning the horizon for the little black steamer
that was to bring Portland cement and a consignment of windows.
The windows had been due three weeks now—and the work would
be handicapped if they did not come soon. He turned away and
attacked his work, whistling softly.
“Morning, George.” It was Uncle William—big and happy—in the
doorway, beaming down upon him.
“Morning, Uncle—Mr. Bodet come up with you?”
“He’s outside somewheres. He’s got a new idee—about the well.”
Manning smiled a little—a shrewd, dry smile—and drew the plane
toward him, “I don’t mind his having new plans for wells,” he said.
Uncle William sat down on a nail-keg and picked up a bit of pine,
feeling in his pocket for his knife. He drew it out, and squinted
across it, and opened the smaller blade, running it casually along his
thumb.
 George Manning’s plane followed a curling shaving down the
length of the board and withdrew. There was a clean smell of pine
mingling with the salt air.
Uncle William whittled a few minutes in silence. Then he looked
through the great window-space, to the harbor. “I feel queer,” he
said thoughtfully—“I feel dretful queer.”
The plane skirled its shaving off and Manning stopped—looking at
him—“Anything wrong, Uncle William?” he asked.
William shook his head. “I don’t mind so much having things
wrong.... I’m kind o’ used to it—having to fuss and fiddle some. It’s
when things are comfortable-like—what most folks call comfortable
—that I get grumpy, I guess.... We’ve got a new girl down to the
house,” he added kindly.
“Yes—I heard about her.” Manning’s eyes laughed. “Puts you out,
don’t it?”
Uncle William nodded. “I’m a good deal surprised to see how I
feel. I cal’lated I’d come along up here—like a colt turned out to
grass. Just set around and watch things—same as ever—feeling kind
o’ light in my mind.... I don’t feel a mite light.” He sighed and
returned to his whittling.
“You ’ll get used to it,” said Manning consolingly.
“I do’ ’no’ whether I shall or not. It’s been quite a spell now—”
Uncle William held off his pine stick and looked at it. “I’m kind o’
wondering if I didn’t like to have them dishes—”
“To wash—?”
“Well—not to wash exactly—but to leave around behind—suthin’
I’d o’t to, and didn’t.... All the way up the road I keep kind o’ missing
’em—wishing I’d find ’em under the sink, mebbe, when I get back....
I wouldn’t want to do ’em exactly, when I got there, I suppose. But I
do miss ’em.” He shook his head.
Manning pushed a heap of shavings aside with his foot and bent
to his plane again. “I can find things enough, most any day—things I
ought to do—and don’t—easy job, Uncle William.”
 Uncle William looked at him. “You ought to be considerable happy,
George,” he said slowly.
“Well—I am happy—as happy as most folks, I guess.” His shrewd,
thin face followed the plane with even look. “I’ve got enough to do—
if that’s what you mean.” He unscrewed his board from the bench
and carried it across the room.
Uncle William’s eye followed him. “I suppose you never thought of
getting married, George?” he said casually.
The young man shook his head at the board he was trying to fit in
place. “Never was tempted,” he said. He measured a length on the
board and took up his saw.
Uncle William retired into his mind. Benjamin Bodet came and
stood in the door and looked at the two, and disappeared. The
sound of the hammers trooped in and out through the silence.
Uncle William stood up, snapping his knife together. “I guess I’ll
go find Benjy,” he said. He wandered out and sat down on a rock
near by. Over the top of a scattered pile of lumber he could see
Benjy’s head moving back and forth.
“Best kind of weather,” murmured Uncle William. He sat down.
By and by Benjy appeared around the corner of the lumber.
“We’re going to have dinner up here,” announced Uncle William.
“Celia sent word by Gunnion’s boy she ’d have it here by twelve,
sharp.” Uncle William’s face was guileless.
Benjy sat down. “I can’t get it through Marshall’s head—what I
want about that well,” he said testily. “I’ll have to see Manning about
it.”
“George ’ll fix it for ye all right,” said Uncle William.
“Have the windows come?” asked Bodet.
“Not yet, I reckon—He didn’t say—You’re going to have a nice
house, Benjy!” His eyes rested on the rough frame, “It’s getting to
look like I thought ’twould—nice and low—kind o’ like an old hen,
you know—spreading her wings and settling down.”
 Bodet’s face followed his look. “It’s coming out all right. Your
George Manning knows his business—knows what he’s about.”
“He’s a nice boy,” said Uncle William. “The’s things about him
might be different—might be a little different,” he added cautiously.
“I don’t know what they are. But I shall have a chance to find out,
I suppose—before we’re through.”
“Oh, he ’ll do this all right.”
Bodet stared at him a little. “He’s not likely to have a much bigger
job on hand—is he?”
“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William hastily, “I do’ ’no’ what I mean,
like enough. I just had a feeling—kind of a feeling, that George wa
’n’t perfect.”
Bodet laughed out. “I should hope not—if I’m to have dealings
with him. Come on in and talk with him about the well.”
They went toward the house. Through the window they could see
the young man across the room, measuring a space on the wall. He
stood back and looked at it thoughtfully—then he turned and saw
them. “I was thinking about the width here,” he said, “If your picture
you’re going to put here is five by nine—I’ll have to get the space on
this side—somehow.”
“We’re coming in,” said Bodet, “I wanted to talk to you—Marshall’s
all at sea with that well of his.”
“I told him—” said Uncle William. His mouth closed on the word,
and a little smile crept up to it. “Why, Celia—I didn’t think you ’d be
along yet—not quite a while yet.”
“It’s dinner time,” she said. She stood in the doorway, looking in.
She wore no hat, and her hair was blown in little curls by the wind.
“You going to have your dinner in here?” she asked.
“Why, yes—I guess we might as well—have it here—right here on
the bench—can’t we, George?”
“For anything I care,” said the young roan, “I’ve got to go—” He
turned toward the door.
 “Oh—George—” Uncle William stopped him. “I want you to see
Celia. This is our new girl—Celia.”
The young man stood very straight and stiff, regarding her. “How
do you do,” he said.
“Oh, I’m pretty well, thank you.” A little laugh nodded in the words
and whisked them away. “I’m very glad to see you,” she said. She
looked down at her hands. Then she held out one of them.
The young man marched across and took it—he shook it a little
and laid it down. “It’s a nice day,” he said briefly.
She smiled at him—straight and quick. Then she lifted the basket
and set it on the table. “I couldn’t ’a’ got it here, ever, if Jim
Gunnion’s team hadn’t come along,” she said. She opened the
basket. “There’s your pickles—and biscuit—and pie—and cheese—”
She set the things on the table, at one side—“and here’s your
tablecloth.” She blew the bits of shavings from the bench and spread
a red cloth across its width.
Uncle William’s eyes followed her, with a little twinkle—somewhere
below them.
“It’s nice not to have to come home to dinner,” said Bodet
impersonally.
“Yes, sir—I couldn’t have you all down there to-day. I’m too busy.”
She stood back, looking at the table. “That’s all you need—Here’s
the salt—and the pepper—and the stew is nice and hot.” She took
the lid from the smoking pail and peered in. “I put coals under the
pail,” she said. “You want to look out and not set things afire.... I’m
going now. You can bring the dishes tonight when you come—” She
stood in the door—and was gone.
Uncle William laughed out—and looked at Manning. The young
man was regarding him soberly.
“Draw up, George,” said Uncle William, “It looks to me as if the’
was enough for three—easy.”
“I’ve got mine—outside,” said the young man. He lingered a little,
apparently examining the bricks in the fireplace.
 Uncle William looked at him and then drew up to the table. “Celia’s
a dretful good cook,” he said. He helped himself to the stew.
The young man went slowly toward the door. “I guess I’ll go see
Marshall—about the well.”
Uncle William looked over his shoulder. “Oh—and—George—?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If you happen to be goin’ by this evening, you know, along after
dark, you might stop in. I’ve got suthin’ to tell you—kind of an idee
—’bout the well.”
“You might tell me now—before I see Marshall—?” suggested
Manning.
Uncle William shook his head. “I can’t tell ye—not yet. It’s suthin’
about the old well—and pipes and things. I’m kind o’ thinkin’ it out
—”
“All right. I’ll be in—along after supper.”
“Yes, that’s a good time. I’ll have it thought up—by that time, like
enough.” The young man went out and Uncle William continued to
chew slowly, his eyes on the red table cloth. Presently he looked up
and his eye met Bodet’s—He shook his head.
“I do’ ’no’ what I’ll tell him about that well,” he said.
“Tell him the idea you had just now—the one you spoke of. It will
come back to you by that time, maybe.”
Uncle William shook his head again—slowly. “That idee can’t come
back to me, Benjy—I ain’t ever had it.”
Bodet stared at him. “You told him—”
“I know I told him, Benjy.” Uncle William was a little testy. “I do’
’no’ what I lie so easy for.... Seems ’s if sometimes there was lies all
round in the air—just waiting to slip in.... I never had no idee ’bout
that well—I’ll have to have one.”
Bodet’s eye rested on him reflectively. “You must have had some
reason—”
 Uncle William looked up hastily, “I don’t believe I did, Benjy. I say
things like that sometimes—things that don’t mean a thing—things
that ain’t so. It makes me a lot of trouble.”
He got up and went to the window. “There’s your Portland
cement, out there, and your windows. I thought the sky was gettin’
kind o’ smudgy.”
Bodet followed him and they stood together, looking down at the
big harbor where the sails went to and fro and the little black
steamer was coming in.
 XII

T
HE little room was shining-clean. The window shone, the stove
shone, and the boards of the floor were sand-white. Uncle
William, standing in the door, looked at them cautiously. Then
he looked down at his feet and wiped them on a piece of sacking
spread on the step. “Clean enough to eat off of,” he said, stepping
carefully on to the white floor.
The girl at the sink nodded, the little curls bobbing about her face.
“I’ve been scrubbing,” she said.
“I should say you had!”—He stepped forward gingerly. “You’ve
done a lot to it.”—He was looking about vaguely, as if to find a place
to put his feet down.
The girl’s look relaxed subtly. “I thought you ’d like to have it clean
—I wanted to do it the way you like?” She was looking at him a little
wistfully—“You do like it, don’t you?”
“It’s just right, Celia—I shouldn’t know anybody ’d lived in it—ever.
You ain’t seen Juno anywheres round, have you!”
A subdued look flitted in the girl’s face. “She went off when I
began to beat the lounge. I saw her flying over the rocks—I had to
beat it hard, you know?”
“‘Twas kind o’ dusty, wa ’n’t it?” said Uncle William, looking at it
affectionately. “I’ve been meaning to do it myself—but when I was
thinkin’ and settin’ on it, I couldn’t do it and when I wa ’n’t settin’ on
it, I wa ’n’t thinkin’ about it.” He moved toward the sink.
“I’ve put your washing-duds outside,” said Celia, “your wash-basin
and towel and soap and things—out by the door, you know.” She
motioned him off.
Uncle William stopped and looked at her. “That’s the way Harr’et
has ’em,” he said. “How ’d you come to think of that, Celia?”
 The girl bubbled a little laugh. “I didn’t think very hard—Is Mr.
Bodet coming?”
“He ’ll be right along,” said Uncle William. “He stopped to talk with
George Manning—about plans and so on. He ’ll be here pretty quick
now.” He went out of the door, and the room was very quiet. The girl
stood twisting a corner of her apron in her fingers and looking about
the shining room. There was a little dimple in her cheek that came
and went.
“What you thinking about, Celia?” asked Uncle William, coming in.
His face glowed from its washing and the tofts of hair stood up
straight.
The girl started a little. “I wasn’t thinking about anything—I
guess.” She looked at the stove—“They ’ll cook all to pieces if he
doesn’t come pretty quick,” she said.
“He’s coming.” Uncle William went to the window. “He’s right up
the road a piece—You ain’t had time to get homesick, have you,
Celia?” He was standing with his back to her.
“No, sir—Is that man coming, too?”
“That man—?” Uncle William wheeled about.... “Oh, George? You
mean George Manning, I guess.”
“That’s his name—the one that was up there this morning—
fussing around.” Uncle William nodded, his shrewd eyes on the little
curls that were bending over the sink. “That’s George Manning—He’s
a nice boy,” he added, seating himself on the lounge. “He’s a putty
good boy—George is.”
Her interest was absorbed in something in the kettle on the stove
—that steamed and swirled about her. She took a fork and tested it
tenderly. Then she glanced at the window. “He’s coming—Mr. Bodet
—You go show him where to wash—while I take up the dumplings
—” She lifted the kettle, and Uncle William went meekly to the door.
“You wash up out here, Benjy,” said Uncle William. He waved his
hand at the toilet articles ranged on the bench by the door—“It’s a
nice place, you see—soap, and there’s your towel.... She ’ll let us
come in rainy days and cold days, maybe,” he said thoughtfully.
 Bodet gave a dry chuckle. “Suits me,” he said.
Uncle William’s face lightened. “I don’t mind a mite myself—” he
explained, “but I was kind o’ ’fraid you ’d want to be inside—where
folks can’t see you doing things so.”
“Never!” said Bodet, “—with the sky for a ceiling and the clouds
for frescoes—what more could a man want?” He waved his towel
briskly at the landscape.
Uncle William tiptoed back to the house. “He likes it—out there,”
he said.
Her face twinkled and she set the dumplings on the table with a
brisk movement. “He’s a nice man,” she said.
“You comin’, Benjy?” called Uncle William.
While they ate, the handmaiden flitted in and out. She looked out
for their wants and washed pots and kettles on the bench by the
door and hummed bits of song—and once a little whistle was wafted
in the door—but it stopped suddenly, as if quick fingers had cut it
off.
Uncle William looked at Benjy and chuckled. “Some like having a
canary around, ain’t it? Kind o’ bubbles and goes along by itself!—
She likes doin’ ’em,” he added. “The’s a lot of comfort having folks
around you that like doin’ things.... Now, Harr’et—you ain’t ever
seen the way Harr’et does ’em, hev you?”
Bodet shook his head.
Uncle William smiled, looking at something in his mind. “Harr’et
don’t really like doin’ ’em,” he said confidingly, “I’ve seen her look at
the bottom of a pan as if she hated it, kind of.... She gets ’em clean,
you know, but she don’t really enjoy her cleanness—not really.... If
you’re down there a spell, watchin’ her and kind o’ settin’ round—
you get to feelin’ ’s if nobody ’d o’t to live—men-folks, special.... I
do’ ’no’ what it is about her,” said Uncle William reflectively—“about
Harr’et.... She’s kind o’ straight in the back and her shoulders don’t
bend much.... Seems’s if the’ was suthin’ wrong about a woman—an
old woman like Harr’et—if her shoulders don’t give a little.” He sat
looking before him.... “The’s suthin’ about ’em, I do’ ’no’ what it is—
about women—when their shoulders get a little mite bent, that
makes me feel happy inside—Seems ’s if the Lord had made ’em that
way a-purpose—kind o’ gentle-like, you know—so ’s ’t they could
bend easy—and stay kind o’ curved over, and not mind. I’ve set and
watched ’em in meetin’, a good many times, when they didn’t know I
was looking—and I’ve took a sight o’ comfort with ’em.”
Bodet looked at him critically. “I don’t see that you bend very
much, William.” Uncle William’s broad shoulders spread themselves
and he drew a deep breath. “That’s different, Benjy.... Men hadn’t o’t
to bend—not without they have rheumatism or cramps and things.”
Celia whisked in at the door and out. Benjy’s eye followed her and
returned to William.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Benjy,” said Uncle William. “She’s
straight as one o’ them rushes, up ’t the pond—and she ought to
be.... She won’t bend for a spell yet—she’s got to know things first—
Hello!—There’s George!”
They pushed back from the table and went outside.
 XIII

T
HE three men looked across the harbor—far in the distance
something troubled the surface of the water—as if a bit of the
dusk had fallen on it and traveled with little restless waves.
Uncle William’s eye grew round.... “Mackerel!” he said solemnly.
“Been schooling all day,” answered Manning. His teeth closed on
the bit of grass between them and held it hard.
Uncle William looked at him sympathetically. “Any luck?” he asked.
“Bergen seven barrel—and Thompson about three, I guess. He set
for a big school, but they got away—all but the tail end.... They’re
running shy.”
“They’ve been bothered down below,” said Uncle William. “That’s
why they’re here so early, like enough—It’s much as your life is
worth—being a mackerel these days—Steve get any?”
Manning shook his head. “He started out—soon as Uncle Noah
give the word—Uncle Noah ’d been up on the cliffs since daylight,
you know—smelled ’em comin’, I guess.” Manning smiled.
Uncle William nodded. “He’s part mackerel, anyway, Noah is—
Went out, I suppose?”
“Everybody went—except me.” The young man’s eye was gloomy.
“That’s a big school.” His hand moved toward the harbor and the
reddish bit of dusk glinting on it.
“Too late tonight,” said Uncle William. He felt in his pockets
—“Now, where ’d I put that paper—must ’a’ left it inside—You go
look, George—a kind o’ crumpled up paper—with figgers on it.” He
felt again in his pocket and the young man went obediently toward
the door.
Uncle William’s eye sought Benjy’s. “It ’ll take him quite a few
minutes to find it, I reckon,” he said placidly.
 “Isn’t it there?”
“Well—it’s there if it’s anywheres, I guess—” His eye returned to
the water. “It’s a dretful pity George can’t go—He’s just aching to—
You can see that plain enough—”
“He ’ll make more money,” said Bodet decisively, “—working on my
house.”
“Well—I do’ ’no’ ’bout that—He ’d make a good many hunderd out
there—” Uncle William motioned to the harbor, “a good many
hunderd—if he had luck—”
“He ’ll make a good many hundred on the house. It’s steady work
—and sure pay,” said Bodet.
Uncle William smiled. “I reckon that’s what’s the matter with it—
The ’s suthin’ dretful unsatisfyin’ about sure pay.” Bodet smiled
skeptically.
“You don’t understand about mackerel, Benjy, I guess—the
mackerel feelin’.” Uncle William’s eye rested affectionately on the
water.... “The’s suthin’ about it—out there—” He waved his hand
—“Suthin’ ’t keeps sayin’, ’Come and find me—Come and find me—’
kind o’ low like. Why, some days I go out and sail around—just sail
around. Don’t ketch anything—don’t try to, you know—just sail right
out.... You ain’t ever felt it, I guess?”
Benjy shook his head.
“I kind o’ knew you hadn’t.... You’ve al’ays had things—had ’em
done for ye—on dry land—It’s all right... and you’ve got things—”
Uncle William looked at him admiringly, “Things ’t George and me
won’t ever get, like enough.” He smiled on him affectionately, “But
we wouldn’t swap with ye, Benjy.”
“Wouldn’t swap what?” asked Bodet. His little laugh teased the
words—“You haven’t got anything—as far as I see—to swap—just a
sense that there’s something you won’t ever get.”
Uncle William nodded. “That’s it, Benjy! You see it—don’t you?—
Suthin’ ’t I can’t get—can’t ever get,” he looked far out over the
water... “and some day I’ll sail out there and ketch—twenty barrel,
like enough—and bring ’em in, and it’s all hurrah-boys down ’t the
dock—and sayin’ ’How many ’d you get?’ and ’How ’d you do it?’ and
runnin’ and fussin’—and then, come along toward night, and it ’ll get
kind o’ big and dark out there... and I’ll forget all about the twenty
barrel and about gettin’ money for ’em sensible—I’ll just want to
heave ’em out and go again.” Uncle William paused—drawing a big
sigh from some deep place.... “That’s the way George feels, I
reckon.... If he stays and works on your house, Benjy—’twon’t be
because he wants money.”
The young man appeared in the door—“I can’t find any paper in
here,” he said. There was a little note of defiance in the words and
the color in his face was dear scarlet.
Uncle William looked at him quizzically. “Maybe you didn’t look in
the right place, Georgie,” he said. “We’re coming right in, anyway.”
In the clear, soft dusk of the room Celia’s face had a dancing look.
She stood by the sink, her dish towel caught across her arm and her
chin lifted a little as if she were listening to something pleasant—that
no one had said. She turned away—hanging up the towel and
brushing off the top of the stove with emphatic little movements and
a far-away face.
“Now, maybe I left that figgering up to Benjy’s.” Uncle William
glanced casually about him. “You sit down, George, and I’ll look
around a little for it.” He fumbled with some papers by the window
and went into the bedroom and came out, humming gently to
himself. He glanced at the two men who sat on the red lounge—The
younger one had drawn some lines on a scrap of paper and was
leaning forward talking earnestly—his hat on the floor beside him
and his hair pushed carelessly back. He had forgotten the room—
and Uncle William—and all the little movements that danced. His
fingers moved with the terse, short words, drawing new lines on the
paper and crossing them out and drawing new ones.
Uncle William’s placid face held no comment. “‘D you see a piece
of paper, Celia!” he asked, “—a kind of crumpled-up piece!”
 She shook her head. Her eyes were on the two figures on the
lounge and on Juno, who rose and stretched herself, drawing her
feet together and yawning high and opening her pink-curved tongue.
“I left some scraps for her—on the plate by the sink,” said Celia in a
low voice. She untied her apron and hung it by the door. Then she
put on her hat and a light jacket and stood looking about her—as if
there might be something in the red room—something that would
keep her a minute longer.
“Set down, Celia,” suggested Uncle William.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. She moved a little, toward the door.
Uncle William bustled about and knocked down the tongs and
three or four sticks of wood, and picked them up. He grumbled a
little. Bodet looked up, with a smile. “What’s the matter, William!”
Manning got to his feet, crowding the scrap of paper into his
pocket, “I’ll have to go,” he said. “It’s getting late.”
“Why, yes—’tis kind o’ late—” assented Uncle William: “Gets late
dretful early, these days.... If you’re going right along, George, you
might’s well walk along with Celia—so ’s ’t the’ won’t anything
happen to her—”
“I don’t need anyone,” said the girl quickly, “I’ve got my lantern.”
She held it out.
The young man searched for his hat.
“I don’t need any company,” repeated the girl. She passed quickly
from the open door and vanished.
George stood up, gazing after her light flickering on the path. He
had found his hat and was twirling it in stiff slow fingers.
“Run along, George,” said Uncle William kindly. “You can ketch her,
easy.”
“I don’t run after any girl,” said George. There was a deep glint in
his eye.
Uncle William looked at it and then at the lantern, flicking and
dancing on the path. He stepped to the door. “O-ho! Celia!” he called
sternly.
 The light wavered a little and paused and danced.... Then it went
on.
Uncle William stepped out into the night. “Cel-i-a!” he called and
his big voice boomed over the rocks. The lantern stopped. It came
back—with little wavering steps and halted before him.
“What ’d you go running off like that for?”
Her face, above the lantern, was demure. “I didn’t run,” she said.
“Well, you might jest as well ’a’ run—I wanted you to take suthin’
for me.” Uncle William was feeling about in the darkness by the door.
“Oh—I didn’t know—” Her voice was very contrite now, and meek.
“I didn’t suppose you knew—but you could ’a’ waited.... Here they
be!” He dragged forward a heavy sack of potatoes and untied the
neck—“I told Harr’et I’d send her down a mess of new potatoes for
breakfast,” he said. He dipped into the sack with generous hand—
filling a basket that stood by the door.
The girl looked at it with round eyes.
“You ’d just as lives carry it along, wouldn’t you, Celia?”
She reached out her hand and lifted it a little. Then she looked at
him.
“Like enough you need a little help with it,” said Uncle William
wickedly. “Oh—George—” he stepped to the door. “You just give
Celia a lift with this basket, won’t you!—It’s a little mite heavy for
her.”
The young man appeared in the door. He lifted the basket with
decisive hand and held out the other—“I’ll take that lantern,” he
said.
She hesitated an instant—holding it a little behind her. Then she
gave it up. “I can carry lanterns well enough.”
“I’ll take it,” replied George. He strode away over the rocks and
she followed with little tripping steps that half ran to keep up.
Uncle William, standing by the open door, followed the flicker of
the lantern with benignant eye—Then he went into the house. “Sent
Harr’et quite a mess of potatoes,” he said comfortably.
 Benjy looked at him. “—Not the new ones,” he said quickly.
Uncle William nodded. “I kind o’ felt as if suthin’ had to be sent to
Harr’et, and that bag of potatoes was the fust thing I laid hold of.”
He chuckled a little. “She ’ll be some s’prised, I guess—s’prised and
pleased—Harr’et will—to get a new mess of potatoes and all—and
not having to pay for ’em, or anything,” said Uncle William
thoughtfully.
 XIV

H
ERE you be, Juno!” Uncle William set the plate of scraps on
the floor, and Juno walked across with leisurely gait.
He watched her a moment, smiling—then he reached for
his lantern. “Guess I’d better go see ’t everything’s all right,” he said.
“I’ve got to make a putty early start.”
Bodet looked at him inquiringly. “Where are you going?”
“Now?—Down to see t’ the Jennie.”
“You’re not going out?”
Uncle William laughed. “Not tonight, Benjy—I jest want to get a
start, you know—have things ready.” He lighted the lantern and
threw the match on the floor.
Benjy watched him soberly. “You ’ll be gone a week, I suppose.”
“Well, I do’ ’no’.” Uncle William put his lantern on the floor and sat
down. “I come in every day—Soon’s I get a catch.”
Bodet scowled at his cigarette—and threw it aside. “It’s the last I’ll
see of you—this season.”
Uncle William crossed his legs. “Won’t run more ’n a day or two,
mebbe,” he said consolingly. “You can’t tell about mackerel. You look
out and see little patches of ’em wrinkling around and the next day
you won’t see a wrinkle.” His hand felt for its lantern.
Bodet’s eye was on the clock. Suddenly he got up and crossed
over to it and took down something, almost tucked in around behind
the dock. He glared at it a minute and threw it on the table. “It’s a
letter!” he said.
“Why, so ’tis!” Uncle William leaned forward with a pleased look of
interest. “Celia didn’t tell us about it, did she?” He looked at Benjy
for sympathy. But there was no sympathy in Benjy’s eye.-He lifted
the letter and tore it open—“It might have lain there a week,” he
said sternly.
“Like enough ’t would—if you hadn’t seen it. You’ve got terrible
good eyes, Benjy.” Uncle William all but patted him on the back.
Benjy shrugged his shoulders. His eyes ran over the letter—“It’s
from the children. You want to read it—now?” He was holding it out.
Uncle William looked down at his lantern. He took it up.... Then he
looked at the letter. “I kind o’ hate to have you read it first—without
me.”
“I’ll wait,” said Bodet obligingly.
Uncle William shook his head. “I do’ ’no ’s we ’d better wait.” He
blew gently into his lantern and set it down. “Might as well have it
whilst we can....I’ve come to think that’s the best way, mebbe. The’s
two-three things I didn’t take when I could ’a’ got ’em—easy.
They’ve been always tagging me around since.” He settled a little
more comfortably in his chair and stretched his big legs. “Go ahead,
Benjy,” he said.
Bodet fixed his glasses on his nose and cleared his throat. Juno
jumped on Uncle William’s knee, and his hand traveled thoughtfully
up and down the grey back while the letter was being read.
A pleased, puzzled look held his face—“Goin’ right to Russia, be
they? I can’t seem to understand that, Benjy—What was it she
said?”
Bodet turned back and found the place.
“We have decided to go straight to St. Petersburg and then to
Vilna, taking a house and spending the winter. Captain Spaulding will
take the boat around to Yokohama and we shall join him in the
spring—going overland.’.
Uncle William’s face still held its puzzled look—“They won’t touch
Iceland... nor Norway ’n’ Sweden?” He shook his head. “Jumped the
whole thing—far as I see—Europe, Asia ’n’ Africa, and the Pacific
Isles.... Now, what do you suppose they’re up to, doin’ that, Benjy?”
He looked at him anxiously.
 Bodet folded the letter in his slim fingers and creased it a little.
“Perhaps she was homesick—thought how good it would seem to
have a home for a little while again.”
“Mebbe she did...” Uncle William lighted the lantern, peering at it
with shrewd, wrinkled eyes. “Don’t you set up for me, Benjy.” He
looked at him kindly. “The ’ll be a moon, byme-by, you know—Like
as not I’ll be putterin’ round quite a spell. You go to bed.”
“Well—I’ll see.” Bodet had taken up the newspaper and was
scanning the lines—his glasses perched high. Juno, on the floor
beside him, looked up as if she would like to be invited.
Uncle William looked at them both affectionately. Then he stepped
out into the night, closing the door with gentle touch.
The night was softly dark, with high stars, and a little breeze blew
up from the water.... His lantern swung down the path—his great
legs keeping shadowy time to it. Now and then he paused, listening
to the little waves that splashed up below, and drawing deep, full
breaths of the darkness. He looked up to the stars and his face
cleared. The little puzzled look that had come into it with the reading
of the letter disappeared. He hummed to himself, as he went, little
booming songs that began, and broke off, and ended nowhere—
traveling along ahead....
On the beach he disappeared into the little black fish-house and
came out bearing a great net that he stowed away in the dory,
folding it down in under with watchful eye. He swung his lantern
over the mound of net and gave a little running push and leaped
in.... The oars in the thole-pins creaked and chugged, as he faded
out in the night, and little phosphorescent gleams waked up along
the water and ran in flocks behind him.
He rowed steadily out, his eyes on the stars. The night held a
stillness—somewhere, through it, a voice might come. He held the
boat, dipping the oars lightly and bending his head. He often waited
—in the darkness or off on the moor.... Little sounds came—vague
stirrings of quiet—and off a little way, the lights on the fishing boats
bobbed at anchor. He dipped his oars and rowed again—long, restful
pulls that drew on the strength of the night.... Alongside, in a
minute, the stem of the Jennie loomed mistily and Uncle William
scrambled aboard, fastening the dory and hanging his lantern to the
mast—It threw its swaying light on the big figure as it moved about
the boat. Over the eastern rim of hill the sky grew mysteriously thin
and glowed—and a flood of light dropped on the harbor. The water
darkened and the distant boats grew to shapes as the moon rose
high, filling herself with light. Uncle William looked up. He put down
the coil of rope he was stowing away and leaned back, looking at
the clear, yellow ball riding over the hill. His eye traveled to the
water and to the dim boats shaping themselves out of the dusk.... A
contented smile held the big face.... He had been thinking of Sergia
and Alan and his thoughts traveled again—following the track of the
moon, out over the water, across the ocean—stretching to Russia
and the far east.... Slowly the look grew in his face—a little wonder
and a laugh. Then he sat up, looking about him. The filtering
moonshine played on his face and he laughed—with low, quiet
chuckles—and fell to work, giving the last touches to the boat—
making things fast. He rowed back in slow silence. Along the beach,
as he came near, little black shapes stood up and greeted him—
lobster traps and barrels piled high, ends of dories, and boxes
washed by the tide, and fantastic sprawls of net and seaweed. Uncle
William stepped among them, with long, high step, and the smile
still played on his face. Up on the cliff he could see the red glow of
the window. Benjy might be up—might be awake.... Uncle William
quickened his steps—
The man looked up with a satisfied, drowsy smile. The paper had
dropped from his hand and his head was bent a little toward it.
Uncle William nodded to him and hung up the lantern. “I’ve thought
of something.”
“Have you?” Bodet sat up, yawning a light breath and feeling for
his glasses. He put them on his nose and looked at William. “You
were gone long enough to think,” he said.
“Yes—I was gone—quite a spell. I got to looking round,” said
Uncle William. “Time gets away putty fast when you’re looking round
and kind o’ thinkin’.” He chuckled again, with the big, kind smile that
flooded his face. “What do you reckon made them want to go
straight to Russia, Benjy?” He was looking at him shrewdly.
Bodet shook his head. “I told you I didn’t know—just a whim,
perhaps—”
“Something nicer ’n a whim.... You ’d kind o’ like to think of it
yourself—It makes things big somehow—big and kind o’ goin’ on
forever-like—” His face was full of the glow now and the eyes behind
the spectacles had a misty look—like the blue of the sea when the
fog is traveling in.
Bodet got up and came across to him. “What is it, William!” he
said gently.
“Just more folks on-the Island—” said Uncle William. “Little ones,
you know—travelin’ round...; The’s suthin’ about it—I do’ ’no’ what ’t
is, Benjy—but it makes you all kind o’ happy inside—thinking there’s
goin’ to be more folks always, when you’re gone—living along in the
same places and doin’ things.... I can kind o’ see ’em,” said Uncle
William slowly, “—everywheres I go—there they be—plain as if I
touched ’em. some of ’em—getting up in the morning and havin’
breakfast and goin’ out and looking at the sun and the rocks and the
water and being happy—same as me—unhappy, too, some of the
time—thinkin’ things ought to be different.... It makes it all seem
big, don’t it, Benjy?” He reached out a hand.
The tall man took it. “So you think—?”
Uncle William nodded. “They ’ll be comin’ back some day—sailing
into the harbor—Sergia and Alan—and there ’ll be a little one
traveling with ’em. It’s al’ays the little ones,—Benjy—I do’ ’no’ what
the Lord made ’em that way for... they’re so kind o’ queer and little...
but I don’t ever see one of ’em runnin’ down the beach—arms goin’
that kind o’ way they have, and hair flyin’—I don’t ever see ’em
without feelin’ real good somewheres inside. Everything breaks out
all new—lights up, you know—’s if the fog had blown off suddenlike
and you looked way out where the sun is.” Uncle William’s face held
the glory of it all, but his voice had dropped a little.... He got up and
went to the door and stepped into the night. Presently he
reappeared and crossed over to the wood-box and looked in. “Guess
I’ll bring in an armful of wood,” he said. “It might rain before
morning.”
Benjy’s smile was very gentle as it followed him. “It can’t rain—a
night like this, William.”
Uncle William returned to the door and Bodet followed him.... The
moor was flooded with light—a magic world, hushed and waiting
under its veil.... Uncle William’s eyes dwelt on it fondly. “I reckon I’ll
bring in the wood,” he said. “Mebbe it won’t rain. But I kind o’ like to
bring in wood when I’ve been thinkin’.” The great figure passed into
the transparent night.
 XV

C
ELIA looked up from her work. “Did you have good luck?”
“Putty good,” said Uncle William, “Six-seven barrel, I should
think.” He stood in the doorway and cast an eye back at the
beach. “I picked out some good ones for dinner,” he said regretfully,
“I must ’a’ left ’em down there in the fish-house, or somewheres.”
Celia’s look was mild. “I’ll go down for them myself pretty quick.
I’m about through, anyway.” She swirled a little clean water into the
sink and took down a pan from its nail. “I sha ’n’t be gone long,” she
said kindly as she passed him in the doorway.
“No, the’ ain’t anybody interesting down there,” assented Uncle
William.
The look in her face dimpled a little, but she made no reply.
Uncle William looked after her as she flitted down the path, the
wind blowing the little curls about her face, and the pan on her arm
glinting in the sun. He turned and went into the house, a contented
look in his face. “Seems’s if we had most everything,” he said
comfortably. Juno came across and rubbed against him and he
stooped to pet her. Then he went into the bedroom and came out
with a plan of the new house. He spread it on the table and sat
down, studying it with pleased, shrewd smile. The clock ticked and
Juno purred into the stillness and a little breeze came in the window,
clean and fresh. By and by Uncle William pushed up his spectacles
and looked at the clock. His mouth remained open a little and he
went to the door, looking down the path. “Seems’s if she o’t to be
back by now—” He stared a little and reached for his glasses and
adjusted them, and took a long look.
A man was coming up the rocky path from the beach. He was a
large man, with a full paunch and light, soft steps. “He comes up
there putty good,” said Uncle William, watching him thoughtfully.
“You can’t hurry on them rocks.” The man had come to the top and
paused to take breath, looking back. “Holds himself kind o’ keerful
on his toes,” said Uncle William, “some ’s if he was afraid he ’d tip
over and spill suthin’.... I do ’no’ who he is.”
The man turned and came toward the house. He had taken off his
hat, and his bald head shone in the sun.
Uncle William stood in the doorway, looking him over with keen,
benignant eye.
“Good morning,” said the man, “Mr. Benslow, I believe?” He held
out a round hand. “My name is Carter—Milton Carter from Ipswich.”
Uncle William took the hand, and looked down at the stout man.
“I don’t seem to remember your being here before?” he said.
“No—It’s my first visit to this region. I’m only here for a day or
two.” He turned, on the doorstep, and looked over the moor and
rocks. “You have a pleasant place here.” He had a smooth, flatted-
out voice that gave the words no color.
Uncle William nodded. “It’s a putty good place—Will you walk in,
sir?”
The man stepped over the sill. “I didn’t expect to go quite so far
when I started. It’s quite a walk—” He wiped his forehead.
“You come from Andy’s?” asked Uncle William.
“From Halloran’s—yes, Andrew Halloran’s—You know him?”
“I know Andy,” said Uncle William. “Set down, sir.”
They sat down and looked at each other. “I was going through—”
said the man, “up the Lakes and I thought I’d stop off and look
around—It’s pleasant country about here.”
“Yes, it’s pleasant,” said Uncle William.
“Not much business doing, I suppose,” said the man.
“Fishing,” said Uncle William, “—mostly.”
“There’s some kind of building going on, I see—further up.” He
moved the round hand.
 “That’s my friend—Benjamin Bodet,” said Uncle William. His head
gave a little lift. “He’s going to have nineteen rooms—not countin’
the gal’ry.” He laid his hand affectionately on the blueprint spread on
the table beside him.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “I see—Seems to be quite a house,” he
said affably, “I was talking with the contractor this morning—a man
by the name of Manning—a very intelligent man,” he added kindly.
“His name’s Manning,” assented Uncle William.
The man’s eye strayed to the window. “Your friend must have
considerable land with his place—I should think?” He spoke casually.
Uncle William sat up a little. “He’s got enough to set his house on,”
he said dryly.
The man’s eyes held no rebuff. They dwelt on Uncle William kindly.
“I am interested in the region—” he admitted, “I might buy a little—
a small piece—if I found something I liked.”
Uncle William looked him over. “I don’t believe you will,” he said,
“—not anything to suit you.... I’ve bought most of it myself,” he
added.
The stranger looked at him—and then out of the window. “You
don’t own all of it—?” He gave a little wave of the round hand at the
moor and sky and rocks.
Uncle William nodded, with a pleased smile. “I bought it all—fo’-
five years ago,” he said.
The man’s mouth was very mild. “You bought it for investment, I
suppose? You put money into it—”
“Well,” said Uncle William, “suthin’ like that, perhaps. I put in all I
could scrape up. Some I had—and some I just wished I’d had.”
“I see—? What would you take for it?—How much did you say you
owned?” He bent toward the window.
“‘Bout a mile,” said Uncle William.
The head withdrew itself. “A mile—! You hoped it would rise, I
suppose?”
 “Well—I was more afraid someone ’d be coming along and setting
on it,” said Uncle William.
“You could sell the whole?”
Uncle William shook his head.
“I shouldn’t care—so much—for a part of it,” said the man
thoughtfully, “But I might make you an offer—”
“I wouldn’t advise you to,” said Uncle William, “I might just as well
tell ye, Mr. Carter—there ain’t money enough in this country—nor
any other—to buy that land!” Uncle William sat up.
The other man shook his head. “Land values are skittish things,”
he said. “It’s good judgment to look ahead a little.”
“That’s where I’m lookin’,” said Uncle William.
“This Bodet—” said the other smoothly, “whom did he buy of?”
Uncle William smiled. “I give him his piece—He’s a friend of mine.”
“I see.” The man got to his feet, adjusting his weight nicely.
“Well, think it over, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over on my way back
from the Lakes and—” His hand advanced a little.
Uncle William’s gaze did not take it in. He was moving toward the
door—and the man moved with him—his light, smooth steps hearing
him along. “Good day, sir,” said Uncle William.
“Good morning, Mr. Benslow. I may stop over—on my way back.”
He moved easily off up the road and Uncle William stood watching
him.
“There’s Benjy now,” said Uncle William.
The two men stopped in the road and talked a few minutes. The
fat man moved his hand and Bodet nodded once or twice.
Uncle William watched them a little anxiously. Then he went in
and gathered up the plan. When he came ont Benjamin was
approaching with quick, long strides.
“I’m coming right along, Benjy,” said Uncle William, “I was most
ready—a man come along and hindered me a little—”
“Who is he?” said Bodet.
 “His name is Carter—I reckon he’s real-estate,” said Uncle William.
“I ’reckon’ he is—Maiming told me and I came right down. What
did he offer you?”
“Well, he didn’t exactly offer—I kind o’ held him off. But I guess he
’d ’a’ gone high—” Uncle William’s mouth closed in a happy smile.
“‘Tis a nice island. I don’t wonder ’t folks want to come to it—But
they can’t,” he added gently, “The’ ain’t room.
“I ’most hope he won’t see Andy,” he added after a minute,
“Andy’s got a little piece—down to the east there—kind of out of
sight, you know, that I didn’t buy.”
“I bought that piece last week,” said Bodet.
“You did!—How ’d you come to get it, Benjy?”
“The same way you got yours, I guess. I offered him a little more
than he would stand.”
Uncle William smiled.... “And I suppose likely this man ’ll go higher
’n you did?”
“I suppose he will.”
Uncle William chuckled. “Poor Andy!”
“He’s ready to buy anything in sight you know,” said Bodet
restlessly.
“The’ ain’t very much in sight, is there?” said Uncle William, “—
except what I own.” He cast a proud eye over his acres.
“I’ve been thinking, William—”
Bodet looked at him keenly, “why don’t you turn it over to me—
the whole of it? I told you I’d give you twenty thousand,—I’ll give
you thirty—more if you say so—and you can live on it just the
same?”
Uncle William shook his head. “I couldn’t do it, Benjy. I reckon the
Lord cal’lated I’d buy up a mile—so’s to keep it from being cut up in
little fiddling bits—and I guess I’ve got to hold on to it. I’d like to
have thirty thousand,” he said reflectively, “The’s two-three little
things I could do with thirty thousand—!”
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