Uncle William sat on the beach mending his nets. He drew the twine¹ deftly² in and out, squinting³ now and then across the harbor at a line of smoke that dwindled⁴ into the sky. Each time he looked it was fainter on the horizon. He whistled a little as he bent⁵ to his work.  
Over the rocks Andrew appeared, bearing on his back a huge bundle of nets. He threw it on the sand with a grunt⁶. Straightening himself, he glanced at the line of smoke. “He’s gone,” he said, jerking his thumb toward it.
 
“He’s gone,” assented⁷ Uncle William, cheerfully.
 
Andrew kicked the bundle of nets apart and drew an end toward him, spreading it along the beach. “He’s left you poorer’n he found you,” he said. His tough fingers worked swiftly among the nets, untying⁸ knots and straightening meshes⁹.
 
“I dunno ’bout¹⁰ that,” said Uncle William. His eyes followed the whiff of smoke kindly¹¹.
 
“You kep’ him a good deal, off and on. He must ’a’ e’t considerable,” said Andrew. “And now he’s up and lost your boat for you.” He glanced complacently¹² at the Andrew Halloran swinging at anchor. “You’ll never see her again,” he said. He gave a final toss to the net.
 
“Mebbe not,” said Uncle William. “Mebbe not.” His eyes were on the horizon, where the gray-blue haze¹³ lingered lightly. The blue sky dipped to meet it. It melted in sunlight. Uncle William’s eyes returned to his nets.
 
“How you going to get along ’bout a bout?” asked Andrew, carelessly.
 
Uncle William paused. He looked up to the clear sky. “I shouldn’t need her much more this fall, anyways,” he said. “An’ come spring, I’ll get another. I’ve been needin’ a new boat a good while.”
 
Andrew grunted¹⁴. He glanced a little jealously at the Andrew Halloran. “Got the money?” he asked.
 
“Well, not got it, so to speak,” said Uncle William, “but I reckon I shall have it when the time comes.”
 
Andrew’s face lightened a little. “What you countin’ on?” he said.
 
Uncle William considered. “There’s the fish. Gunnion hain’t settled with me yet for my fish.”
 
Andrew nodded. “Seventy-five dollars.”
 
“And I’ve got quite a count of lobsters¹⁵ up to the boardin’-house—”
 
Andrew’s small eyes squinted¹⁶ knowingly. “Out o’ season?”
 
Uncle William returned the look benignly¹⁷. “We didn’t date the ’count—just lumped ’em, so much a catch; saves trouble.”
 
Andrew chuckled¹⁸. “I’ve saved trouble that way myself.” He made a rough calculation. “It won’t make a hunderd, all told. How you goin’ to get the rest?”
 
“Mebbe I shall borrow it,” said Uncle William. He looked serenely¹⁹ at the sky. “Like enough he’ll send a little suthin’,” he added.
 
“Like enough!” said Andrew.
 
“He mentioned it,” said Uncle William.
 
“He’s gone,” said Andrew. He gave a light p-f-f with his lips and screwed up his eyes, seeming to watch a bubble sail away.
 
Uncle William smiled. “You don’t have faith, Andy,” he said reproachfully. “Folks do do things, a good many times—things that they say they will. You o’t to have faith.”
 
Andrew snuffed. “When I pin my faith to a thing, Willum, I like to hev suthin’ to stick the pin into,” he said scornfully.
 
They worked in silence. Seagulls dipped about them. Off shore the sea-lions bobbed their thick, flabby black heads inquiringly in the water and climbed clumsily over the kelp-covered rocks.
 
Andrew’s eyes rested impassively on their gambols²⁰. “Wuthless critters,” he said.
 
Uncle William’s face softened²¹ as he watched them. “I kind o’ like to see ’em, Andy—up and down and bobbin’ and sloppin’ and scramblin’; you never know where they’ll come up next.”
 
“Don’t need to,” grumbled²² Andy. “Can’t eat the blamed things—nor wear ’em. I tell you, Willum,”—he turned a gloomy eye on his companion,—“I tell you, you set too much store by wuthless things.”
 
“Mebbe I do,” said William, humbly²³.
 
“This one, now—this painter fellow.” Andrew gave a wave of his hand that condensed scorn. “What’d you get out o’ him, a-gabblin’ and sailin’ all summer?”
 
“I dunno, Andy, as I could jest put into words,” said William, thoughtfully, “what I did get out o’ him.”
 
“Ump! I guess you couldn’t—nor anybody else. When he sends you anything for that boat o’ yourn, you jest let me know it, will you?”
 
“Why, yes, Andy, I’ll let you know if you want me to. I’ll be reel pleased to let you know,” said Uncle William.