“My name is Mason,” said the young man.
“I’m glad to meet you, sir,” said Uncle William. He came across
and held out a big hand. “My name is Benslow—William Benslow.”
The young man took the hand, a little dazed, it might seem. “I
knew it was Benslow,” he said, “I inquired before I came up—down
in the village.”
“Now, did ye? That was kind in you!” Uncle William beamed on
him and sat down. “I ain’t ever had the fish-warden up here,” he
said thoughtfully—“not as I can remember. I’m real glad to see you.”
The young man nodded stiffly—a little color had come into his face
—as if he did not propose to be tampered with.
“I’ve thought a good deal about fish-wardens,” went on Uncle
William comfortably, crossing his legs, “when I’ve been out sailing
and lobstering and so on—’Seems’s if it must be kind o’ unpleasant
business—knowing likely enough folks don’t want to see you come
sailin’ into a harbor—night or day.”
The young man turned a little in his place, looking at him
curiously.
“—And kind o’ havin’ to brace yourself,” went on Uncle William, “to
do your duty—feelin’, I suppose, as if there was spears always
reachin’ out from the shore and pinting at ye—to keep you off—sort
of?”
The young man stirred uneasily. “I don’t know that I ever thought
about it that way,” he said.
“Like enough you didn’t,” said Uncle
William, “I do’ ’no ’s I’d ’a’ thought of it myself—only I’m al’ays
kind o’ possessed to know how folks feel inside—other folks, you
know—and one day, as I was comin’ in from lobsterin’, I says to
myself—’Supposin’, 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, pointin’ right at me, kind of circle-
like, from the shore. There was a minute in that boat when I