in the morning the big form was still there. the artist turned to it as he opened his eyes. “you are not gone!”
“gone? land, no!” uncle william sat up from a cat-nap, rubbing his eyes and blinking a little. “i cal’ate to stay quite a spell yet.” he stretched his great legs slowly, first one and then the other, as if testing them.
reproach filled the artist’s eyes. “you’ve not lain down all night!”
“didn’t need to,” said uncle william. he got to his feet briskly. “i slep’ a good deal comin’ down in the boat. there wa’n’t a great deal goin’ on. if you’ve got a little water and soap handy, i reckon i could use it.”
the artist half started to get up, but a firm hand held him back. “now, stay right there. you jest tell me where things be—”
he pointed to a door at the left. “you won’t find it in very good order, i’m afraid.”
“don’t you mind.” uncle william had disappeared through the doorway. “it won’t bother me a mite.” his voice came back sociably. “i’m considabul ust to havin’ things mussed up.”
the artist lay with a smile, listening to the sounds that came through the half-open door—thumping and blowing and splashing.
uncle william reappeared with shining face. “it seems good to hev suthin’ bigger’n a teacup to wash in,” he said. “i like the hull ocean, myself, but a tub does putty well. now, jest let me see.”
he drew up to the bed, looking at the young man with keen glance.
“oh, i’m all right—now.”
“had a fever?”
“a little—yes.”
“you all alone?”
“there’s a man comes in by and by. he’ll clean up and get things for me.”
uncle william ignored the pride in the tone. “jest roll over a little mite. there—” he placed his broad hand under the thin back. “feel sore there? kind o’ hurts, don’t it? i thought so—there.” he laid him back gently. “you jest wait a minute.” he was fumbling at the lock that held his box.
“are you a doctor?” the young man was watching him with half-amused eyes.
“well, not a doctor exactly.” uncle william had taken out a small bottle and was holding it up to the light, squinting through it. “but i had a fever once, myself—kep’ a-runnin’.” he had come over to the bedside, the bottle in his hand. “you got a doctor?”
the young man shook his head. “he will come if i send for him.”
uncle william nodded. “that’s the best kind.” he held out the bottle. “i’d like to give you ’bout five on ’em.”
“what are they?”
“well, that’s what i don’t know, but it took about five on ’em to break up mine.” he had poured one into the palm of his hand and held it out. it was a small, roughly shaped pill, with grayish surface pitted with black.
the young man eyed it doubtfully.
“it don’t look very nice,” said uncle william, “and the man that made it never had a stitch of clothes on his back in his life; but i guess you better take it.”
the young man opened his lips. the thing slid down, leaving a sickish, sweetish taste behind it.
uncle william brought him a glass of water. “i know how it tastes, but i reckon it’ll do the work. now, let’s see.” he stood back, surveying the untidy room, a mellow smile on his lips. “‘t is kind o’ cluttered up,” he said. “i’ll jest make a path through.” he gathered up a handful of shoes and slippers and thrust them under the bed, drawing the spread down to hid them. the cups and glasses and scattered spoons and knives he bore away to the bath-room, and the artist heard them descending into the tub with a sound of rushing water. uncle william returned triumphant. “i’ve put ’em a-soak,” he explained. the table-spread, with its stumps of cigars, bits of torn papers, and collars and neckties and books and paint-brushes and tubes, he gathered up by the four corners, dumping it into a half-open drawer. he closed the drawer firmly. “might ’s well start fresh.” he replaced the spread and stood back, surveying it proudly. “what’s that door?” he pointed across the room.
“it’s your bedroom,” said the artist, a little uneasily. “but i don’t believe you can get in.”
uncle william approached cautiously. he pushed open the door and looked in. he came back beaming. “the’ ’s quite a nice lot of room,” he said, taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it away.
the artist lay looking about the room with brightening eyes. the window-shades were still askew and there were garments here and there, but uncle william’s path was a success. the sun was coming over the tops of the houses opposite, and uncle william reappeared with shining face.
“you reely needed a man around,” he said. “i’m putty glad i come.”
“what made you come?” asked the artist.
“what made me?” uncle william paused, looking about him. “where’s my spectacles? must ’a’ left ’em in there.” he disappeared once more.
while the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when he opened his eyes, uncle william was standing by the bed with a cup of something hot. he slipped a hand under the young man’s head, raising it while he drank.
the artist took his time—in slow, surprised sips. “it’s good!” he said. he released the cup slowly.
uncle william nodded. “i’ve been overhaulin’ your locker a little.”
“you didn’t find that in it.” the artist motioned to the cup.
“well—all but a drop or two,” said uncle william, setting it down. “a drop o’ suthin’ hot’ll make ’most anything tasty, i reckon. i’ll go out and stock up pretty soon.”
a slow color had come into the artist’s face. he turned it away. “i don’t need much,” he said.
“no more’n a robin,” said uncle william, cheerfully; “but i can’t live on bird-seed myself. i reckon i’ll lay in suthin’—two-three crackers, mebbe, enough to make a chowder.”
the young man laughed out. “i feel better,” he declared.
“it’s a good pill,” said uncle william. “must be ’most time for another.” he pulled out his great watch. “jest about.” he doled out the pill with careful hand.
the young man looked at the bottle. “you haven’t many left?”
“eight more,” said uncle william, rapping the cork into place. “that ’lows for one more fever for me afore i die—i don’t cal’ate to have but one more.” he looked about for his hat. “i’m goin’ out a little while,” he said, settling it on his head.
“wait a minute, uncle william.” the young man stretched out his hand. “how did you come to know i needed you?”
uncle william took the hand in his, patting it slowly. “why, that was nateral enough,” he said. “when sergia wrote me, sayin’ you was sick—”
“sergia wrote you?” the young man had turned away his eyes. “she should not have done it. she had no right—”
“why not?” said uncle william. he seated himself by the bed. there was something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. “you’re goin’ to be married, ain’t you?”
the head on the pillow turned uneasily. “no—not now.”
“why not?”
“i shall never be able to take care of her.”
“shucks!” said uncle william. “let her take care of you, then.”
the tears of weakness came into the young man’s eyes.
uncle william’s gaze was fixed on space. “you’ve been foolish,” he said—“turrible foolish. i don’t doubt she wants to marry you this minute.”
“she shall not do it.” he spoke almost fiercely.
“there, there,” said uncle william, soothingly, “i wouldn’t make such a fuss about it. nobody’s goin’ to marry you ’thout you want ’em to. you jest quiet down and go to sleep. we’ll talk it over when i come back.”
