over, he went
to the chimney and took out the loose brick, reaching in behind for the
money. He counted it slowly. "Not near enough," he said, shaking his
head. "I knew there wa'n't. I must go and see Andy."

He washed the dishes and put them away, then he combed his tufts of hair
and tied his neckerchief anew.

He found Andrew outside his house, feeding the hens. They stood in
silence, watching the scramble for bits. "Shoo!" said Andrew, making
a dash for a big cochin-china. "She eats a lot more 'an her share," he
grumbled, shaking out the dish. "Comin' in?"

"I've got a little suthin' to talk over with ye," said William.

"Come out behind the barn," said Andrew.

Seated on a well-worn bench with a glimpse of the bay in the distance,
William drew out the envelope. "I've got a letter--"

Andy eyed it. "From that painter chap?"

"Well, not exactly. But it's about him. He's in a good deal of
trouble--"

"What's he been doin'?" demanded Andy.

"He's been bein' sick," said William, reproachfully.

"Oh!" Andy's face fell.

"He's sick now," went on Uncle William. He drew the letter from its
envelope. "He's feeling putty bad."

"What's the matter of him?" said Andy, gruffly.

Uncle William studied the letter.

"It's a kind o' fever--I guess--intermittent. Runs for a while, then
lets up a day or two, and then runs again. We had it once--don't you
remember?--the whole crew, that time we broke down off Madagascar?
'Member how sick we felt?" Uncle William looked at him mildly.

Andy's eye was fixed on the bay. "How d' you know it's the same?" he
said.

"Well, I don't _know_ it's the same--not just the same, but she says--"

"_Who_ says?" Andy whirled about.

"Why, _she_ says--Sergia says.--Didn't I jest tell you, Andy?"

"You didn't tell me nuthin'," said Andy. He had returned to the bay.

"She is his--she is goin' to marry him," said William.

"Huh!"

There was silence for a minute, while Andrew digested the morsel. "When
they goin' to be married?" he said at last.

Uncle William shook his head. "That's jest it, Andy. They're in a heap
o' trouble."

Andy stirred uneasily. "What'd she write to _you_ for?"

"I'm comin' to that--if you'll give me time. She thought mebbe I could
help--"

Andy moved a little away. "You hain't got the means," he said
decisively.

"No"--the tone was soothing--"but I can get it, mebbe. She wants me to
come down."

"To New York? _You!_" Andy looked at him.

William