Tale of a big-hearted, slow-moving old fisherman, "gen'ally considered shif'less," but radiating helpfulness and cheer.
er head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man hung his hat and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated himself by the stove, opening wide the drafts. A fresh blaze sprang up. The artist leaned forward, holding out his hands to it.
"You were gone a good while," he said. The locket had slipped from his fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he bent to the fire.
The old man nodded. "I see the /Andrew Halloran/ had dragged her anchor a little, as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took quite a spell. I couldn't find the extry anchor. He'd got it stowed away for'ard somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin' putty bad. I found a good bottom for her and made things fast before I left. I reckon she'll hold."
"Won't he be down himself to look after her?"
"Mebbe not. It's a goodish step, from his place, down and back. He knows I keep an eye out for her.
"Why doesn't he anchor up there," said the artist, "near by?"
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