Everything was as clean and fresh as care could make it.  When I dropped to sleep, the tide was swashing the floor beneath me, the rain still sousing and drenching the little windows and the roof.

* * * * *

The following week, one crisp, fresh morning, I was again at the Hulk.  My experience the night of the storm had given me more confidence in Brockway, although the mystery of his life was still impenetrable.  As I rounded the point, the old man and little Emily were just pushing off in the boat.  He was on his way to his oyster beds a short distance off, his grappling-tongs and basket beside him.  In his quick, almost gruff way, he welcomed me heartily and insisted on my staying to dinner.  He would be back in an hour with a mess of oysters to help out.  “Somebody has been raking my beds and I must look after them,” he called to me as he rowed away.

I drew my own boat well up on the gravel, out of reach of the making tide, and put my easel close to the water’s edge.  I wanted to paint the Hulk and the river with the bluffs beyond.  Before I had blocked in my sky, I caught sight of Brockway rowing hurriedly back, followed by a shell holding half a dozen oarsmen from one of the boating clubs down the river.  The crew were out for a spin in their striped shirts and caps; the coxswain was calling to him, but he made no reply.

“Say, Mr. Brockway! will you please fill our water-keg?  We have come off from the boat-house without a drop,” I heard one call out.

“No; not to save your lives, I wouldn’t!” he shouted back, his boat striking the beach.  Springing out and catching Emily by the shoulder, pushing her before him,—­“Go into the Hulk, child.”  Then, lowering his voice to me, “They are all alike, d—–­ them, all alike.  Just such a gang!  I know ’em, I know ’em.  Get you a drink?  I’ll see you dead first, d—–­ you.  See you dead first; do you hear?”

His face was livid, his eyes blazing with anger.  The crew turned and shot up the river, grumbling as they went.  Brockway unloaded his boat, clutching the tongs as if they were weapons; then, tying the painter to a stake, sat down and watched me at work.  Soon Emily crept back and slipped one hand around her grandfather’s neck.

“Do you think you can ever do that, little Frowsy-head?” he said, pointing to my sketch.  I looked up.  His face was as serene and sunny as that of the child beside him.

Gradually I came to know these people better.  I never could tell why, our tastes being so dissimilar.  I fancied, sometimes, from a remark the old man once made, that he had perhaps known some one who had been a painter, and that I reminded him of his friend, and on that account he trusted me; for I often detected him examining my brushes, spreading the bristles on his palm, or holding them to the light with a critical air.  I could see, too, that their touch was not new to him.