Publisher's Synopsis
"Yes, I'm shif'less. I'm gen'ally considered shif'less," said William Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers skilfully into place by their one suspender. His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he failed to find in his color-box. William Benslow watched him patiently. "Kind o' ticklish business, ain't it?" he said. The artist admitted that it was. "I reckon I wouldn't ever 'a' done for a painter," said the old man, readjusting his legs. "It's settin'-work, and that's good; but you have to keep at it steady-like-keep a-daubin' and a-scrapin' and a-daubin' and a-scrapin', day in and day out. I shouldn't like it. Sailin' 's more in my line," he added, scanning the horizon. "You have to step lively when you do step, but there's plenty of off times when you can set and look and the boat just goes skimmin' along all o' herself, with the water and the sky all round you. I've been thankful a good many times the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me." The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumble-down house on the cliff above them and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon sail, anchored below. "There's not much money in it?" he suggested.
