I heard
them talkin' about it. They was sittin' right down there on the beach,
eatin' their supper. They was goin' to put in a fire-place and they was
goin' to paint it bright colors, and have parties over here--summer folk
notions. Their bid won it--who'd want it?--a buried house you couldn't
move.
TONY: I see no bright colors.
BRADFORD: Don't you? How astonishin'! You must be color blind. And I
guess _we're_ the first party. (_laughs_) I was in Bill Joseph's grocery
store, one day last November, when in she comes--Mrs Patrick, from New
York. 'I've come to take the old life-saving station', says she. 'I'm
going to sleep over there tonight!' Huh! Bill is used to queer ways--he
deals with summer folks, but that got _him_. November--an empty house, a
buried house, you might say, off here on the outside shore--way across
the sand from man or beast. He got it out of her, not by what she said,
but by the way she looked at what he said, that her husband had died,
and she was runnin' off to hide herself, I guess. A person'd feel sorry
for her if she weren't so stand-offish, and so doggon _mean_. But mean
folks have got minds of their own. She slept here that night. Bill had
men hauling things till after dark--bed, stove, coal.
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