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Boughton's, and the charming, amusing text is altogether his, save in the sense that it commemorates his companion's impressions as well as his own the delightful, irresponsible, visual, sensual, pictorial, capricious impressions of a painter in a strange land, the person surely whom at particular moments one would give most to be.
A fisherman lives on luck, so for a month there was no remark upon the suddenly changed condition. But after that, as the days passed and not a full dory raced up to Bill Boughton's fish stand, muttered whispers and old tales went up and down the island.
Boughton's, in his good-humored Dutch wanderings, holds from morning till night a sociable, graceful revel. From the moment it opens till the moment it closes, its day is a round of adventures.
"No, squire. Better leave them and the fish-houses and work on Boughton's store and the cottages. They're right in the path of the wind. It'll be tough on Nailor and Thomas to lose their stand and houses, but you know what will happen if the fire gets into the dwellings."
By this time they had received news from half a dozen neighbors that Bill Boughton's general store had been only half destroyed and that the contents had all been saved. The wharfs and fish-houses were at last burning and property on the leeward side of the flames was declared to be safe. A general exodus began along the King's Road.
Boughton's brigade was on the left of the railroad, and Harland's on the right. The latter detached a regiment to the Neuse road to guard against any attempt by the enemy to cross the creek beyond our right.
He admitted frankly to himself that he had always hoped to marry her when he had acquired the quarter interest in Bill Boughton's fishstand that had been promised him, but he had not told her so, nor did he know that she would accept him. The idea had been one to be thought of only at times of quietness and confidence in his future such as come to every man. But he had not reckoned on Nat Burns.
Dining, and dining well, at George H. Boughton's house in London, Whistler was obliged to leave the table and go up-stairs to indite a note. In a few moments a great noise revealed the fact that he had fallen down the flight. "Who is your architect?" he asked, when picked up. The host told him Norman Shaw. "I might have known it," said Whistler. "The d d teetotaler!"
Now he was almost upon it, and could see that the fish stand and wharf of the two wealthiest men in the village were burning furiously. The roar of the flames came to him. A hundred yards back from the water stood Bill Boughton's general store, and next it, in a row, dwellings; typical white fishermen's cottages with green blinds and a flower-filled dory in the front yard.
Code, looking down, made out his mother and returned her friendly wave. Their house was across the road not a hundred feet away. With a muffled roar another drum on the pier exploded. A great wave of molten fire shot out in the breeze, and the shingles on Bill Boughton's store, parched with the drought of a month, burst into quick flame. The squire ran back to the water-trough. "Dip!" he yelled.
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