THE WOMAN-HATERS

By Joseph C. Lincoln

FOREWORD

(By Way of Explanation)

A story of mine called, like this, "The Woman-Haters, " appearedrecently in one of the magazines. That story was not this one, except inpart--the part dealing with "John Brown" and Miss Ruth Graham. Readersof the former tale who perhaps imagine they know all about Seth Atkinsand Mrs. Emeline Bascom will be surprised to find they really know solittle. The truth is that, when I began to revise and rearrange themagazine story for publication as a book, new ideas came, grew, anddeveloped. I discovered that I had been misinformed concerning thelightkeeper's past and present relations with the housekeeper at thebungalow. And there was "Bennie D. " whom I had overlooked, had notmentioned at all; and that rejuvenated craft, the Daisy M. ; and thehigh tide which is, or should be, talked about in Eastboro even yet; allthese I had omitted for the very good reason that I never knew of them. I have tried to be more careful this time. During the revising process"The Woman-Haters" has more than doubled in length and, let us hope, inaccuracy. Even now it is, of course, not a novel, but merely a summerfarce-comedy, a "yarn. " And this, by the way, is all that it pretends tobe. 

JOSEPH C. LINCOLN. 

May, 1911. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. -- MR. SETH ATKINS

II. -- MR. JOHN BROWN

III. -- MR. BROWN PUTS IN AN APPLICATION

IV. -- THE COMING OF JOB

V. -- THE GOING OF JOSHUA

VI. -- THE PICNIC

VII. -- OUT OF THE BAG

VIII. --NEIGHBORS AND WASPS

IX. -- THE BUNGALOW GIRL

X. -- THE BUNGALOW WOMAN

XI. -- BEHIND THE SAND DUNE

XII. -- THE LETTER AND THE 'PHONE

XIII. --"JOHN BROWN" CHANGES HIS NAME

XIV. -- "BENNIE D. "

XV. -- THE VOYAGE OF THE Daisy M. 

XVI. -- THE EBB TIDE

XVII. --WOMAN-HATERS

THE WOMAN-HATERS

CHAPTER I

MR. SETH ATKINS

The stars, like incandescent lights fed by a fast weakening dynamo, grewpale, faded, and, one by one, went out. The slate-colored sea, with itstumbling waves, changed color, becoming a light gray, then a faint blue, and, as the red sun rolled up over the edge of the eastern horizon, abrilliant sapphire, trimmed with a silver white on the shoals and alongthe beach at the foot of the bluff. 

Seth Atkins, keeper of the Eastboro Twin-Lights, yawned, stretched, and glanced through the seaward windows of the octagon-shaped, glass-enclosed room at the top of the north tower, where he had spentthe night just passed. Then he rose from his chair and extinguished theblaze in the great lantern beside him. Morning had come, the mists hadrolled away, and the dots scattered along the horizon--schooners, tugs, and coal barges, for the most part--no longer needed the glareof Eastboro Twin-Lights to warn them against close proximity tothe dangerous, shoal-bordered coast. Incidentally, it was no longernecessary for Mr. Atkins to remain on watch. He drew the curtains overthe polished glass and brass of the lantern, yawned again, and descendedthe winding iron stairs to the door at the foot of the tower, opened itand emerged into the sandy yard. 

Crossing this yard, before the small white house which the governmentprovided as a dwelling place for its lightkeepers, he opened the door ofthe south tower, mounted the stairs there and repeated the extinguishingprocess with the other lantern. Before again descending to earth, however, he stepped out on the iron balcony surrounding the lightchamber and looked about him. 

The view, such as it was, was extensive. To the east the open sea, the wide Atlantic, rolling lazily in the morning light, a faint breezerippling the surfaces of the ground-swell. A few sails in sight, farout. Not a sound except the hiss and splash of the surf, which, becauseof a week of calms and light winds, was low even for that time ofyear--early June. 

To the north stretched the shores of the back of the Cape. High claybluffs, rain-washed and wrinkled, sloping sharply to the white sandof the beach a hundred feet below. Only one building, exceptthose connected with the lighthouses, near at hand, this a small, gray-shingled bungalow about two hundred yards away, separated from thelights by the narrow stream called Clam Creek--Seth always spoke of itas the "Crick"--which, turning in behind the long surf-beaten sandspitknown, for some forgotten reason, as "Black Man's Point, " continued tothe salt-water pond which was named "The Cove. " A path led down from thelighthouses to a bend in the "Crick, " and there, on a small wharf, was ashanty where Seth kept his spare lobster and eel-pots, dory sails, nets, and the like. The dory itself, with the oars in her, was moored in thecove. 

A mile off, to the south, the line of bluffs was broken by anotherinlet, the entrance to Pounddug Slough. This poetically named channeltwisted and wound tortuously inland through salt marshes and betweenmudbanks, widening at last to become Eastboro Back Harbor, a good-sizedbody of water, with the village of Eastboro at its upper end. In theold days, when Eastboro amounted to something as a fishing port, themackerel fleet unloaded its catch at the wharves in the Back Harbor. Then Pounddug Slough was kept thoroughly dredged and buoyed. Now it wasweed-grown and neglected. Only an occasional lobsterman's dory traversedits winding ways, which the storms and tides of each succeeding winterrendered more difficult to navigate. The abandoned fish houses along itsshores were falling to pieces, and at intervals the stranded hulk ofa fishing sloop or a little schooner, rotting in the sun, was a dismalreminder that Eastboro's ambitious young men no longer got their livingalongshore. The town itself had gone to sleep, awakening only in thesummer, when the few cottagers came and the Bay Side Hotel was openedfor its short season. 

Behind the lighthouse buildings, to the west--and in the directionof the village--were five miles of nothing in particular. A desolatewilderness of rolling sand-dunes, beach grass, huckleberry and bayberrybushes, cedar swamps, and small clumps of pitch-pines. Through thisdesert the three or four rutted, crooked sand roads, leading to andfrom the lights, turned and twisted. Along their borders dwelt no humanbeing; but life was there, life in abundance. Ezra Payne, late assistantkeeper at the Twin-Lights, was ready at all times to furnish evidenceconcerning the existence of this life. 

"My godfreys domino!" Ezra had exclaimed, after returning from a driveto Eastboro village, "I give you my word, Seth, they dummed nigh etme alive. They covered the horse all up, so that he looked for all theworld like a sheep, woolly. I don't mind moskeeters in moderation, butwhen they roost on my eyelids and make 'em so heavy I can't open 'em, then I'm ready to swear. But I couldn't get even that relief, becauseevery time I unbattened my mouth a million or so flew in and choked me. That's what I said--a million. Some moskeeters are fat, but these don'tget a square meal often enough to be anything but hide-racks filled withcussedness. Moskeeters! My godfreys domino!"

Ezra was no longer assistant lightkeeper. He and his superior hadquarreled two days before. The quarrel was the culmination, on Ezra'spart, of a gradually developing "grouch" brought on by the loneliness ofhis surroundings. After a night of duty he had marched into the house, packed his belongings in a battered canvas extension case, and announcedhis intention of resigning from the service. 

"To the everlastin' brimstone with the job!" he snarled, addressing Mr. Atkins, who, partially dressed, emerged from the bedroom in bewildermentand sleepy astonishment. "To thunder with it, I say! I've had all thegov'ment jobs I want. Life-savin' service was bad enough, trampin' thecondemned beach in a howlin' no'theaster, with the sand cuttin'furrers in your face, and the icicles on your mustache so heavy yougot round-shouldered luggin' 'em. But when your tramp was over, you hadsomebody to talk to. Here, by godfreys! there ain't nothin' nor nobody. I'm goin' fishin' again, where I can be sociable. "

"Humph!" commented Seth, "you must be lonesome all to once. Ain't mycompany good enough for you?"

"Company! A heap of company you are! When I'm awake you're asleep andsnorin' and--"

"I never snored in my life, " was the indignant interruption

"What? YOU'LL snore when you're dead, and wake up the whole graveyard. Lonesome!" he continued, without giving his companion a chance toretort, "lonesome ain't no name for this place. No company but greenflies and them moskeeters, and nothin' to look at but salt water andsand and--and--dummed if I can think of anything else. Five miles fromtown and the only house in sight shut tight. When I come here you toldme that bungalow was opened up every year--"

"So it has been till this season. "

"And that picnics come here every once in a while. "

"Don't expect picnickers to be such crazy loons as to come here inwinter time, do you?"

"I don't know. If they're fools enough to come here ANY time, I wouldn'tbe responsible for 'em. There ain't so many moskeeters in winter. Butjust LOOK at this hole. Just put on your specs and LOOK at it! Not aman--but you--not a woman, not a child, not a girl--"

"Ah ha! ah ha! NOW we're gettin' at it! Not a girl! That's what's thematter with you. You want to be up in the village, where you can gocourtin'. You're too fur from Elsie Peters, that's where the shoepinches. I've heard how you used to set out in her dad's backyard, withyour arm round her waist, lookin' at each other, mushy as a couple ofsassers of hasty-puddin'. Bah! I'll take care my next assistant ain'tgirl-struck. "

"Girl-struck! I'd enough sight ruther be girl-struck than always ravin'and rippin' against females. And all because some woman way back inMethusalem's time had sense enough to heave you over. At least, that'swhat everybody cal'lates must be the reason. You pretend to be awoman-hater. All round this part of the Cape you've took pains to get upthat kind of reputation; but--"

"There ain't no pretendin' about it. I've got brains enough to keepclear of petticoats. And when you get to be as old as I be and know asmuch as I do--though that ain't no ways likely, even if you live to benine hundred and odd, like Noah in Scripture--you'll feel the same way. "

"Aw, come off! Woman-hater! You hate women same as the boy at thepoorhouse hated ice cream--'cause there ain't none around. Why, Iwouldn't trust you as fur as I could see you!"

This was the end of the dialogue, because Mr. Payne was obliged to breakoff his harangue and dodge the stove-lifter flung at him by the outragedlightkeeper. As the lifter was about to be followed by the teakettle, Ezra took to his heels, bolted from the house and began his long trampto the village. When he reached the first clumps of bayberry bushesbordering the deeply rutted road, a joyful cloud of mosquitoes rose andsettled about him like a fog. 

So Seth Atkins was left alone to do double duty at Eastboro Twin-Lights, pending the appointment of another assistant. The two days and nightsfollowing Ezra's departure had been strenuous and provoking. Doingall the housework, preparation of meals included, tending both lights, rubbing brass work, sweeping and scouring, sleeping when he could andkeeping awake when he must, nobody to talk to, nobody to help--theforty-eight hours of solitude had already convinced Mr. Atkins that thesooner a helper was provided the better. At times he even wished thedisrespectful Payne back again, wished that he had soothed instead ofirritated the departed one. Then he remembered certain fragments oftheir last conversation and wished the stove-lifter had been flung withbetter aim. 

Now, standing on the gallery of the south tower, he was conscious ofa desire for breakfast. Preparing that meal had been a part of hisassistant's duties. Now he must prepare it himself, and he was hungryand sleepy. He mentally vowed that he would no longer delay notifyingthe authorities of the desertion, and would urge them to hurry insending some one to fill the vacant place. 

Grumbling aloud to himself, he moved around the circle of the gallerytoward the door. His hand was on the latch, when, turning, he castanother glance over the rail, this time directly downward toward thebeach below. And there he saw something which caused him to forgethunger and grievances of all kinds; something which, after one horrifiedlook to make sure, led him to dart into the light chamber, spring at areckless gait down the winding stair, out of the tower, rush to the edgeof the bluff, and plunge headlong down the zigzag path worn in the clay. 

On the sand, at the foot of the bluff below the lights, just beyondreach of the wash of the surf, lay a man, or the dead body of a man, stretched at full length. 

CHAPTER II

MR. JOHN BROWN

Once before, during his years of service as keeper of EastboroTwin-Lights, had Seth seen such a sight as that which now caused him tomake his dash for the shore. Once before, after the terrible storm of1905, when the great steamer Bay Queen went down with all on board, theexact spot of her sinking unknown even to this day. Then the whole oceanside of the Cape, from Race Point to Orham, was strewn with ghastlyrelics. But the Bay Queen met her fate in the winter season, amid a galesuch as even the oldest residents could not remember. Now it was earlysummer; the night before had been a flat calm. There had been no wreck, or the lifesavers would have told him of it. There would be no excusefor a wreck, anyway. 

All this, in disjointed fragments, passed through the lightkeeper'smind as he descended the path in frantic bounds and plowed throughthe ankle-deep white sand of the beach. As he approached the recumbentfigure he yelled a panted "Hi, there!" He did not expect the hail to beanswered or even noticed. Therefore, he was pleasantly disappointed whenthe figure rolled over, raised itself on one elbow, looked at him in adazed sort of way and replied cheerfully but faintly, "Hello!"

Seth stopped short, put a hand to the breast of his blue flannel shirt, and breathed a mighty sigh of relief. 

"Gosh!" he exclaimed with fervor. Then, changing his labored gallopfor a walk, he continued his progress toward the man, who, as if hismomentary curiosity was satisfied, lay down again. He did not rise whenthe lightkeeper reached his side, but remained quiet, looking up from apair of gray eyes and smiling slightly with lips that were blue. He wasa stranger to Atkins, a young fellow, rather good looking, dressed inblue serge trousers, negligee shirt, blue socks, and without shoesor hat. His garments were soaked, and the salt water dripped from hisshoulders to the sand. The lightkeeper stared at him, and he returnedthe stare. 

"Gosh!" repeated Seth, after an instant of silence. "Jiminy crimps! Ifeel better. "

The stranger's smile broadened. "Glad to hear it, I'm sure, " he said, slowly. "So do I, though there's still room for improvement. What wasyour particular ailment? Mine seems to have been water on the brain. "

He sat up and shakily ran a hand through his wet hair as he spoke. Atkins, his surprise doubled by this extraordinary behavior, could thinkof nothing to say. 

"Good morning, " continued the young man, as if the meeting had been themost casual and ordinary possible; "I think you said a moment ago thatyou were feeling better. No relapse, I trust. "

"Relapse? What in the world? Are you crazy? I ain't sick. "

"That's good. I must have misunderstood you. Pleasant morning, isn't it?

"Pleasant morn--Why, say! I--I--what in time are you doin', layin' thereall soaked through? You scared me pretty nigh to death. I thought youwas drowned, sure and sartin. "

"Did you? Well, to be honest, so did I, for a while. In fact, I'm notabsolutely sure that I'm not, even yet. You'll excuse me if I lie downagain, won't you? I never tried a seaweed pillow before, but it isn't sobad. "

He again stretched himself on the sand. Seth shook his head. 

"Well, if this don't beat me!" he exclaimed. "You're the coolest critterthat ever I--I--"

"I am cool, " admitted the young man, with a slight shiver. "Thisstretch of ocean here isn't exactly a Turkish bath. I've been swimmingsince--well, an hour or two ago, and I am just a little chilled. "

He shivered again. 

"Swimmin'! An hour or two? Where on earth did you come from?"

"Oh, I fell overboard from a steamer off here somewhere. I--"

Another and emphatic shiver caused him to pause. The lightkeeper awoketo the realities of the situation. 

"Good land of love!" he exclaimed. "What am I thinkin' of? Seein' youthis way, and you talkin' so kind of every-day and funny drove my sensesclean out, I guess. Get right up off that wet place this minute. Come upto the house, quick! Can you walk?"

"Don't know. I am willing to try. Would you mind giving me a lift?"

Seth didn't mind, which was fortunate, as his new acquaintance couldn'thave risen unaided. His knees shook under him when he stood erect, andhe leaned heavily on the lightkeeper's arm. 

"Steady now, " counselled Atkins; "no hurry. Take it easy. If you'venavigated water all alone for hours, I cal'late between us we can manageto make a five-minute cruise on dry land. . . . Even if the course westeer would make an eel lame tryin' to follow it, " he added, as thecastaway staggered and reeled up the beach. "Now don't try to talk. Letyour tongue rest and give your feet a chance. "

The climbing of the steep bluff was a struggle, but they accomplishedit, and at length the stranger was seated in a chair in the kitchen. 

"Now, the fust thing, " observed Seth, "is to get them wet clothesoff you. Usually I'd have a good fire here, but that miserable Ezryhas--that is, my assistant's left me, and I have to go it alone, asyou might say. So we'll get you to bed and . . . No, you can't undressyourself, neither. Set still, and I'll have you peeled in a jiffy. "

His guest was making feeble efforts to remove his socks. Atkins pushedhim back into the chair and stripped the blue and dripping rags fromfeet which were almost as blue from cold. The castaway attempted a weakresistance, but gave it up and said, with a whimsical smile:

"I'm mightily obliged to you. I never realized before that a valet wassuch a blessing. Most of mine have been confounded nuisances. "

"Hey?" queried Seth, looking up. 

"Nothing. Pardon me for comparing you with a valet. "

"Land sakes! I don't care what you call me. I was out of my head oncemyself--typhoid fever 'twas--and they say the things I called the doctorwas somethin' scandalous. You ain't responsible. You're beat out, andyour brain's weak, like the rest of you. Now hold on till I get you anightgown. "

He started for the bedroom. The young man seemed a bit troubled. 

"Just a minute, " he observed. "Don't you think I had better move toa less conspicuous apartment? The door is open, and if any of yourneighbors should happen by--any ladies, for instance, I--"

"Ladies!" Mr. Atkins regarded him frowningly. "In the fust place, thereain't a neighbor nigher'n four miles; and, in the next, I'd have youunderstand no women come to this house. If you knew me better, youngfeller, you'd know that. Set where you be. "

The nightshirt was one of the lightkeeper's own, and, although Seth wasa good-sized man, it fitted the castaway almost too tightly for comfort. However, it was dry and warm and, by leaving a button or two unfastenedat the neck, answered the purpose well enough. The stranger was pilotedto the bedroom, assisted into the depths of a feather bed, and coveredwith several layers of blankets and patchwork quilts. 

"There!" observed Seth, contentedly, "now you go to sleep. If you get tosweatin', so much the better. 'Twill get some of that cold water out ofyou. So long!"

He departed, closing the door after him. Then he built a fire in therange, got breakfast, ate it, washed the dishes and continued hisforenoon's work. Not a sound from the bedroom. Evidently the strangearrival had taken the advice concerning going to sleep. But all the timehe was washing dishes, rubbing brass work or sweeping, Mr. Atkins'smind was busy with the puzzle which fate had handed him. Occasionally hechuckled, and often he shook his head. He could make nothing out ofit. One thing only was certain--he had never before met a human beingexactly like this specimen. 

It was half past twelve before there were signs of life in the bedroom. Seth was setting the table for dinner, when the door of the room openeda little way, and a voice said:

"I say, are you there?"

"I be. What do you want?"

"Would you mind telling me what you've done with my clothes?"

"Not a bit. I've got 'em out on the line, and they ain't dry yet. Ifyou'll look on the chair by the sou'west window you'll find a rig-out ofmine. I'm afraid 'twill fit you too quick--you're such an elephant--butI'll risk it if you will. "

Apparently the stranger was willing to risk it, for in a few momentshe appeared, dressed in the Atkins Sunday suit of blue cloth, and withSeth's pet carpet slippers on his feet. 

"Hello!" was the lightkeeper's greeting. "How you feelin'?--better?"

"Tip top, thank you. Where do you wash, when it's necessary?"

"Basin right there in the sink. Soap in the becket over top of it. Roller towel on the closet door. Ain't you had water enough for aspell?"

"Not fresh water, thank you. I'm caked with salt from head to foot. "

"Does make a feller feel like a split herrin', if he ain't used to it. Think you can eat anything?"

"Can I?" The response was enthusiastic. "You watch me! My last meal wasyesterday noon. "

"Yesterday NOON! Didn't you eat no supper?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"Well, I--well, to be frank, because I hadn't the price. It took my lastcent to pay my fare on that blessed steamer. "

"Great land of love! What time was it when you fell overboard?"

"Oh, I don't know. Two o'clock, perhaps. "

"Two o'clock! What was you doin' up at two o'clock? Why wasn't you inyour stateroom asleep?"

"I hadn't any stateroom. Staterooms cost money. "

"My soul! And you swum three hours on an empty stomach?"

"Not altogether. Part of it on my back. But, if you'll excusefamiliarity on short acquaintance, those things you're cooking smellgood to me. "

"Them's clam fritters, and, if YOU'LL excuse my sayin' so thatshouldn't, they ARE good. Set down and fill up. "

The visitor ate nine of the fritters, a slice of dried-apple pie, anddrank two cups of coffee. Seth, between intervals of frying and eating, watched him with tremendous curiosity and as much patience as he couldmuster. When the pie was finished he asked the first of the questionswith which he had been bursting all the forenoon. 

"Tell me, " he said, "how'd you come to fall overboard?"

"I'm not very certain just how it happened. I remember leaning over therail and watching the waves. Then I was very dizzy all at once. The nextthing I knew I was in the water. "

"Dizzy, hey? Seasick, may be. "

"I guess not. I'm a pretty good sailor. I'm inclined to think the causewas that empty stomach you mentioned. "

"Um-hm. You didn't have no supper. Still, you ate the noon afore. "

"Not much. Only a sandwich. "

"A sandwich! What did you have for breakfast?"

"Well, the fact is, I overslept and decided to omit the breakfast. "

"Gosh! no wonder you got dizzy. If I went without meals for a wholeday I cal'late I'd be worse than dizzy. What did you do when you foundyourself in the water?"

"Yelled at first, but no one heard me. Then I saw some lights off inthis direction and started to swim for them. I made the shore finally, but I was so used up that I don't remember anything after the landing. Think I took a nap. "

"I presume likely. Wonder 'twasn't your everlastin' nap! Tut! tut! tut!Think of it!"

"I don't want to, thank you. It isn't pleasant enough to think of. I'mhere and--by the way, where IS here?"

"This is Eastboro township--Eastboro, Cape Cod. Them lights out thereare Eastboro Twin-Lights. I'm the keeper of 'em. My name's Atkins, SethAtkins. "

"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Atkins. And tremendously obliged to you, besides. "

"You needn't be. I ain't done nothin'. Let me see, you said your namewas--"

"Did I?" The young man seemed startled, almost alarmed. "When?"

Seth was embarrassed, but not much. "Well, " he admitted, "I don't know'syou did say it, come to think of it. What IS your name?"

"My name?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, why--my name is Brown--er--John Brown. Not the gentleman who washanged, of course; distant relative, that's all. "

"Hum! John Brown, hey? What steamer did you fall off of?"

"Why--why--I can't seem to remember. That's odd, isn't it?"

"Yes, I should say 'twas. Where was she bound?"

"Bound? Oh, you mean where was she going?"

"Sartin. "

"I think--I think she was going to--to. . . . Humph! how strange thisis!"

"What?"

"Why, that I should forget all these things. "

The lightkeeper regarded his guest with suspicion. 

"Yaas, " he drawled slowly, "when you call it strange you ain'texaggeratin' none wuth mentionin'. I s'pose, " he added, after a moment, during which he stared intently at Mr. Brown, who smiled in politeacknowledgment of the stare; "I s'pose likely you couldn't possiblyremember what port you hailed from?"

"I suppose not, " was the calm reply. 

Seth rose from the table. 

"Well, " he observed, "I've been up all night, too, and it's past mybedtime. As I told you, my assistant's left all of a sudden and I'malone in charge of gov'ment property. I ought to turn in, but--" hehesitated. 

John Brown also rose. 

"Mr. Atkins, " he said, "my memory seems to be pretty bad, but I haven'tforgotten everything. For instance, " his smile disappeared, and his tonebecame earnest, "I can remember perfectly well that I'm not a crook, that I haven't done anything to be ashamed of--as I see it--that I'mvery grateful to you, and that I don't steal. If you care to believethat and, also, that, being neither a sneak or a thief, I sha'n't clearout with the spoons while you're asleep, you might--well, you might riskturning in. "

The lightkeeper did not answer immediately. The pair looked each otherstraight in the eye. 

Then Seth yawned and turned toward the bedroom. 

"I'll risk it, " he said, curtly. "If I ain't awake by six o'clock Iwish you'd call me. You'll find some spare clay pipes and tobacco on themantelpiece by the clock. So long. "

He entered the bedroom and closed the door. Mr. Brown stepped over tothe mantel and helped himself to a pipe. 

CHAPTER III

MR. BROWN PUTS IN AN APPLICATION

At half past five the lightkeeper opened the bedroom door and peepedout. The kitchen was empty. There was no sign of Mr. Brown. It took Sethjust four minutes to climb into the garments he had discarded and reachthe open air. His guest was seated on the bench beside the house, one ofthe clay pipes in his hand. He was looking out to sea. He spoke first:

"Hello!" he said. "You're up ahead of time, aren't you? It isn't sixyet. "

Atkins grinned. "No, " he answered, "'tain't! not quite. But sence Ezrycleared out I've been a kind of human alarm clock, as you might say. Feelin' all right, are you?"

"Yes, thank you. I say, " holding up the pipe and regarding itrespectfully, "is this tobacco of yours furnished by the government?"

"No. Some I bought myself last time I was over to the Center. Why, what's the matter with it? Ain't it good?"

"Perhaps so. "

"Then what made you ask? Ain't it strong enough?"

"Strong enough! You're disposed to be sarcastic. It's stronger than Iam. What do they flavor it with--tar?"

"Say, let's see that plug. THAT ain't smokin' tobacco. "

"What is it, then--asphalt?"

"Why, haw! haw! That's a piece of Ezry's chewin'. Some he left when hewent away. It's 'Honest Friend. ' 'TIS flavored up consider'ble. And youtried to smoke it! Ho! ho!"

The young man joined in the laugh. 

"That explains why it bubbled so, " he said. "I used twenty-two matches, by actual count, and then gave it up. Bah!" he smacked his lipsdisgustedly and made a face: "'Honest Friend'--is that the name of it?Meaning that it'll stick to you through life, I presume. Water has noeffect on the taste; I've tried it. "

"Maybe some supper might help. I'll wash the dinner dishes and startgettin' it. All there seems to be to this job of mine just now iswashin' dishes. And how I hate it!"

He reentered the kitchen. Then he uttered an exclamation:

"Why, what's become of the dishes?" he demanded. "I left 'em here on thetable. "

Brown arose from the bench and sauntered to the door. 

"I washed them, " he said. "I judged that you would have to if I didn't, and it seemed the least I could do, everything considered. "

"Sho! You washed the dishes, hey? Where'd you put 'em?"

"In the closet there. That's where they belong, isn't it?"

Seth went to the closet, took a plate from the pile and inspected it. 

"Um!" he grunted, turning the plate over, "that ain't such a bad job. Not so all-fired bad, for a green hand. What did you wash 'em with?"

"A cloth I found hanging by the sink. "

"I see. Yes, yes. And you wiped 'em on--what?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't see any towels in sight, exceptthat one on the door; and, for various reasons, I judged that wasn't adish towel. "

"Good judgment. 'Tisn't. Go on. "

"So I hunted around, and in the closet in the parlor, or living room, orwhatever you call it, I found a whole stack of things that looked liketowels; so I used one of those. "

"Is this it?" Seth picked up a damp and bedraggled cloth from the table. 

"That's it. I should have hung it up somewhere, I suppose. I'll lose myjob if I don't look out. "

"Um! Well, I'm much obliged to you, only--"

"Only?"

"Only you washed them dishes with the sink cloth and wiped 'em with apiller case. "

The volunteer dishwasher's mouth opened. 

"NO!" he gasped. 

"Ya-as. "

"A pillow case! Well, by George!"

"Um-hm. I jedge you ain't washed many dishes in your lifetime. "

"Not so very many. No. "

They looked at each other and burst into a roar of laughter. Brown wasthe first to recover. 

"Well, " he observed, "I guess it's up to me. If you'll kindly put menext to a genuine cloth, or sponge, or whatever is the proper caper fordish-washing, I'll undertake to do them over again. And, for heaven'ssake, lock up the pillow cases. "

Seth protested, declaring that the dishes need not be rewashed that veryminute, and that when he got a chance he would do them himself. But theyoung man was firm, and, at last, the lightkeeper yielded. 

"It's real kind of you, " he declared, "and bein' as I've consider'bleto do, I don't know but I'll let you. Here's a couple of dishcloths, andthere's the towels. I'm goin' out to see to the lights, and I'll be backpretty soon and get supper. "

Later in the evening, after supper, the housework done, they sat againon the bench beside the door, each with a pipe, filled, this time, with genuine smoking tobacco. Before and below them was the quiet sea, rolling lazily under the stars. Overhead the big lanterns in the towersthrust their parallel lances of light afar into the darkness. Theonly sounds were the low wash of the surf and the hum of the eagermosquitoes. Brown was silent, alternately puffing at the pipe andslapping at the insects, which latter, apparently finding his skineasier to puncture than that of the tanned and leathery Atkins, weremaking the most of their opportunity. 

Seth, whose curiosity had been checked but not smothered by hiscompanion's evident desire to say nothing concerning himself, was busythinking of various guileful schemes with which to entrap the castawayinto the disclosure of his identity. Having prepared his bait, heproceeded to get over a line. 

"Mr. Brown, " he said, "I ain't mentioned it to you afore, 'count of yourneedin' rest and grub and all after your fallin' overboard last night. But tomorrer you'll be feelin' fustrate again, and I cal'late you'll bewantin' to get word to your folks. Now we can telephone to the Eastborodepot, where there's a telegraph, and the depot master'll send adispatch to your people, lettin' 'em know you're all safe and sound. Ifyou'll just give me the address and what you want to say, I'll 'tendto it myself. The depot master's a good friend of mine, and he'll risksending the dispatch 'collect' if I tell him to. "

"Thank you, " replied Brown, shortly. 

"Oh, don't mention it. Now who'll I send it to?"

"You needn't send it. I couldn't think of putting you to furthertrouble. "

"Trouble! 'Tain't no trouble to telephone. Land sakes, I do it four orfive times a day. Now who'll I send it to?"

"You needn't send it. "

"Oh, well, of course, if you'd ruther send it yourself--"

"I sha'n't send it. It really isn't worth while 'phoning or telegraphingeither. I didn't drown, and I'm very comfortable, thank you--or shouldbe if it weren't for these mosquitoes. "

"Comf'table! Yes, you're comf'table, but how about your folks? Won'tthey learn, soon's that steamer gets into--into Portland--or--or--NewYork or Boston--or . . . Hey?"

"I didn't speak. "

Seth swallowed hard and continued. "Well, wherever she was bound, " hesnapped. "Won't they learn that you sot sail in her and never got there?Then they'll know that you MUST have fell overboard. "

John Brown drew a mouthful of smoke through the stem of the pipe andblew it spitefully among the mosquitoes. 

"I don't see how they'll learn it, " he replied. 

"Why, the steamer folks'll wire em right off. "

"They'll have to find them first. "

"That'll be easy enough. There'll be your name, 'John Brown, ' of suchand such a place, written right on the purser's book, won't it. "

"No, " drawled Mr. Brown, "it won't. "

The lightkeeper felt very much as if this particular road to the truthhad ended suddenly in a blind alley. He pulled viciously at his chinwhiskers. His companion shifted his position on the bench. Silence fellagain, as much silence as the mosquitoes would permit. 

Suddenly Brown seemed to reach a determination. 

"Atkins, " he said briskly, and with considerable bitterness in his tone, "don't you worry about my people. They don't know where I am, and--well, some of them, at least, don't care. Maybe I'm a rolling stone--at anyrate, I haven't gathered any moss, any financial moss. I'm broke. Ihaven't any friends, any that I wish to remember; I haven't any job. I am what you might call down and out. If I had drowned when I felloverboard last night, it might have been a good thing--or it might not. We won't argue the question, because just now I'm ready to take eitherside. But let's talk about yourself. You're lightkeeper here?"

"I be, yes. "

"And these particular lights seem to be a good way from everywhere andeverybody. "

"Five mile from Eastboro Center, sixteen from Denboro, and two from thenighest life savin' station. Why?"

"Oh, just for instance. No neighbors, you said?"

"Nary one. "

"I noticed a bungalow just across the brook here. It seems to be shutup. Who owns it?"

"Bunga--which? Oh, that cottage over on t'other side the crick? Thatb'longs to a couple of paintin' fellers from up Boston way. Not housepainters, you understand, but fellers that put in their time paintin'pictures of the water and the beach and the like of that. Seems a prettysilly job for grown-up men, but they're real pleasant and folksy. Don'tput on no airs nor nothin. ' They're most gen'rally here every June andJuly and August, but I understand they ain't comin' this year, so thecottage'll be shut up. I'll miss 'em, kind of. One of 'em's name isGraham and t'other's Hamilton. "

"I see. Many visitors to the lights?"

"Not many. Once in a while a picnic comes over in a livery four-seater, but not often. The same gang never comes twice. Road's too bad, and theycomplain like fury about the moskeeters. "

"Do they? How peevish! Atkins, you're not married?"

It was an innocent question, but it had an astonishing effect. Thelightkeeper bounced on the bench as if someone had kicked it violentlyfrom beneath. 

"What?" he quavered shrilly. "Wha--what's that?"

Brown was surprised. "I asked if you were married, that's all, " he said. "I can't see--"

"Stop!" Seth's voice shook, and he bent down to glare through thedarkness at his companion's face. "Stop!" he ordered. "You asked me if Iwas--married?"

"Yes. Why shouldn't I?"

"Why shouldn't you? See here, young feller, you--you--what made you askthat?"

"What made me?"

"Stop sayin' my words after me. Are you a man or a poll-parrot? Can'tyou understand plain United States language? What made you? Or WHO madeyou? Who told you to ask me that question?"

He pounded the bench with his fist. The pair stared at each other for amoment; then Brown leaned back and began to whistle. Seth seized him bythe shoulders. 

"Quit that foolishness, d'you hear?" he snarled. "Quit it, and answerme!"

The answer was prefaced by a pitying shake of the head. 

"It's the mosquitoes, " observed the young man, musingly. "They getthrough and puncture the brain after a time, I presume. I'm notsurprised exactly, but, " with a sigh, "I'm very sorry. "

"What are you talkin' about, " demanded Atkins. "Be you crazy?"

"No-o. I'M not. "

"YOU'RE not! Do you mean that I am?"

"Well, " slowly, "I'm not an expert in such cases, but when a perfectlysimple, commonplace question sets a chap to pounding and screaming andoffering violence, then--well, it's either insanity or an attempt atinsult, one or the other. I've given you the benefit of the doubt. "

He scratched a match on his heel and relit his pipe. The lightkeeperstill stared, suspicious and puzzled. Then he drew a long breath. 

"I--I didn't mean to insult you, " he stammered. 

"Glad to hear it, I'm sure. If I were you, however, I should see adoctor for the other trouble. "

"And I ain't crazy, neither. I beg your pardon for hollerin' andgrabbin' hold of you. "

"Granted. "

"Thank ye. Now, " hesitatingly, "would you mind tellin' me why you askedme if I was married?"

"Not in the least. I asked merely because it occurred to me that youmight be. Of course, I had seen nothing of your wife, but it wasbarely possible that she was away on a visit, or somewhere. There is noregulation forbidding lightkeepers marrying--at least, I never heard ofany--and so I asked; that's all. "

Seth nodded. "I see, " he said, slowly; "yes, yes, I see. So you didn'thave no special reason. "

"I did not. Of course, if I had realized that you were subjectto--er--fits, I should have been more careful. "

"Hum! . . . Well, I--I beg your pardon again. I--I am kind of touchy onsome p'ints. Didn't I tell you no women came here? Married! A wife! Do Ilook like a dum fool?"

"Not now. "

"Well, then! And I've apologized for bein' one a few minutes ago, ain'tI. "

"Yes, you have. No grudge on my part, I assure you. Let's forget it andtalk of something else. "

They did, but the dialogue was rather jerky. Brown was thinking, andAtkins seemed moody and disinclined to talk. After a time he announcedthat it was getting late and he cal'lated he would go up to the lightroom. "You'd better turn in, " he added, rising. 

"Just a minute, " said the young man. "Wait just a minute. Atkins, suppose I asked you another question--would you become violent at once?or merely by degrees?"

Seth frowned. The suspicious look returned to his face. 

"Humph!" he grunted. "Depended on what you asked me, maybe. "

"Yes. Well, this one is harmless--at least, I hope it is. I thought theother was, also, but I . . . There! there! be calm. Sit down again andlisten. This question is nothing like that. It's about that assistant ofyours, the chap who left a day or two before I drifted in. What were hisduties? What did he have to do when he was here?"

"Wa-al, " drawled Seth with sarcasm, resuming his seat on the bench; "hewas SUPPOSED to do consider'ble many things. Stand watch and watchwith me, and scrub brass and clean up around, and sweep and wash dishesand--and--well, make himself gen'rally useful. Them was the duties hewas supposed to have. What he done was diff'rent. Pesky loafer! Why?"

"That's what I'm going to tell you. Have they appointed his successoryet? Have you got any one to take his place?"

"No. Fact is, I'd ought to have telegraphed right off to the Board, butI ain't. I was so glad to see the last of him that I kept puttin' itoff. I'll do it tomorrer. "

"Perhaps you won't need to. "

"Course I'll need to! Why not? Got to have somebody to help. That'srules and regulations; and, besides, I can't keep awake day and night, too. What makes you think I won't need to?"

The young man knocked the ashes from his pipe. Rising, he laid a hand onhis companion's shoulder. 

"Because you've got an assistant right here on the premises, " he said. "Delivered by the Atlantic express right at your door. Far be it fromme to toot my horn, Mr. Atkins, or to proclaim my merits from thehousetops. But, speaking as one discerning person to another, when itcomes to an A1, first chop lightkeeper's assistant, I ask: 'What's thematter with yours truly, John Brown?'"

Seth's reply was not in words. The hand holding his pipe fell limp uponhis lap, and he stared at the speaker. The latter, entirely unabashed, waved an airy gesture, and continued. 

"I repeat, " he said, "'What's the matter with John Brown?' And echoanswers, 'He's all right!' I am a candidate for the position ofassistant keeper at Eastboro Twin-Lights. "

"YOU?"

"Me. "

"But--but--aw, go on! You're foolin'. "

"Not a fool. I mean it. I am here. I'm green, but in the sunshine ofyour experience I agree to ripen rapidly. I can wash dishes--you've seenme. I believe I could scrub brass and sweep. "

"You wantin' to be assistant at a place like this! YOU! an edicated, able young chap, that's been used to valets and servants and--"

"Why do you say that? How do you know I've been used to those things?"

"'Cause, as I hinted to you a spell ago, I ain't altogether a dum fool. I can put two and two together and make four, without having the exampledone for me on a blackboard. You're a rich man's son; you've been usedto sassiety and city ways and good clothes. YOU wantin' to put in yourdays and nights in a forsaken hole like this! Nonsense! Get out!"

But Mr. Brown refused to get out. 

"No nonsense about it, " he declared. "It is the hand of Fate. With thewhole broadside of Cape Cod to land upon, why was I washed ashore justat this particular spot? Answer:--Because at this spot, at this time, Eastboro Twin-Lights needed an assistant keeper. I like the spot. Itis beautiful. 'Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. ' With yourpermission, I'll stay here. The leopard may or may not change hisspots, but I sha'n't. I like this one and here I stay. Yes, I mean it. Istay--as your assistant. Come, what do you say? Is it a go?"

The lightkeeper rose once more. "I'm goin' on watch, " he said withdecision. "You turn in. You'll feel better in the mornin'. "

He started towards the tower. But John Brown sprang from the bench andfollowed him. 

"Not until you've answered my question, " he declared. "AM I to be yourassistant?"

"No, course you ain't. It's dum foolishness. Besides, I ain't got thesay; the government hires its own keepers. "

"But you can square the government. That will be easy. Why, " with amodest gesture, "look what the government is getting. It will jump atthe chance. Atkins, you must say yes. "

"I sha'n't, neither. Let go of my arm. It's blame foolishness, I tellyou. Why, " impatiently, "course it's foolishness! I don't know the firstthing about you. "

"What of it? I don't know anything about you, either. "

Again the lightkeeper seemed unaccountably agitated. He stopped in hisstride and whirled to face his companion. 

"What do you mean by that?" he demanded fiercely. Before the young mancould reply, he turned again, strode to the door of the light, flungit open, and disappeared within. The door closed behind him with athunderous bang. 

John Brown gazed after him in bewilderment. Then he shrugged hisshoulders and returned to the bench. 

The surf at the foot of the bluff grumbled and chuckled wickedly, as ifit knew all of poor humanity's secrets and found a cynic's enjoyment inthe knowledge. 

CHAPTER IV

THE COMING OF JOB

The next morning Seth was gloomy and uncommunicative. At the breakfasttable, when Brown glanced up from his plate, he several times caughtthe lightkeeper looking intently at him with the distrustful, half-suspicious gaze of the night before. Though quite aware of thisscrutiny, he made no comment upon it until the meal was nearly over;then he observed suddenly:

"It's all right; you needn't. "

"Needn't what?" demanded Atkins, in astonishment. 

"Look at me as if you expected me to explode at any minute. I sha'n't. I'm not loaded. "

Seth colored, under his coat of sunburn, and seemed embarrassed. 

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, " he stammered. "Have themoskeeters affected YOUR brains?"

"No. My brains, such as they are, are all right, and I want to keep themso. That's why I request you not to look at me in that way. "

"How was I lookin' at you? I don't know what you mean. "

"Yes, you do. You are wondering how much I know. I don't know anythingand I'm not curious. That's the truth. Now why not let it go at that?"

"See here, young feller, I--"

"No; you see here. I'm not an Old Sleuth; I haven't any ambitions thatway. I don't know anything about you--what you've been, what you'vedone--"

"Done!" Seth leaned across the table so suddenly that he upset hischair. "Done?" he cried; "what do you mean by that? Who said I'd doneanything? It's a lie. "

"What is a lie?"

"Why--why--er--whatever they said!"

"Who said?"

"Why, the ones that--that said what you said they said. "

"I didn't say anyone had said anything. "

"Then what do you mean by--by hintin'? Hey? What do you mean by it?"

He brandished a clenched fist over the breakfast dishes. Brown leanedback in his chair and closed his eyes. 

"Call me when the patient recovers his senses, " he drawled wearily. "This delirium is painful to a sensitive nature. "

Atkins's fist wavered in mid-air, opened, and was drawn across itsowner's forehead. 

"Well, by jiminy!" exclaimed the lightkeeper with emphasis, "thisis--is-- . . . I guess I BE crazy. If I ain't, you are. Would you mindtellin' me what in time you mean by THAT?"

"It is not the mosquitoes, " continued his companion, in apparentsoliloquy; "there are no mosquitoes at present. It must be the otherthing, of course. But so early in the morning, and so violent. Alcoholis--"

"SHUT UP!" It was not a request, but an order. Brown opened his eyes. 

"You were addressing me?" he asked, blandly. "Yes?"

"Addressin' you! For thunder sakes, who else would I be ad-- . . . There! there! Now I cal'late you're hintin' that I'm drunk. I ain't. "

"Indeed?"

"Yes, indeed. And I ain't out of my head--not yet; though keepin'company with a Bedlamite may have some effect, I shouldn't wonder. Mr. John Brown--if that's your name, which I doubt--you listen to me. "

"Very well, Mr. Seth Atkins--if that is your name, which I neither doubtnor believe, not being particularly interested--I'm listening. Proceed. "

"You told me last night that you wanted the job of assistant keeper hereat these lights. Course you didn't mean it. "

"I did. "

"You DID! . . . Well, YOU must be drunk or loony. "

"I'm neither. And I meant it. I want the job. "

Seth looked at him, and he looked at Seth. At length the lightkeeperspoke again. 

"Well, " he said, slowly, "I don't understand it at all, but never mind. Whatever happens, we've got to understand each other. Mind I don't saythe job's yours, even if we do; but we can't even think of it unless weunderstand each other plain. To begin with, I want to tell you that Iain't done nothin' that's crooked, nor wicked, nor nothin' but what Ithink is right and what I'd do over again. Do you believe that?"

"Certainly. As I told you, I'm not interested, but I'll believe it withpleasure if you wish me to. "

"I don't wish nothin'. You've GOT to believe it. And whether you stayhere ten minutes or ten years you've got to mind your own business. Iwon't have any hints or questions about me--from you nor nobody else. 'Mind your own business, ' that's the motto of Eastboro Twin-Lights, while I'm boss of 'em. If you don't like it--well, the village is onlyfive mile off, and I'll p'int out the road to you. "

He delivered this ultimatum with extraordinary energy. Then he reachedfor his overturned chair, set it on its legs, and threw himself into it. "Well, " he demanded, after a moment; "what do you say to that?"

"Hurrah!" replied Mr. Brown cheerfully. 

"Hurrah? For the land sakes! . . . Say, CAN'T you talk sensible, if youtry real hard and set your mind to it? What is there to hurrah about?"

"Everything. The whole situation. Atkins, " Brown leaned forward now andspoke with earnestness, "I like your motto. It suits me. 'Mind your ownbusiness' suits me down to the ground. It proves that you and I weremade to work together in a place just like this. "

"Does, hey? I want to know!"

"You do know. Why, just think: each of us has pleaded 'not guilty. 'We've done nothing--we're entirely innocent--and we want to forget it. I agree not to ask you how old you are, nor why you wear your brand ofwhiskers, nor how you like them, nor--nor anything. I agree not to askquestions at all. "

"Humph! but you asked some last night. "

"Purely by accident. You didn't answer them. You asked me some, also, if you will remember, and I didn't answer them, either. Good! We forgeteverything and agree not to do it again. "

"Ugh! I tell you I ain't done nothin'. "

"I know. Neither have I. Let the dead past be its own undertaker, sofar as we are concerned. I'm honest, Atkins, and tolerably straight. Ibelieve you are; I really do. But we don't care to talk about ourselves, that's all. And, fortunately, kind Providence has brought us together ina place where there's no one else TO talk. I like you, I credit you withgood taste; therefore, you must like me. "

"Hey? Ho, ho!" Seth laughed, in spite of himself. "Young man, " heobserved, "you ain't cultivated your modesty under glass, have you?"

Brown smiled. "Joking aside, " he said, "I don't see why I shouldn't, intime, make an ideal assistant lightkeeper. Give me a trial, at any rate. I need an employer; you need a helper. Here we both are. Come; it is abargain, isn't it? Any brass to be scrubbed--boss?"

Of course, had Eastboro Twin-Lights been an important station, thepossibility of John Brown's remaining there would have been nonexistent. If it had been winter, or even early spring or fall, a regular assistantwould have been appointed at once, and the castaway given his walkingpapers. If Seth Atkins had not been Seth Atkins, particular friend ofthe district superintendent, matters might have been different. But theEastboro lights were unimportant, merely a half-way mark between Orhamon the one hand and the powerful Seaboard Heights beacon on the other. It was the beginning of summer, when wrecks almost never occurred. Andthe superintendent liked Seth, and Seth liked him. So, although Mr. Atkins still scoffed at his guest's becoming a permanent fixture at thelights, and merely consented, after more parley, to see if he couldn'tarrange for him to "hang around and help a spell until somebody else wassent, " the conversation with the superintendent over the long distance'phone resulted more favorably for Brown than that nonchalant younggentleman had a reasonable right to expect. 

"The Lord knows who I can send you now, Atkins!" said thesuperintendent. "I can't think of a man anywhere that can be spared. Ifyou can get on for a day or two longer, I'll try to get a helper down!but where he's coming from I don't see. "

Then Seth sprung the news that he had a "sort of helper" already. "He'sa likely young chap enough, " admitted the lightkeeper, whispering thewords into the transmitter, in order that the "likely young chap" mightnot hear; "but he's purty green yet. He wants the reg'lar job and, giveme time enough, I cal'late I can break him in. Yes, I'm pretty sureI can. And it's the off season, so there really ain't no danger. In amonth he'd be doin' fust-rate. "

"Who is he? Where did he come from?" asked the superintendent. 

"Name's Brown. He come from--from off here a ways, " was the strictlytruthful answer. "He used to be on a steamboat. "

"All right. If you'll take a share of the responsibility, I'll take therest. And, as soon as I can, I'll send you a regular man. "

"I can't pay you no steady wages, " Seth explained to his new helper. "Salaries come from the gov'ment, and, until they say so, I ain't gotno right to do it. And I can't let you monkey with the lights, exceptto clean up around and such. If you want to stay a spell, until anassistant's app'inted, I'll undertake to be responsible for your keep. And if you need some new shoes or stockin's or a cap, or the like ofthat, I'll see you get 'em. Further'n that I can't go yet. It's a prettypoor job for a fellow like you, and if I was you I wouldn't take it. "

"Oh, yes, you would, " replied Brown, with conviction. "If you were I, you would take it with bells on. Others may yearn for the strenuouslife, but not your humble servant. As for me, I stay here and 'clean uparound. '"

And stay he did, performing the cleaning up and other duties withunexpected success and zeal. Atkins, for the first day or two, watchedhim intently, being still a trifle suspicious and fearful of his"substitute assistant. " But as time passed and the latter asked no morequestions, seemed not in the least curious concerning his superior, andremained the same cool, easy-going, cheerful individual whom Seth hadfound asleep on the beach, the lightkeeper's suspicions were ended. Itwas true that Brown was as mysterious and secretive as ever concerninghis own past, but that had been a part of their bargain. Atkins, whoprided himself on being a judge of human nature, decided that his helperwas a young gentleman in trouble, but that the trouble, whateverit might be, involved nothing criminal or dishonest. That he was agentleman, he was sure--his bearing and manner proved that; but he wasa gentleman who did not "put on airs. " Not that there was any reason whyhe should put on airs, but, so far as that was concerned, there was noapparent reason for the monumental conceit and condescension of someof the inflated city boarders in the village. Brown was not like thosepeople at all. 

Seth had taken a fancy to him at their first meeting. Now his likingsteadily increased. Companionship in a lonely spot like EastboroTwin-Lights is a test of a man's temper. Brown stood the test well. Ifhe made mistakes in the work--and he did make some ridiculous ones--hecheerfully undid them when they were pointed out to him. He was, for themost part, good-natured and willing to talk, though there were periodswhen he seemed depressed and wandered off by himself along the beach orsat by the edge of the bluff, staring out to sea. The lightkeeper madeno comment on this trait in his character. It helped to confirm his ownjudgment concerning the young fellow's trouble. People in trouble weresubject to fits of the "blues, " and during these fits they liked to bealone. Seth knew this from his own experience. There were times when he, too, sought solitude. 

He trusted his helper more and more. He did not, of course, permithim to take the night watch in the lights, but he did trust him to theextent of leaving him alone for a whole afternoon while he drove the oldhorse, attached to the antique "open wagon"--both steed and vehicle apart of the government property--over to Eastboro to purchase tobaccoand newspapers at the store. On his return he found everything as itshould be, and this test led him to make others, each of which wassuccessful in proving John Brown faithful over a few things and, therefore, in time, to be intrusted with many and more important ones. 

Brown, on his part, liked Seth. He had professed to like him during theconversation at the breakfast table which resulted in his remaining atthe lights, but then he was not entirely serious. He was, of course, grateful for the kindness shown him by the odd longshoreman and enjoyedthe latter's society and droll remarks as he would have enjoyed anythingout of the ordinary and quaintly amusing. But now he really likedthe man. Seth Atkins was a countryman, and a marked contrast to anyindividual Brown had ever met, but he was far from being a fool. Hepossessed a fund of dry common sense, and his comments on people andhappenings in the world--a knowledge of which he derived from thenewspapers and magazines obtained on his trips to Eastboro--were aconstant delight. And, more than all, he respected his companion'sdesire to remain a mystery. Brown decided that Atkins was, as he hadjokingly called him, a man with a past. What that past might be, he didnot know or try to learn. "Mind your own business, " Seth had declared tobe the motto of Eastboro Twin-Lights, and that motto suited both partiesto the agreement. 

The lightkeeper stood watch in the tower at night. During most of theday he slept; but, after the first week was over, and his trust in hishelper became more firm, he developed the habit of rising at two in theafternoon, eating a breakfast--or dinner, or whatever the meal might becalled--and wandering off along the crooked road leading south and inthe direction of Pounddug Slough. The road, little used and grass grown, twisted and turned amid the dunes until it disappeared in a distantgrove of scrub oaks and pitch pines. Each afternoon--except on Sundaysand on the occasions of his excursions to the village--Atkins would risefrom the table, saunter to the door to look at the weather, and then, without excuse or explanation, start slowly down the road. For the firsthundred yards he sauntered, then the saunter became a brisk walk, andwhen he reached the edge of the grove he was hurrying almost at a dogtrot. Sometimes he carried a burden with him, a brown paper parcelbrought from Eastboro, a hammer, a saw, or a coil of rope. Once hedescended to the boathouse at the foot of the bluff by the inlet andemerged bearing a big bundle of canvas, apparently an old sail; thishe arranged, with some difficulty, on his shoulder and stumbled up theslope, past the corner of the house and away toward the grove. Brownwatched him wonderingly. Where was he going, and why? What was themysterious destination of all these tools and old junk? Where didSeth spend his afternoons and why, when he returned, did his hands andclothes smell of tar? The substitute assistant was puzzled, but he askedno questions. And Seth volunteered no solution of the puzzle. 

Yet the solution came, and in an unexpected way. Seth drove to thevillage one afternoon and returned with literature, smoking materialsand an announcement. The latter he made during supper. 

"I tried to buy that fly paper we wanted today, " he observed, as apreliminary. "Couldn't get none. All out. "

"But will have some in very shortly, I presume, " suggested theassistant, who knew the idiosyncrasies of country stores. 

"Oh, yes, sartin! Expectin' it every minute. That store's got aconsider'ble sight more expectations in it than it has anything else. They're always six months ahead of the season or behind it in thatstore. When it's so cold that the snow birds get chilblains they'll havethe shelves chuck full of fly paper. Now, when it's hotter than a kittleof pepper tea, the bulk of their stock is ice picks and mittens. Bah!However, they're goin' to send the fly paper over when it comes, alongwith the dog. "

"The dog?" repeated Brown in amazement. 

"Yup. That's what I was goin' to tell you--about the dog. I ordered adog today. Didn't pay nothin' for him, you understand. Henry G. , thestorekeeper, gave him to me. The boy'll fetch him down when he fetchesthe fly paper. "

"A dog? We're--you're going to keep a dog--here?"

"Sure thing. Why not? Got room enough to keep a whole zoologicalmenagerie if we wanted to, ain't we? Besides, a dog'll be handy to havearound. Bill Foster, the life saver, told me that somebody busted intothe station henhouse one night a week ago and got away with four oftheir likeliest pullets. He cal'lates 'twas tramps or boys. We don'tkeep hens, but there's some stuff in that boathouse I wouldn't wantstole, and, bein' as there's no lock on the door, a dog would be a sortof protection, as you might say. "

"But thieves would never come way down here. "

"Why not? 'Tain't any further away from the rest of creation than thelife savin' station, is it? Anyhow, Henry G. Give the dog to me free fornothin', and that's a miracle of itself. You'd say so, too, if youknew Henry. I was so surprised that I said I'd take it right off; felt'twould be flyin' in the face of Providence not to. A miracle--jumpin'Judas! I never knew Henry to give anybody anything afore--unless 'twasthe smallpox, and then 'twan't a genuine case, nothin' but varioloid. "

"But what kind of a dog is it?"

"I don't know. Henry used to own the mother of it, and she was onequarter mastiff and the rest assorted varieties. This one he's givin'me ain't a whole dog, you see; just a half-grown pup. The varioloidall over again--hey? Ho, ho! I didn't really take him for sartin, youunderstand; just on trial. If we like him, we'll keep him, that's all. "

The third afternoon following this announcement, Brown was alone inthe kitchen, and busy. Seth had departed on one of his mysteriousexcursions, carrying a coil of rope, a pulley and a gallon can of paint. Before leaving the house he had given his helper some instructionsconcerning supper. 

"Might's well have a lobster tonight, " he said. "Ever cook a lobster, did you?"

No, Mr. Brown had never cooked a lobster. 

"Well, it's simple enough. All you've got to do is bile him. Bile him inhot water till he's done. "

"I see. " The substitute assistant was not enthusiastic. Cooking he didnot love. 

"Humph!" he grunted. "I imagined if he was boiled at all, it was be inhot water, not cold. "

Atkins chuckled. "I mean you want to have the water bilin' hot when youput him in, " he explained. "Wait till she biles up good and then sousehim; see?"

"I guess so. How do you know when he's done?"

"Oh--er--I can't tell you. You'll have to trust to your instinct, Ical'late. When he looks done, he IS done, most gen'rally speakin'. "

"Dear me! how clear you make it. Would you mind hintin' as to how helooks when he's done?"

"Why--why, DONE, of course. "

"Yes, of course. How stupid of me! He is done when he looks done, andwhen he looks done he is done. Any child could follow those directions. HOW is he done--brown?"

"No. Brown! the idea! Red, of course. He's green when you put him inthe kittle, and when you take him out, he's red. That's one way you cantell. "

"Yes, that will help some. All right, I'll boil him till he's red, youneedn't worry about that. "

"Oh, I sha'n't worry. So long. I'll be back about six or so. Put him inwhen the water's good and hot, and you'll come out all right. "

"Thank you. I hope HE will, but I have my doubts. Where is he?"

"Who? the lobster? There's dozens down in the car by the wharf. Lift thecover and fish one out with the dip net. Pick out the biggest one youcan find, 'cause I'm likely to be hungry when I get back, and yourappetite ain't a hummin' bird's. There! I've got to go if I want to getanything done afore-- . . . Humph! never mind. So long. "

He hurried away, as if conscious that he had said more than he intended. At the corner of the house he turned to call:

"I say! Brown! be kind of careful when you dip him out. None of 'em areplugged. "

"What?"

"I say none of them lobsters' claws are plugged. I didn't have time toplug the last lot I got from my pots, so you want to handle 'em carefullike, else they'll nip you. Tote the one you pick out up to the house inthe dip-net; then you'll be all right. "

Evidently considering this warning sufficient to prevent any possibletrouble, he departed. John Brown seated himself in the armchair by thedoor and gazed at the sea. He gazed and thought until he could bear tothink no longer; then he rose and entered the kitchen, where he kindleda fire in the range and filled a kettle with water. Having thus madeready the sacrificial altar, he took the long-handled dip-net from itsnail and descended the bluff to the wharf. 

The lobster car, a good-sized affair of laths with a hinged coverclosing the opening in its upper surface, was floating under the wharf, to which it was attached by a rope. Brown knelt on the string-pieceand peered down at it. It floated deep in the water, the tide ripplingstrongly through it, between the laths. The cover was fastened with awooden button. 

The substitute assistant, after a deal of futile and exasperating pokingwith the handle of the net, managed to turn the button and throw backthe leather-hinged cover. Through the square opening the water beneathlooked darkly green. There was much seaweed in the car, and occasionallythis weed was stirred by living things which moved sluggishly. 

John Brown reversed the net, and, lying flat on the wharf, gingerlythrust the business end of the contrivance through the opening and intothe dark, weed-streaked water. Then he began feeling for his prey. 

He could feel it. Apparently the car was alive with lobsters. As hemoved the net through the water there was always one just before it orbehind it; but at least ten minutes elapsed before he managed to getone in it. At length, when his arms were weary and his patience almostexhausted, the submerged net became heavy, and the handle shook in hisgrasp. He shortened his hold and began to pull in hand over hand. He hada lobster, a big lobster. 

He could see a pair of claws opening and shutting wickedly. He raisedthe creature through the opening, balanced the net on its edge, rose onone knee, tried to stand erect, stumbled, lost his hold on the handleand shot the lobster neatly out of the meshes, over the edge of the car, and into the free waters of the channel. Then he expressed his feelingsaloud and with emphasis. 

Five minutes later he got another, but it was too small to be of use. Intwenty minutes he netted three more, two of which got away. The third, however, he dragged pantingly to the wharf and sat beside it, gloating. It was his for keeps, and it was a big one, the great-grandaddy oflobsters. Its claws clashed and snapped at the twine of the net like apair of giant nut crackers. 

Carrying it as far from his body as its weight at the end of the handlewould permit, he bore it in triumph to the kitchen. To boil a lobsteralive had seemed a mean trick, and cruel, when Seth Atkins first orderedhim to do it. Now he didn't mind; it would serve the thing right forbeing so hard to catch. Entering the kitchen, he balanced the net acrossa chair and stepped to the range to see if the water was boiling. It wasnot, and for a very good reason--the fire had gone out. Again Mr. Brownexpressed his feelings. 

The fire, newly kindled, had burned to the last ash. If he had beenthere to add more coal in season, it would have survived; but he hadbeen otherwise engaged. There was nothing to be done except rake out theashes and begin anew. This he did. When he removed the kettle he decidedat once that it was much too small for the purpose required of it. Toboil a lobster of that size in a kettle of that size would necessitateboiling one end at a time, and that, both for the victim and himself, would be troublesome and agonizing. He hunted about for a larger kettleand, finding none, seized in desperation upon the wash boiler, filledit, and lifted it to the top of the stove above the flickering new fire. 

The fire burned slowly, and he sat down to rest and wait. As he sankinto the chair--not that across which the netted lobster was balanced, but another--he became aware of curious sounds from without. Distantsounds they were, far off and faint, but growing steadily louder; wailsand long-drawn howls, mournful and despairing. 

"A-a-oo-ow! Aa-ow-ooo!"

"What in the world?" muttered Brown, and ran out of the kitchen andaround the corner of the house. 

There was nothing in sight, nothing strange or unusual, that is. Joshua, Seth's old horse, picketted to a post in the back yard and grazing, ortrying to graze, on the stubby beach grass, was the only living exhibit. But the sounds continued and grew louder. 

"Aa-ow-ooo! Ow-oo-ow-ooo!"

Over the rise of a dune, a hundred yards off, where the road to Eastborovillage dipped towards a swampy hollow, appeared a horse's head andthe top of a covered wagon. A moment later the driver became visible, a freckled faced boy grinning like a pumpkin lantern. The horse trottedthrough the sand up to the lights. Joshua whinnied as if he enjoyed theprospect of company. From the back of the wagon, somewhere beneath theshade of the cover, arose a heartrending wail, reeking of sorrow andagony. 

"Aa-ow-OOO! Ooo-aa-OW!"

"For heaven's sake, " exclaimed the lightkeeper's helper, running to meetthe vehicle, "what is the matter?"

The boy grinned more expansively than ever. "Whoa!" he shouted, to thehorse he was driving. The animal stopped in his tracks, evidently gladof the opportunity. Another howl burst from the covered depths of thewagon. 

"I've got him, " said the boy, with a triumphant nod and a jerk of histhumb over his shoulder. "He's in there. "

"He? Who? What?"

"Job. He's in there. Hear him? He's been goin' on like that ever sincehe finished his bone, and that was over two mile back. Say, " admiringly, "he's some singer, ain't he! Hear that, will ye?"

Another wail arose from the wagon. Brown hastened to the rear of thevehicle, on the canvas side of which were painted the words "Henry G. Goodspeed, Groceries, Dry and Fancy Goods and Notions, Eastboro, " andpeered in over the tailboard. The interior of the wagon was well nighfilled by a big box with strips of board nailed across its top. Frombetween these strips a tawny nose was uplifted. As the helper staredwonderingly at the box and the nose, the boy sprang from his seat andjoined him. 

"That's him, " declared the boy. "Hi, there, Job, tune up now! What's thematter with ye?"

His answer was an unearthly howl from the box, accompanied by a mightyscratching. The boy laughed delightedly. 

"Ain't he a wonder?" he demanded. "Ought to be in church choir, hadn'the. "

Brown stepped on the hub of a rear wheel, and, clinging to the post ofthe wagon cover, looked down into the box. The creature inside was aboutthe size of a month old calf. 

"It's a--it's a dog, " he exclaimed. "A dog, isn't it?"

"Sure, it's a dog. Or he'll be a dog when he grows up. Nothin' but a pupnow, he ain't. Where's Seth?"

"Seth? Oh, Mr. Atkins; he's not here. "

"Ain't he? Where's he gone?"

"I don't know. "

"Don't ye? When's he comin' back? HUSH UP!" This last was a command tothe prisoner in the box, who paid absolutely no attention to it. 

"I don't know when he'll be back. Do you want to see him personally?Won't I do? I'm in charge here till he returns. "

"Be ye? Oh, you're the new assistant from Boston. You'll do. All I wantto do is unload him--Job, I mean--and leave a couple bundles of flypaper Seth ordered. Here!" lowering the tailboard and climbing into thewagon, "you catch aholt of t'other end of the box, and I'll shove on thisone. Hush up, Job! Nobody's goin' to eat ye--'less it's the moskeeters. Now, then, mister, here he comes. "

He began pushing the box toward the open end of the wagon. The dog'swhines and screams and scratchings furnished an accompaniment almostdeafening. 

"Wait! Stop! For heaven's sake, wait!" shouted Brown. "What are youputting that brute off here for? I don't want him. "

"Yes, you do. Seth does, anyhow. Henry G. Made him a present of Job lasttime Seth was over to the store. Didn't he tell ye?"

Then the substitute assistant remembered. This was the "half-grown pup"Atkins had said was to be brought over by the grocery boy. This was thecreature they were to accept "on trial. "

"Well, by George!" he exclaimed in disgust. 

"Didn't Seth tell ye?" asked the boy again. 

"Yes. . . . Yes, I believe he did. But--"

"Then stand by while I unload him. Here he comes now. H'ist him downeasy as you can. "

That was not too easy, for the end of the box slid from the tail-boardto the ground with a thump that shook the breath from the prisonerwithin. But the breath came back again and furnished motive power formore and worse howls and whines. Joshua pricked up his ears and trottedto the further end of his halter. 

"There!" said Henry G. 's boy, jumping to the ground beside the box, "that's off my hands, thank the mercy! Here's your fly paper. Five dozensheets. You must have pretty nigh as many flies down here as you havemoskeeters. Well, so long. I got to be goin'. "

"Wait a minute, " pleaded Brown. "What shall I do with this--er--blesseddog? Is he savage? Why did you bring him in a crate--like a piano?"

"'Cause 'twas the easiest way. You couldn't tie him up, not in a cart nobigger'n this. Might's well tie up an elephant. Besides, he won't staytied up nowheres. Busted more clotheslines than I've got fingers andtoes, that pup has. He needs a chain cable to keep him to his moorin's. Don't ye, Job, you old earthquake? Hey?"

He pounded on the box, and the earthquake obliged with a renewed seriesof shocks and shakings. 

The lightkeeper's assistant smiled in spite of himself. 

"Who named him Job?" he asked. 

"Henry G. 's cousin from Boston. He said he seemed to be always sufferin'and fillin' the land with roarin's, like Job in the Bible. So, bein' ashe hadn't no name except cuss words, that one stuck. I cal'late HenryG. 's glad enough to get rid of him. Ho! ho!"

"Did Mr. Atkins see his--this--did he see his present before he acceptedit?"

"No. That's the best part of the joke. Well, " clambering to his seatand picking up the reins, "I've got five mile of sand and moskeeters tonavigate, so I've got to be joggin'. Oh, say! goin' to leave him in thebox there, be ye?"

"I guess so, for the present. "

"Well, I wouldn't leave him too long. He's stronger'n Samson and thePhilippines rolled together, and he's humped up his back so much on theway acrost that he's started most of the nails in them slats over top ofhim. I tell ye what you do: Give him a bone or a chunk of tough meat tochaw on. Then he'll rest easy for a spell. Goodbye. I wish I couldstay and see Seth when he looks at his present, but I can't. Gid-dap, January. "

The grocery wagon rolled out of the yard. The forsaken Job sent aroar of regret after him. Also, he "humped us his back, " and the nailsholding the slats in place started and gave alarmingly. John Brownhastened to the house in quest of a bone. 

CHAPTER V

THE GOING OF JOSHUA

He found one, after a time, the relic of a ham, with a good deal of meaton it. Atkins, economical soul, would have protested in horror againstthe sinful waste, but his helper would cheerfully have sacrificed awhole hog to quiet the wails from the box in the yard. He pushed theham bone between the slats, and Job received it greedily. The howlsand whines ceased and were succeeded by gnawings and crunchings. Brownreturned to the kitchen to inspect his neglected fire. 

This time the fire was not out, but it burned slowly. The water in thewash boiler was only lukewarm. The big lobster in the net balancedon the chair clashed his claws wickedly as the substitute assistantapproached. The door had been left open, and the room hummed with flies. Brown shut the door and, while waiting for the water to heat, separateda dozen sheets of the sticky fly paper and placed them in conspicuousplaces. He wondered as he did so what some of his former acquaintanceswould say if they could see him. He--HE--a cook, and a roustabout, adishwasher and a scrubber of brass at Eastboro Twin-Lights! How longmust he stay there? For months at least. He should be thankful that hewas there; thankful that there was such a place, where no one came andwhere he could remain until he was forgotten. He was thankful, of coursehe was. But what a life to live!

He wondered what Atkins thought of him; how much the lightkeeper guessedconcerning his identity and his story. He could not guess within milesof the truth, but he must indulge in some curious speculations. Then hefell to wondering about Seth himself. What was it that the light-keeperwas hiding from the world? Odd that two people, each possessing asecret, should come together at that lonely spot. Where was it that Sethwent almost every afternoon? Had these daily absences any connectionwith the great mystery?

He distributed the sheets of fly paper about the room, in places wherehe judged them likely to do the most good, and had the satisfaction ofseeing a number of the tormenting insects caught immediately. Thenhe tested the water in the boiler. It was warmer, even hot, but notboiling. 

He had almost forgotten the dog, but now was reminded by the animalitself, who, having apparently swallowed the bone whole, began once moreto howl lugubriously. Brown decided to let him howl for the present, and, going into the living-room, picked up an old magazine and beganlistlessly to read. 

The howls from the yard continued, swelled to a crescendo of shrieksand then suddenly ceased. A moment later there was a thump and a mightyscratching at the kitchen door. The substitute assistant dropped themagazine and sprang from his chair. 

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed; "I believe--"

He did not finish the sentence. There was no need. If he had any doubtsas to the cause of the racket at the door they were dispelled by a howllike a fog whistle. "Job" had escaped from durance vile and was seekingcompanionship. 

Brown muttered an exclamation of impatience and, opening the door a verylittle way, peeped through the crack. The pup--he looked like a scrawnyyoung lion--hailed his appearance with a series of wild yelps. Hismouth opened like a Mammoth Cave in miniature, and a foot of red tongueflapped like a danger signal. 

"Get out, you brute!" ordered Brown. 

Job did not get out. Instead he yelped again and capered with the graceof a cow. His feet and legs seemed to have grown out of proportion tothe rest of him; they were enormous. Down the length of his yellow backwere three raw furrows which the nails of the box cover had scraped ashe climbed from under them. 

"Nice dog!" coaxed the lightkeeper's helper. "Nice doggie! Good oldboy!"

The good old boy pranced joyfully and made a charge at the door. Brownslammed it shut just in time. 

"Clear out!" he yelled, from behind it. "Go away! Go and lie down!"

The answer was a mighty howl of disappointment and an assault on thedoor which threatened to shatter the panels. Job's paws were armed withclaws proportionate to their size. 

This would never do. The paint on that door had been furnished by thegovernment, and Atkins was very careful of it. Brown, within, poundeda protest and again commanded the dog to go and lie down. Job, without, thumped and scratched and howled louder than ever. He had decidedly thebest of the duet, and the door was suffering every second. Brown pickedup the fire shovel and threw the door wide open. 

"Get out!" he roared. "Get out or I'll kill you!"

He brandished the shovel, expecting an assault. But none came. It wasevident that Job knew a shovel when he saw it, had encountered othershovels in the course of his brief young life. His ears and taildrooped, and he backed away. 

"Clear out!" repeated Brown, advancing threateningly. With each step ofthe advance, Job retreated a corresponding distance. When the assistantstopped, he stopped. Brown lowered the shovel and looked at him. The doggrovelled in the sand and whined dolefully. 

"Humph!" grunted the young man; "I guess you're not as dangerous as youlook. Stay where you are and keep still. "

He turned to enter the kitchen, turning again just in time to find thepup at his heels. He lifted the shovel, and Job jumped frantically outof reach, sat down in a clump of beach grass, lifted his nose to the skyand expressed his feelings in a howl of utter misery. 

"Good--heavens!" observed John Brown fervently, and, shifting the shovelto his left hand, rubbed his forehead with his right. Job howled oncemore and gazed at him with sorrowful appeal. The situation was soridiculous that the young man began to laugh. This merriment appeared toencourage the pup, who stopped howling and began to caper, throwing theloose sand from beneath his paws in showers. 

"What's the matter, old boy?" inquired Brown. "Lonesome, are you?"

Job was making himself the center of a small-sized sand spout. 

"Humph! Well . . . Well, all right. I'm not going to hurt you. Staywhere you are, and I won't shut the door. "

But this compromise was not satisfactory, because the moment the youngman started to cross the threshold the dog started to follow. When Brownhalted, he followed suit--and howled. Then the substitute assistantsurrendered unconditionally. 

"All right, " he said. "Come in, then, if you want to. Come in! but forgoodness sake keep still when you are in. "

He strode into the kitchen, leaving the door open. Job slunk after him, and crouched with his muzzle across the sill, evidently not yet certainthat his victory was complete. He did not howl, however, and his lateadversary was thankful for the omission. 

Brown bethought himself of the water in the wash boiler and, removingthe cover, tested it with his finger. It was steadily heating, but notyet at the boiling point. He pushed the boiler aside, lifted a lid ofthe range and inspected the fire. From behind him came a yelp, another, a thump, and then a series of thumps and yelps. He turned and saw Job inthe center of the floor apparently having a fit. 

The moment his back was turned, the pup had sneaked into the kitchen. It was not a large kitchen, and Job was distinctly a large dog. Also, he was suspicious of further assaults with the fire shovel and hadendeavored to find a hiding place under the table. In crawling beneaththis article of furniture he had knocked off a sheet of the fly paper. This had fallen "butter side down" upon his back, and stuck fast. Hereached aft to pull it loose with his teeth and had encountered asecond sheet laid on a chair. This had stuck to his neck. Job was anapprehensive animal by nature and as the result of experience, and hisnerves were easily unstrung. He forgot the shovel, forgot the human whomhe had been fearfully trying to propitiate, forgot everything except thedreadful objects which clung to him and pulled his hair. He rolled frombeneath the table, a shrieking, kicking, snapping cyclone. And thatkitchen was no place for a cyclone. 

He rolled and whirled for an instant, then scrambled to his feet andbegan running in widening circles. Brown tried to seize him as hepassed, but he might as well have seized a railroad train. Anotherchair, also loaded with fly paper, upset, and Job added a third sheet tohis collection. This one plastered itself across his nose and eyes. Heceased running forward and began to leap high in the air and backwards. The net containing the big lobster fell to the floor. Then John Brownfled to the open air, leaned against the side of the building andscreamed with laughter. 

Inside the kitchen the uproar was terrific. Howls, shrill yelps, thumpsand crashes. Then came a crash louder than any preceding it, a splash ofwater across the sill, and from the doorway leaped, or flew, an objectsteaming and dripping, fluttering with fly paper, and with a giantlobster clamped firmly to its tail. The lobster was knocked off againstthe door post, but the rest of the exhibit kept on around the corner ofthe house, shrieking as it flew. Brown collapsed in the sand and laugheduntil his sides ached and he was too weak to laugh longer. 

At last he got up and staggered after it. He was still laughing whenhe reached the back yard, but there he stopped laughing and uttered anexclamation of impatience and some alarm. 

Of Job there was no sign, though from somewhere amid the dunes soundedyelps, screams and the breaking of twigs as the persecuted one fledblindly through the bayberry and beachplum bushes. But Brown was notanxious about the dog. What caused him to shout and then break into arun was the sight of Joshua, the old horse, galloping at top speed alongthe road to the south. Even his sedate and ancient calm had not beenproof against the apparition which burst from the kitchen. In his frighthe had broken his halter rope and managed--a miracle, considering hisage--to leap the pasture fence and run. 

That horse was the apple of Seth Atkins's eye. The lightkeeper believedhim to be a wonder of strength and endurance, and never left the lightswithout cautioning his helper to keep an eye on Joshua, "'cause ifanything happened to him I'd have to hunt a mighty long spell to findanother that could tech him. " Brown accepted this trust with composure, feeling morally certain that the only thing likely to happen toJoshua was death from overeating or old age. And now something hadhappened--Joshua was running away. 

There was but one course to take; Brown must leave the government'sproperty in its own care and capture that horse. He had laughed untilrunning seemed an impossibility, but run he must, and did, after afashion. But Joshua was running, too, and he was frightened. He gallopedlike a colt, and the assistant lightkeeper gained upon him very slowly. 

The road was crooked and hilly, and the sand in its ruts was deep. Brownwould not have gained at all, but for the fact that the horse, from longhabit, kept to the roadway and never tried short cuts. His pursuer did, and, therefore, just as Joshua entered the grove on the bluff abovePounddug Slough, Brown caught up with him and made a grab at the end ofthe trailing halter. He missed it, and the horse took a fresh start. 

The road through the grove was overgrown with young trees and bushes, and amid these the animal had a distinct advantage. Not until the outeredge of the grove was reached did the panting assistant get anotheropportunity at the rope. This time he seized it and held on. 

"Whoa!" he shouted. "Whoa!"

But Joshua did not "whoa" at once. He kept on along the edge of thehigh, sandy slope. Brown, from the tail of his eye, caught a glimpseof the winding channel of the Slough beneath him, of a small schoonerheeled over on the mud flat at its margin, and of the figure of a man atwork beside it. 

"Whoa!" he ordered once more. "Whoa, Josh! stand still!"

Perhaps the horse would have stood still--he seemed about to do so--butfrom the distance, somewhere on the road he had just traversed, camea howl, long-drawn and terrifyingly familiar. Joshua heard it, jumpedsidewise, jerked at the halter and, as if playing "snap the whip, "sent his would-be captor heels over head over the edge of the bank androlling down the sandy slope. The halter flew from Brown's hands, herolled and bumped and clutched at clumps of grass and bushes. Then hestruck the beach and stopped, spread-eagled on the wet sand. 

A voice said: "Well--by--TIME!"

Brown looked up. Seth Atkins, a paint pail in one hand and a drippingbrush in the other, was standing beside him, blank astonishment writtenon his features. 

"Well--by time!" said Seth again, and with even stronger emphasis. 

The substitute assistant raised himself to his knees, rubbed his backwith one hand, and then, turning, sat in the sand and returned hissuperior's astonished gaze with one of equal bewilderment. 

"Hello!" he gasped. "Well, by George! it's you, isn't it! What are youdoing here?"

The lightkeeper put down the pail of paint. 

"What am I doin'?" he repeated. "What am I doin'--? Say!" Hisastonishment changed to suspicion and wrath. "Never you mind what I'mdoin', " he went on. "That's my affairs. What are YOU doin' here? That'swhat I want to know. "

Brown rubbed the sand out of his hair. 

"I don't know exactly what I am doing--yet, " he panted. 

"You don't, hey? Well, you'd better find out. Maybe I can help you toremember. Sneakin' after me, wa'n't you? Spyin', to find out what I wasup to, hey?"

He shook the wet paint brush angrily at his helper. Brown looked at himfor an instant; then he rose to his feet. 

"Spyin' on me, was you?" repeated Seth. 

"Didn't I tell you that mindin' your own business was part of our dickerif you was goin' to stay at Eastboro lighthouse? Didn't I tell youthat?"

The young man answered with a contemptuous shrug. Turning on his heel, he started to walk away. Atkins sprang after him. 

"Answer me, " he ordered. "Didn't I say you'd got to mind your ownbusiness?"

"You did, " coldly. 

"You bet I did! And was you mindin' it?"

"No. I was minding yours--like a fool. Now you may mind it yourself. "

"Hold on there! Where you goin'?"

"Back to the lights. And you may go to the devil, or anywhere else thatsuits your convenience, and take your confounded menagerie with you. "

"My menag--What on earth? Say, hold on! Mercy on us, what's that?"

From the top of the bluff came a crashing and a series of yelps. Throughthe thicket of beachplum bushes was thrust a yellow head, fringed withtorn fragments of fly paper. 

"What's that?" demanded the astonished lightkeeper. 

Brown looked at the whining apparition in the bushes and smiledmaliciously. 

"That, " he observed, "is Job. "

"JOB?"

"Yes. " From somewhere in the grove came a thrashing of branches and afrightened neigh. "And that, " he continued, "is Joshua, I presume. Ifthere are more Old Testament patriarchs in the vicinity, I don't knowwhere they are, and I don't care. You may hunt for them yourself. I'mgoing to follow your advice and mind my own business. Good by. "

He strode off up the beach. Job, at the top of the bank, started tofollow, but a well-aimed pebble caused him to dodge back. 

"Hold on!" roared the lightkeeper. "Maybe I made a mistake. Perhaps youwa'n't spyin' on me. Don't go off mad. I . . . Wait!"

But John Brown did not wait. He strode rapidly away up the beach. Sethstared after him. From the grove, where his halter had caught firmly inthe fork of a young pine, Joshua thrashed and neighed. 

"Aa-oo-ow!" howled Job, from the bushes. 

An hour later Atkins, leading the weary and homesick Joshua by thebridle, trudged in at the lighthouse yard. Job, still ornamented withremnants of the fly paper, slunk at his heels. Seth stabled the horseand, after some manoeuvering, managed to decoy the dog down the slope tothe boathouse, where he closed the door upon him and his whines. Then heclimbed back to the kitchen. 

The table was set for one, and in the wash boiler on the range the giantlobster was cooking. Of the substitute assistant keeper there was nosign, but, after searching, Seth found him in his room. 

"Well?" observed Atkins, gruffly, "we might 's well have supper, hadn'twe?"

Brown did not seem interested. "Your supper is ready, I think, " heanswered. "I tried not to forget anything. "

"I guess 'tis; seems to be. Come on, and we'll eat. "

"I have eaten, thank you. "

"You have? Alone?"

"Yes. That, too, " with emphasis, "is a part of my business. "

The lightkeeper stared, grunted, and then went out of the room. He ate alonely meal, not of the lobster--he kept that for another occasion--butone made up of cold scraps from the pantry. He wandered uneasily aboutthe premises, quieted Job's wails for the time by a gift of eatable oddsand ends tossed into the boathouse, smoked, tried to read, and, when itgrew dusk, lit the lamps in the towers. At last he walked to the closeddoor of his helper's room and rapped. 

"Well?" was the ungracious response. 

"It's me, Atkins, " he announced, hesitatingly. "I'd like to speak toyou, if you don't mind. "

"On business?"

"Well, no--not exactly. Say, Brown, I guess likely I'd ought to beg yourpardon again. I cal'late I've made another mistake. I jedge you wa'n'tspyin' on me when you dove down that bankin'. "

"Your judgment is good this time. I was not. "

"No, I'm sartin you wa'n't. I apologize and take it all back. Now can Icome in?"

The door was thrown open. Seth entered, looking sheepish, and sat downin the little cane-seated rocker. 

"Say, " he began, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "would youmind--now that I've begged your pardon and all--tellin' me what didhappen while I was away. I imagine, judgin' by the looks of things inthe kitchen, that there was--er--well, consider'ble doin', as the boyssay. "

He grinned. Brown tried to be serious, but was obliged to smile inreturn. 

"I'll tell you, " he said. "Of course you know where that--er--remarkabledog came from?"

"I can guess, " drily. "Henry G. 's present, ain't he? Humph! Well, I'dought to have known that anything Henry would GIVE away was likely tobe remarkable in all sorts of ways. All right! that's one Henry's got onme. Tomorrow afternoon me and Job take a trip back to Eastboro, and oneof us stays there. It may be me, but I have my doubts. I agreed to takea DOG on trial, not a yeller-jaundiced cow with a church organ inside ofit. Hear the critter whoopin' down there in the boathouse! And he's eateverything that's chewable on the reservation already. He's a famine onlegs, that pup. But never mind him. He's been tried--and found guilty. Tell me what happened. "

Brown began the tale of the afternoon's performances, beginning with hisexperience as a lobster catcher. Seth smiled, then chuckled, and finallyburst into roars of laughter, in which the narrator joined. 

"Jiminy crimps!" exclaimed Seth, when the story was finished. "Oh, byjiminy crimps! that beats the Dutch, and everybody's been told what theDutch beat. Ha, ha! ho, ho! Brown, I apologize all over again. I don'twonder you was put out when I accused you of spyin'. Wonder you hadn'triz up off that sand and butchered me where I stood. Cal'late that'swhat I'd have done in your place. Well, I hope there's no hard feelin'snow. "

"No. Your apology, is accepted. "

"That's good. Er--er--say, you--you must have been sort of surprised tosee me paintin' the Daisy M. "

"The which?"

"The Daisy M. That's the name of that old schooner I was to work on. "

"Indeed. . . . How is the weather tonight, clear?"

"Yes, it's fair now, but looks sort of thick to the east'ard. I sayyou must have been surprised to see me paintin' the Daisy M. I've beentinkerin' on that old boat, off and on, ever since last fall. Bought herfor eight dollars of the feller that owned her, and she was a hulk forsartin then. I've caulked her up and rigged her, after a fashion. Nowshe might float, if she had a chance. Every afternoon, pretty nigh, I'vebeen at her. Don't know exactly why I do it, neither. And yet I do, too. Prob'ly you've wondered where I was takin' all that old canvas andstuff. I--"

"Excuse me, Atkins. I mind my own business, you know. I ask noquestions, and you are under no obligation to tell me anything. "

"I know, I know. " The lightkeeper nodded solemnly. He clasped his kneewith his hands and rocked back and forth in his chair. "I know, " he wenton, an absent, wistful look in his eye; "but you must have wondered, just the same. I bought that craft because--well, because she remindedme of old times, I cal'late. I used to command a schooner like her once;bigger and lots more able, of course, but a fishin' schooner, sameas she used to be. And I was a good skipper, if I do say it. My crewsjumped when I said the word, now I tell you. That's where I belong--onthe deck of a vessel. I'm a man there--a man. "

He paused. Brown made no comment. Seth continued to rock and to talk; heseemed to be thinking aloud. 

"Yes, sir, " he declared, with a sigh; "when I was afloat I was a man, and folks respected me. I just do love salt water and sailin' craft. That's why I bought the Daisy M. I've been riggin' her and caulkin' herjust for the fun of doin' it. She'll never float again. It would takea tide like a flood to get her off them flats. But when I'm aboard orputterin' around her, I'm happy--happier, I mean. It makes me forgetI'm a good-for-nothin' derelict, stranded in an old woman's job oflightkeepin'. Ah, hum-a-day, young feller, you don't know what it isto have been somebody, and then, because you was a fool and did a foolthing, to be nothin'--nothin'! You don't know what that is. "

John Brown caught his breath. His fist descended upon the window ledgebeside him. 

"Don't I!" he groaned. "By George, don't I! Do you suppose--"

He stopped short. Atkins started and came out of his dream. 

"Why--why, yes, " he said, hastily; "I s'pose likely you do. . . . Well, good night. I've got to go on watch. See you in the mornin'. "

CHAPTER VI

THE PICNIC

Seth was true to his promise concerning Job. The next afternoon thatremarkable canine was decoyed, by the usual bone, into the box in whichhe had arrived. Being in, the cover was securely renailed above him. Brown and the light-keeper lifted the box into the back part of the"open wagon, " and Atkins drove triumphantly away, the pup's agonizedprotests against the journey serving as spurs to urge Joshua fasteralong the road to the village. When, about six o'clock, Seth reenteredthe yard, he was grinning broadly. 

"Well, " inquired Brown, "did he take him back willingly?"

"Who? Henry G. ? I don't know about the willin' part, but he'll take himback. I attended to that. "

"What did he say? Did he think you ungrateful for refusing to accept hispresent?"

Atkins laughed aloud. "He didn't say nothin', " he declared. "He didn'tknow it when I left Eastboro. I wa'n't such a fool as to cart thatcritter to the store, where all the gang 'round the store could hollerand make fun. Not much! I drove way round the other way, up the backroad, and unloaded him at Henry's house. I cal'lated to leave him withAunt Olive--that's Henry's sister, keepin' house for him--but she'd goneout to sewin' circle, and there wa'n't nobody to home. The side door wasunlocked, so I lugged that box into the settin' room and left it there. Pretty nigh broke my back; and that everlastin' Job hollered so Ithought the whole town would hear him and come runnin' to stop themurderin' that they'd cal'late was bein' done. But there ain't no nighneighbors, and those that are nighest ain't on speakin' terms withHenry; ruther have him murdered than not, I shouldn't wonder. So I leftJob in his box in the settin' room and cleared out. "

The substitute assistant smiled delightedly. 

"Good enough!" he exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise for friend Henryor his housekeeper. "

"Ho, ho! ain't it! I rather guess 'twill be Henry himself that'ssurprised fust. Aunt Olive never leaves sewin' circle till the last bitof supper's eat up--she's got some of her brother's stinginess in hermake-up--so I cal'late Henry'll get home afore she does. I shouldn'twonder, " with an exuberant chuckle, "if that settin' room' was somestirred up when he sees it. The pup had loosened the box cover afore Ileft. Ho, ho!"

"But won't he send the dog back here again?"

"No, he won't. I left a note for him on the table. There wasconsider'ble ginger in every line of it. No, Job won't be sent here, no matter what becomes of him. And if anything SHOULD be broke in thatsettin' room--well, there was SOME damage done to our kitchen. No, Iguess Henry G. And me are square. He won't make any fuss; he wants tokeep our trade, you see. "

It was a true prophecy. The storekeeper made no trouble, and Jobremained at Eastboro until a foray on a neighbor's chickens resultedin his removal from this vale of tears. Neither the lightkeeper norhis helper ever saw him again, and when Seth next visited the storeand solicitously inquired concerning the pup's health, Henry G. Merelylooked foolish and changed the subject. 

But the dog's short sojourn at the Twin-Lights had served to solve onemystery, that of Atkins's daily excursions to Pounddug Slough. Hewent there to work on the old schooner, the Daisy M. Seth made no moredisclosures concerning his past life--that remained a secret--but he didsuggest his helper's going to inspect the schooner. "Just walk acrossand look her over, " he said. "I'd like to know what you think of her. See if I ain't makin' a pretty good job out of nothin'. FOR nothin', ofcourse, " he added, gloomily; "but it keeps me from thinkin' too much. Goand see her, that's a good feller. "

So the young man did go. He climbed aboard the stranded craft--a forlornpicture she made, lying on her side in the mud--and was surprised tofind how much had been manufactured "out of nothing. " Her seams, thosewhich the sun had opened, were caulked neatly; her deck was clean andwhite; she was partially rigged, with new and old canvas and ropes; andto his landsman's eyes she looked almost fit for sea. But when he saidas much to Seth, the latter laughed scornfully. 

"Fit for nothin', " scoffed the lightkeeper. "I could make her fit, maybe, if I wanted to spend money enough, but I don't. I can't get ather starboard side, that's down in the mud, and I cal'late she'd leaklike a skimmer. She's only got a fores'l and a jib, and the jib's onlya little one that used to belong to a thirty-foot sloop. Her anchor'sgone, and I wouldn't trust her main topmast to carry anything bigger'n ahandkerchief, nor that in a breeze no more powerful than a canary bird'sbreath. And, as I told you, it would take a tide like a flood to floather. No, she's no good, and never will be; but, " with a sigh, "I get alittle fun fussin' over her. "

"Er--by the way, " he added, a little later, "of course you won't mentionto nobody what I told you about--about my bein' a fishin' skipperonce. Not that anybody ever comes here for you to mention it to, but Iwouldn't want . . . You see, nobody in Eastboro or anywheres on the Capeknows where I come from, and so . . . Oh, all right, all right. I knowyou ain't the kind to talk. Mind our own business, that's the motto youand me cruise under, hey?"

Yet, although the conversation in the substitute assistant's room wasnot again referred to by either, it had the effect of making the oddlyassorted pair a bit closer in their companionship. The mutual trustwas strengthened by the lightkeeper's half confidence and Brown'ssympathetic reception of it. Each was lonely, each had moments whenhe felt he must express his hidden feelings to some one, and, thoughneither recognized the fact, it was certain that the time was comingwhen all mysteries would be mysteries no longer. And one day occurred aseries of ridiculous happenings which, bidding fair at first to end ina quarrel the relationship between the two, instead revealed in both akindred trait that removed the last barrier. 

At a little before ten on this particular morning, Brown, busy inthe kitchen, heard vigorous language outside. It was Atkins who wasspeaking, and the assistant wondered who on earth he could be talkingto. A glance around the doorpost showed that he was, apparently, talkingto himself--at least, there was no other human being to be seen. He heldin his hand a battered pair of marine glasses and occasionally he peeredthrough them. Each time he did so his soliloquy became more animated andprofane. 

"What's the matter?" demanded Brown, emerging from the house. 

"Matter?" repeated Seth. "Matter enough! Here! take a squint throughthem glasses and tell me who's in that buggy comin' yonder?"

The buggy, a black dot far down the sandy road leading from the village, was rocking and dipping over the dunes. The assistant took the glasses, adjusted them, and looked as directed. 

"Why!" he said slowly, "there are three people in that buggy. Aman--and--"

"And two women; that's what I thought. Dum idiots comin' over to picnicand spend the day, sure's taxes. And they'll want to be showed round thelights and everywheres, and they'll ask more'n forty million questions. Consarn the luck!"

Brown looked troubled. He had no desire to meet strangers. 

"How do you know they're coming here?" he asked. The answer wasconclusive. 

"Because, " snarled Seth, "as I should think you'd know by this time, there ain't no other place round here they COULD come to. "

A moment later, he added, "Well, you'll have to show 'em round. "

"I will?"

"Sartin. That's part of the assistant keeper's job. "

He chuckled as he said it. That chuckle grated on the young man'snerves. 

"I'm not the assistant, " he declared cheerfully. 

"You ain't? What are you then?"

"Oh, just a helper. I don't get any wages. You've told me yourself, overand over, that I have no regular standing here. And, according tothe government rules, those you've got posted in the kitchen, thelightkeeper is obliged to show visitors about. I wouldn't break therules for the world. Good morning. Think I'll go down to the beach. "

He stalked away whistling. Atkins, his face flaming, roared after him aprofane opinion concerning his actions. Then he went into the kitchen, slamming the door with a bang. 

Some twenty minutes later the helper heard his name shouted from the topof the bluff. 

"Mr. Brown! I say! Ahoy there, Mr. Brown! Come up here a minute, won'tye?"

Brown clambered up the path. A little man, with grey throat whiskers, and wearing an antiquated straw hat, the edge of the brim trimmed withblack braid, was standing waiting for him. 

"Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brown, " stammered the little man, "but you beMr. Brown, ain't you?"

"I am. Yes. "

"Well, I cal'lated you was. My name's Stover, Abijah Stover. I live overto Trumet. Me and my wife drove over for a sort of picnic like. We'vegot her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along. Sophi's a widow from Boston, and she ain't never seen a lighthouse afore. I know Seth Atkinsslightly, and I was cal'latin' he'd show us around, but bein' as he's sosick--"

"Sick? Is Mr. Atkins sick?"

"Why, yes. Didn't you know it? He's in the bedroom there groanin'somethin' terrible. He told me not to say nothin' to the women folks, but to hail you, and you'd look out for us. Didn't you know he was laidup? Why, he--"

Brown did not wait to hear more. He strode to the house, with Mr. Stoverat his heels. On his way he caught a glimpse of the buggy, the horsedozing between the shafts. On the seat of the buggy were two women, oneplump and round-faced, the other thin and gaunt. 

Mr. Stover panted behind him. 

"Say, Mr. Brown, " he whispered, as they entered the kitchen; "don't tellmy wife nor Sophi about Seth's bein' sick. Better not say a word to themabout it. "

The tone in which this was spoken made the substitute assistant curious. 

"Why not?" he asked. 

"'Cause--well, 'cause Hannah's hobby is sick folks, as you might say. Ifthere's a cat in the neighborhood that's ailin' she's always dosin' ofit up and fixin' medicine for it, and the like of that. And Sophi's oneof them 'New Thoughters' and don't believe anybody's got any right to besick. The two of 'em ain't done nothin' but argue and row over diseasesand imagination and medicines ever since Sophi got here. If they knewSeth was laid up, I honestly believe they'd drop picnic and everythin'and start fightin' over whether he was really sick or just thought hewas. And I sort of figgered on havin' a quiet day off. "

Brown found the lightkeeper stretched on the bed in his room. He wasdressed, with the exception of coat and boots, and when the young manentered he groaned feebly. 

"What's the matter?" demanded the alarmed helper. 

"Oh, my!" groaned Seth. "Oh, my!"

"Are you in pain? What is it? Shall I 'phone for the doctor?"

"No, no. No use gettin' the doctor. I'll be all right by and by. It'sone of my attacks. I have 'em every once in a while. Just let me alone, and let me lay here without bein' disturbed; then I'll get better, Iguess. "

"But it's so sudden!"

"I know. They always come on that way. Now run along, like a goodfeller, and leave me to my suff'rin's. O-oh, dear!"

Much troubled, Brown turned to the door. As he was going out he happenedto look back. The dresser stood against the wall beyond the bed, andin its mirror he caught a glimpse of the face of the sick man. On thatface, which should have been distorted with agony, was a broad grin. 

Brown found the little Stover man waiting for him in the kitchen. 

"Be you ready?" he asked. 

"Ready?" repeated Brown, absently. "Ready for what?"

"Why, to show us round the lights. Sophi, she ain't never seen oneafore. Atkins said that, bein' as he wasn't able to leave his bed, you'dshow us around. "

"He did, hey?"

"Yes. He said you'd be glad to. "

"Hum!" Mr. Brown's tone was that of one upon whom, out of darkness, alight has suddenly burst. "I see, " he mused, thoughtfully. "Yes, yes. Isee. "

For a minute he stood still, evidently pondering. Then, with a twinklein his eye, he strode out of the house and walked briskly across to thebuggy. 

"Good morning, ladies, " he said, removing the new cap which Seth hadrecently purchased for him in Eastboro. "Mr. Stover tells me you wish tobe shown the lights. "

The plump woman answered. "Yes, " she said, briskly, "we do. Are you anew keeper? Where's Mr. Atkins?"

"Mr. Atkins, I regret to say, " began Brown, "is ill. He--"

Stover, standing at his elbow, interrupted nervously. 

"Mr. Brown here'll show us around, " he said quickly. "Seth said hewould. "

"I shall be happy, " concurred that young gentleman. "You must excuse meif I seem rather worried. Mr. Atkins, my chief--I believe you know him, Mrs. Stover--has been taken suddenly ill, and is, apparently, sufferingmuch pain. The attack was very sudden, and I--"

"Sick?" The plump woman seemed actually to prick up her ears, like asleepy cat at the sound of the dinner bell. "Is Seth sick? And you allalone with him here? Can't I do anything to help?"

"All he wants is to be left alone, " put in her husband anxiously. "Hesaid so himself. "

"Do you know what's the matter? Have you got any medicine for him?" Mrs. Stover was already climbing out of the buggy. 

"No, " replied Brown. "I haven't. That is, I haven't given him any yet. "

The slim woman, Mrs. Hains of Boston, now broke into the conversation. 

"Good thing!" she snapped. "Most medicine's nothing but opium andalcohol. Fill the poor creature full of drugs and--"

"I s'pose you'd set and preach New Thought at him!" snapped Mrs. Stover. "As if a body could be cured by hot air! I believe I'll go right in andsee him. Don't you s'pose I could help, Mr. Brown?"

Mr. Brown seemed pleased, but reluctant. "It's awfully good of you, " hesaid. "I couldn't think of troubling you when you've come so far on apleasure excursion. But I am at my wit s end. "

"Don't say another word!" Mrs. Stover's bulky figure was already on theway to the door of the house. "I'm only too glad to do what I can. And, if I do say it, that shouldn't, I'm always real handy in a sick room. 'Bijah, be quiet; I don't care if we ARE on a picnic; no human bein'shall suffer while I set around and do nothin'. "

Mrs. Hains was at her cousin's heels. 

"You'll worry him to death, " she declared. "You'll tell him how sickhe is, and that he's goin' to die, and such stuff. What he needs ischeerful conversation and mental uplift. It's too bad! Well, you sha'n'thave your own way with him, anyhow. Mr. Brown, where is he?"

"You two goin' to march right into his BEDROOM?" screamed the irateAbijah. The women answered not. They were already in the kitchen. Brownhastened after them. 

"It's all right, ladies, " he said. "Right this way, please. "

He led the way to the chamber of the sick man. Mr. Atkins turned on hisbed of pain, caught a glimpse of the visitors, and sat up. 

"What in time?" he roared. 

"Seth, " said Brown, benignly, "this is Mrs. Stover of Eastboro. I thinkyou know her. And Mrs. Hains of Boston. These ladies have heard of yoursickness, and, having had experience in such cases, have kindly offeredto stay with you and help in any way they can. Mrs. Stover, I will leavehim in your hands. Please call me if I can be of any assistance. "

Without waiting for further comment from the patient, whose face was apicture, he hastened to the kitchen, choking as he went. Mr. Stover methim at the outer door. 

"Now you've done it!" wailed the little man. "NOW you've done it! Didn'tI tell you? Oh, this'll be a hell of a picnic!"

He stalked away, righteous indignation overcoming him. Brown sat down ina rocking chair and shook with emotion. From the direction of the sickroom came the sounds of three voices, each trying to outscream theother. The substitute assistant listened to this for a while, and, as hedid so, a new thought struck him. He remembered a story he had read in amagazine years before. He crossed to the pantry, found an empty bottle, rinsed it at the sink, stepped again to the pantry, and, entering it, closed the door behind him. There he busied himself with the molassesjug, the soft-soap bucket, the oil can, the pepper shaker, and a fewother utensils and their contents. Footsteps in the kitchen caused himto hurriedly reenter that apartment. Mrs. Stover was standing by therange, her face red. 

"Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown!" she exclaimed. "I wondered where you'dgone to. "

"How is he?" inquired Brown, the keenest anxiety in his utterance. 

"H'm! he'd do well enough if he had the right treatment. I cal'late he'sbetter now, even as 'tis; but, when a person has to lay and hear overand over again that what ails 'em is nothin' but imagination, it ain'tto be wondered at that they get mad. What he needs is some sort ofsoothin' medicine, and I only wish 'twan't so fur over to home. I've gotjust what he needs there. "

"I was thinking--" began Brown. 

"What was you thinkin'?"

"I was wondering if some of my 'Stomach Balm' wouldn't help him. It'san old family receipt, handed down from the Indians, I believe. I alwayshave a bottle with me and . . . Still, I wouldn't prescribe, not knowingthe disease. "

Mrs. Stover's eyes sparkled. Patent medicines were her hobby. 

"Hum!" she said. "'Stomach Balm' sounds good. And he says his trouble isprincipally stomach. Some of them Indian medicines are mighty powerful. Have you--did you say you had a bottle with you, Mr. Brown?"

The young man went again to the pantry and returned with the bottle hehad so recently found there. Now, however, it was two thirds full ofa black sticky mixture. Mrs. Stover removed the cork and took aninvestigating sniff. 

"It smells powerful, " she said, hopefully. 

"It is. Would you like to taste it?" handing her a tablespoon. Hewatched as she swallowed a spoonful. 

"Ugh! oh!" she gasped; even her long suffering palate rebelled at THATtaste. "It--I should think that OUGHT to help him. "

"I should think so. It may be the very thing he needs. At any rate, itcan't hurt him. It's quite harmless. "

Mrs. Stover's face was still twisted, under the influence of the "Balm";but her mind was made up. 

"I'm goin' to try it, " she declared. "I don't care if every NewThoughter in creation says no. He needs medicine and needs it rightaway. "

"The dose, " said Mr. Brown, gravely, "is two tablespoonfuls everyfifteen minutes. I do hope it will help him. Give him my sympathy--mydeepest sympathy, Mrs. Stover, please. "

The plump lady disappeared in the direction of the sick room. Thesubstitute assistant lingered and listened. He heard a shrill pow-wowof feminine voices. Evidently "New Thought" and the practice of medicinehad once more clashed. The argument waxed and waned. Followed the clickof a spoon against glass. And then came a gasp, a gurgle, a chokingyell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro Twin-Lights rosethe voice of Mr. Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the "StomachBalm" and those who administered it. 

John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner ofthe house, tiptoed past the bench by the bluff, where Mr. Stover satgloomily meditating, and ran lightly down the path to the creek andthe wharf. The boathouse at the end of the wharf offered a convenientrefuge. Into the building he darted, closed the door behind him, andcollapsed upon a heap of fish nets. 

At three-thirty that afternoon, Mr. Atkins, apparently quite recovered, was sitting in the kitchen rocker, reading a last week's newspaper, oneof a number procured on his most recent trip to the village. The Stoversand their guest had departed. Their buggy was out of sight beyond thedunes. A slight noise startled the lightkeeper, and he looked up. Hishelper was standing in the doorway, upon his face an expression ofintense and delighted surprise. 

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Brown. "What? Is it really you?"

Seth put down the paper and nodded. 

"Um-hm, " he observed drily, "it's really me. "

"Up? and WELL?" queried Brown. 

"Um-hm. Pretty well, considerin', thank you. Been for a stroll upWashin'ton Street, have you? Or a little walk on the Common, maybe?"

The elaborate sarcasm of these questions was intended to be withering. Mr. Brown, however, did not wither. Neither did he blush. 

"I have been, " he said, "down at the boathouse. I knew you were in safehands and well looked after, so I went away. I couldn't remain here andhear you suffer. "

"Hum! HEAR me suffer, hey? Much obliged, I'm sure. What have you beendoin' there all this time? I hoped you was--that is, I begun to beafraid you was dead. Thought your sympathy for me had been too much foryou, maybe. "

Brown mournfully shook his head. "It was--almost, " he said, solemnly. "Ithink I dropped asleep. I was quite overcome. "

"Hum! Better take a dose of that 'Stomach Balm, ' hadn't you? That'llliven you up, I'll guarantee. "

"No, thank you. The sight of you, well and strong again, is all themedicine I need. We must keep the 'Balm' in case you have anotherattack. By the way, I notice the dinner dishes haven't been washed. I'lldo them at once. I know you must be tired, after your illness--and theexertion of showing your guests about the lights. "

Atkins did not answer, although he seemed to want to very much. However, he made no objection when his helper, rolling up his sleeves, turned tothe sink and the dish washing. 

Seth was silent all the rest of the afternoon and during supper. Butthat evening, as Brown sat on the bench outside, Atkins joined him. 

"Hello!" said Seth, as cheerfully as if nothing had happened. 

"Hello!" replied the assistant, shortly. He had been thinking once more, and his thoughts were not pleasant. 

"I s'pose you cal'late, " began Atkins, "that maybe I've got a grudgeagainst you on account of this mornin' and that 'Balm' and such. Iain't. "

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it. "

"Yes. After the fust dose of that stuff--for thunder sakes WHAT did youput in it?--I was about ready to murder you, but I've got over that. Idon't blame you for gettin' even. We are even, you know. "

"I'm satisfied, if you are. "

"I be. But what I don't understand is why you didn't want to show themfolks around. "

"Oh, I don't know. I had my reasons, such as they were. Why didn't youwant to do it yourself?"

Seth crossed his legs and was silent for a moment or two. Then he spokefirmly and as if his mind was made up. 

"Young feller, " he said, "I don't know whether you realize it or not, and perhaps I shouldn't be the one to mention it--but you're under someobligations to me. "

His companion nodded. "I realize that, " he said. 

"Yes, but maybe you don't realize the amount of the obligations. I'mriskin' my job keepin' you here. If it wa'n't for the superintendentbein' such a friend of mine, there'd have been a reg'lar assistantkeeper app'inted long ago. The gov'ment don't pick up its lightkeeperssame as you would farm hands. There's civil service to be gone through, and the like of that. But you wanted to stay, and I've kept you, riskin'my own job, as I said. And now I cal'late we'd better have a plainunderstandin'. You've got to know just what your job is. I'm goin' totell you. "

He stopped, as if to let this sink in. Brown nodded again. "All right, "he observed, carelessly; "go on and tell me; I'm listening. "

"Your job around the lights you know already, part of it. But there'ssomethin' else. Whenever men folks come here, I'll do my shareof showin' the place off. But when women come--women, youunderstand--you've got to be guide. I'll forgive you to-day's doin's. Itried to play a joke on you, and you evened it up with a better one onme. That's all right. But, after this, showin' the lights to females isyour job, and you've got to do it--or get out. No hard feelin's at all, and I'd really hate to lose you, but THAT'S got to be as I say. "

He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown caught his coatand pulled him back to the bench. 

"Wait, Atkins, " he said. "I'm grateful to you for your kindness, I likeyou and I'd like to please you; but if what you say is final, then--asthey used to say in some play or other--'I guess you'll have to hireanother boy. '"

"What? You mean you'll quit?"

"Rather than do that--yes. "

"But why?"

"For reasons, as I told you. By the way, you haven't told me why youobject to acting as guide to--females. "

"Because they are females. They're women, darn 'em!"

Before his helper could comment on this declaration, it was repeated. The lightkeeper shook both his big fists in the air. 

"Darn 'em! Darn all the women!" shouted Seth Atkins. 

"Amen, " said John Brown, devoutly. 

Seth's fists dropped into his lap. "What?" he cried; "what did you say?"

"I said Amen. "

"But--but . . . Why . . . You didn't mean it!"

"Didn't I?" bitterly. "Humph!"

Seth breathed heavily, started to speak once more, closed his lips onthe words, rose, walked away a few paces, returned, and sat down. 

"John Brown, " he said, solemnly, "if you're jokin', the powers forgiveyou, for I won't. If you ain't, I--I . . . See here, do you rememberwhat you asked me that night when you struck me for the assistantkeeper's job? You asked me if I was married?"

Brown assented wonderingly. "Why, yes, " he said, "I believe I did. "

"You did. And I ain't been so shook up for many a day. Young feller, I'm goin' to tell you what no other man in Ostable County knows. I AMmarried. I've got a wife livin'. "

CHAPTER VII

OUT OF THE BAG

"I'm married, and I've got a wife livin', " continued Seth; addinghurriedly and fiercely, "don't you say nothin' to me! Don't you put meout. I'm goin' to tell you! I'm goin' to tell you all of it--all, bytime! I am, if I die for it. "

He was speaking so rapidly that the words were jumbled together. Heknocked his hat from his forehead with a blow of his fist and actuallypanted for breath. Brown had never before seen him in this condition. 

"Hold on! Wait, " he cried. "Atkins, you needn't do this; you mustn't. Iam asking no questions. We agreed to--"

"Hush up!" Seth waved both hands in the air. "DON'T you talk! Let me getthis off my chest. Good heavens alive, I've been smotherin' myselfwith it for years, and, now I've got started, I'll blow off steam or myb'iler'll bust. I'm GOIN' to tell you. You listen--

"Yes, sir, I'm a married man, " he went on. "I wa'n't always married, youunderstand. I used to be single once. Once I was single; see?"

"I see, " said Brown, repressing a smile. 

Seth was not aware that there was anything humorous in his statement. 

"Yes, " he said, "I was single and--and happy, by jiminy! I was skipperof a mack'rel schooner down Cape Ann way, never mind where, and SethAtkins is only part of my name; never mind that, neither. I sailed thatschooner and I run that schooner--I RUN her; and when I said 'boo' allhands aboard jumped, I tell you. When I've got salt water underneath me, I'm a man. But I told you that afore. 

"However, this is what I didn't tell you nor nobody else in this part ofthe state: I stayed single till I got to be past forty. Everybody set medown as an old bach. Then I met a woman; yes, sir, I met a woman. "

He made this assertion as if it was something remarkable. His companionon the bench made no comment. 

"She was a widow woman, " went on Seth, "and she had a little propertyleft her by her first husband. Owned a house and land, she did, and hadsome money in the bank. Some folks cal'lated I married her for that, butthey cal'lated wrong. I wanted her for herself. And I got her. Her namewas Emeline. I always thought Emeline was a sort of pretty name. "

He sighed. Brown observed that Emeline was a very pretty name, indeed. 

"Um-hm. That's what I thought, and Emeline was a real pretty woman, forher age and heft--she was fleshy. She had some consider'ble prejudiceagainst my goin' to sea, so I agreed to stay on shore a spell and farmit, as you might say. We lived in the house she owned and was real happytogether. She bossed me around a good deal, but I didn't mind bein'bossed by her. 'Twas a change, you see, for I'd always been used tobossin' other folks. So I humored her. And, bein' on land made me losemy--my grip or somethin'; 'cause I seemed to forget how to boss. But wewas happy, and then--then Bennie D. Come. Consarn him!"

His teeth shut with a snap, and he struck his knee with his fist. "Consarn him!" he repeated, and was silent. 

The substitute assistant ventured to jog his memory. 

"Who was Bennie D. ?" he asked. 

"What? Hey? Bennie D. ? Oh, he was her brother-in-law, her husband'sbrother from up Boston way. He was a genius--at least, he said hewas--and an inventor. The only invention I ever could l'arn he'dinvented to a finish was how to live without workin', but he'd got thatbrought to a science. However, he was forever fussin' over some kind ofmachine that was sartin sure to give power to the universe, when 'twasdone, and Emeline's husband--his name was Abner--thought the world andall of him. 'Fore he died he made Emeline promise to always be kind toBennie D. , and she said she would. Abner left him a little money, and hespent it travelin' 'for his health. ' I don't know where he traveledto, but, wherever 'twas, the health must have been there. He was thehealthiest critter ever I see--and the laziest. 

"Well, his travels bein' over, down he comes to make his sister-in-lawa little visit. And he stays on and stays on. He never took no shineto me--I judge he figgered I hadn't no business sharin' Abner'sproperty--and I never took to him, much. 

"Emeline noticed Bennie D. And me wa'n't fallin' on each other's necksany to speak of, and it troubled her. She blamed me for it. Said Benniewas a genius, and geniuses had sensitive natures and had to be treatedwith consideration and different from other folks. And that promise toAbner weighed on her conscience, I cal'late. Anyhow, she petted thatblame inventor, and it made me mad. And yet I didn't say much--not somuch as I'd ought to, I guess. And Bennie D. Was always heavin' outlittle side remarks about Emeline's bein' fitted for better things thanshe was gettin', and how, when his invention was 'perfected, ' HE'D seethat she didn't slave herself to death, and so on and so on. And he hadconsider'ble to say about folks tryin' to farm when they didn't knowa cucumber from a watermelon, and how 'farmin'' was a good excuse fordoin' nothin', and such. And I didn't have any good answer to that, 'cause I do know more about seaweed than I do cucumbers, and the farmwasn't payin' and I knew it. 

"If he'd said these things right out plain, I guess likely I'd have givehim what he deserved. But he didn't; he just hinted and smiled and actedsuperior and pityin'. And if I got mad and hove out a little sailor talkby accident, he'd look as sorry and shocked as the Come-Outer parsondoes when there's a baby born to a Universalist family. He'd get upand shut the door, as if he was scart the neighbors' morals wouldsuffer--though the only neighbor within hearin' was an old critter thatused to run a billiard saloon in Gloucester, and HIS morals had beenput out of their misery forty years afore--and he'd suggest that Emelinebetter leave the room, maybe. And then I'd feel ashamed and wouldn'tknow what to do, and 'twould end, more'n likely, by my leavin' itmyself. 

"You can see how matters was driftin'. I could see plain enough, and Ical'late Emeline could, too--I'll give her credit for that. She didn'tbegin to look as happy as she had, and that made me feel worse thanever. One time, I found her cryin' in the wash room, and I went up andput my arm round her. 

"'Emeline, ' I says, 'don't; please don't. Don't cry. I know I ain't thehusband I'd ought to be to you, but I'm doin' my best. I'm tryin' to doit. I ain't a genius, ' I says. 

"She interrupted me quick, sort of half laughin' and half cryin'. 'No, Seth, ' says she, 'you ain't, that's a fact. '

"That made me sort of mad. 'No, I ain't, ' I says again; 'and if you askme, I'd say one in the house was enough, and to spare. '

"'I know you don't like Bennie, ' she says. 

"''Taint that, ' says I, which was a lie. 'It ain't that, ' I says; 'butsomehow I don't seem to fit around here. Bennie and me, we don't seem tobelong together. '

"'He is Abner's brother, ' she says, 'and I promised Abner. I can't tellhim to go. I can't tell him to leave this house, his brother's house. '

"Now, consarn it, there was another thing. It WAS Abner's house, orhad been afore he died, and now 'twas hers. If I ever forgot that fact, which wa'n't by no means likely to happen, Bennie D. Took occasionsenough to remind me of it. So I was set back again with my canvasflappin', as you might say. 

"'No, ' says I, 'course you can't. He's your brother-in-law. '

"'But you are my husband, ' she says, lookin' at me kind of queer. Anyhow, it seems kind of queer to me now. I've thought about that looka good deal since, and sometimes I've wondered if--if . . . However, that's all past and by. 

"'Yes, ' I says, pretty average bitter, 'but second husbands don't countfor much. '

"'Some of 'em don't seem to, that's a fact, ' she says. 

"'By jiminy, ' I says, 'I don't count for much in this house. '

"'Yes?' says she. 'And whose fault is that?'

"Well, I WAS mad. 'I tell you what I CAN do, ' I sings out. 'I can quitthis landlubber's job where I'm nothin' but a swab, and go to sea again, where I'm some account. That's what I can do. '

"She turned and looked at me. 

"'You promised me never to go to sea again, she says. 

"'Humph!' says I; 'some promises are hard to keep. '

"'I keep mine, hard or not, ' says she. 'Would you go away and leave me?'

"'You've got Brother Bennie, ' says I. 'He's a genius; I ain't nothin'but a man. '

"She laughed, pretty scornful. 'Are you sartin you're that?' she wantedto know. 

"'Not since I been livin' here, I ain't, ' I says. And that ended thattry of makin' up. 

"And from then on it got worse and worse. There wan't much comfort athome where the inventor was, so I took to stayin' out nights. Went downto the store and hung around, listenin' to fools' gabble, and wishin'I was dead. And the more I stayed out, the more Bennie D. Laughed andsneered and hinted. And then come that ridic'lous business about SarahAnn Christy. That ended it for good and all. "

Seth paused in his long story and looked out across the starlit sea. 

"Who was Sarah Ann?" asked Brown. The lightkeeper seemed muchembarrassed. 

"She was a born fool, " he declared, with emphasis; "born that way andbeen developin' extry foolishness ever since. She was a widow, too; beengood lookin' once and couldn't forget it, and she lived down nigh thestore. When I'd be goin' down or comin' back, just as likely as not shewas settin' on the piazza, and she'd hail me. I didn't want to stop andtalk to her, of course. "

"No, of course not. "

"Well, I DIDN'T. And I didn't HAVE to talk. Couldn't if I wanted to;she done it all. Her tongue was hung on ball-bearin' hinges and wasa self-winder guaranteed to run an hour steady every time she set itgoin'. Talk! my jiminy crimps, how that woman could talk! I couldn'tget away; I tried to, but, my soul, she wouldn't let me. And, if 'twas awarm night, she'd more'n likely have a pitcher of lemonade or some sortof cold wash alongside, and I must stop and taste it. By time, I cantaste it yet!

"Well, there wa'n't no harm in her at all; she was just a fool that hadto talk to somebody, males preferred. But my stayin' out nights wasn'thelpin' the joyfulness of things to home, and one evenin'--one evenin'. . . Oh, there! I started to tell you this and I might's well get itover. 

"This evenin' when I came home from the store I see somethin' was extrywrong soon's I struck the settin' room. Emeline was there, and BennieD. , and I give you my word, I felt like turnin' up my coat collar, 'twasso frosty. 'Twas hotter'n a steamer's stoke-hole outside, but that roomwas forty below zero. 

"Nobody SAID nothin', you know--that was the worst of it; but I'd havebeen glad if they had. Finally, I said it myself. 'Well, Emeline, ' saysI, 'here I be. '

"No answer, so I tried again. 'Well, Emeline, ' says I, 'I've fetchedport finally. '

"She didn't answer me then, but Bennie D. Laughed. He had a way oflaughin' that made other folks want to cry--or kill him. For choice I'dhave done the killin' first. 

"'More nautical conversation, sister, ' says he. 'He knows how fond youare of that sort of thing. '

"You see, Emeline never did like to hear me talk sailor talk; itreminded her too much that I used to be a sailor, I s'pose. And thatinventor knew she didn't like it, and so he rubbed it in every time Imade a slip. 'Twas just one of his little ways; he had a million of 'em. 

"But I tried once more. 'Emeline, ' I says, 'I'm home. Can't you speak tome?'

"Then she looked at me. 'Yes, Seth, ' says she, 'I see you are home. '

"'At last, ' put in brother-in-law, '"There is no place like home"--whenthe other places are shut up. ' And he laughed again. 

"'Stop, Bennie, ' says Emeline, and he stopped. That was another of hislittle ways--to do anything she asked him. Then she turned to me. 

"'Seth, ' she asks, 'where have you been?'

"'Oh, down street, ' says I, casual. 'It's turrible warm out. '

"She never paid no attention to the weather signals. 'Where 'bouts downstreet?' she wanted to know. 

"'Oh, down to the store, ' I says. 

"'You go to the store a good deal, don't you, ' says she. Bennie D. Chuckled, and then begged her pardon. That chuckle stirred my mad up. 

"'I go where folks seem to be glad to see me, ' I says. 'Where they treatme as if I was somebody. '

"'So you was at the store the whole evenin'?' she asks. 

"'Course I was, ' says I. 'Where else would I be?'

"She looked at me hard, and her face sort of set. She didn't answer, but took up the sewin' in her lap and went to work on it. I remember shedropped it once, and Bennie D. Jumped to pick it up for her, quick as awink. I set down in the rockin' chair and took the Gloucester paper. ButI didn't really read. The clock ticked and ticked, and 'twas so stillyou could hear every stroke of the pendulum. Finally, I couldn't standit no longer. 

"'What on earth is the matter?' I sings out. 'What have I done thistime? Don't you WANT me to go to the store? Is that it?'

"She put down her sewin'. 'Seth, ' says she, quiet but awful cold, 'Iwant you to go anywheres that you want to go. I never'll stand in yourway. But I want you tell the truth about it afterwards. '

"'The truth?' says I. 'Don't I always tell you the truth?'

"'No, ' says she. 'You've lied to me tonight. You've been callin' on theChristy woman, and you know it. '

"Well, you could have knocked me down with a baby's rattle. I'd forgotall about that fool Sarah Ann. I cal'late I turned nineteen differentshades of red, and for a minute I couldn't think of a word to say. AndBennie D. Smiled, wicked as the Old Harry himself. 

"'How--how did you--how do you know I see Sarah Ann Christy?' I holleredout, soon's I could get my breath. 

"'Because you were seen there, ' says she. 

"'Who see me?'

"'I did, ' says she. 'I went down street myself, on an errand, and, bein'as you weren't here to go with me, Bennie was good enough to go. Itain't pleasant for a woman to go out alone after dark, and--and I havenever been used to it, ' she says. 

"That kind of hurt me and pricked my conscience, as you may say. 

"'You know I'd been tickled to death to go with you, Emeline, ' I says. 'Any time, you know it. But you never asked me to go with you. '

"'How long has it been since you asked to go with me?' she says. 

"'Do you really want me to go anywheres, Emeline?' says I, eager. 'Doyou? I s'posed you didn't. If you'd asked--'

"'Why should I always do the askin'? Must a wife always ask her husband?Doesn't the husband ever do anything on his own responsibility? Seth, I married you because I thought you was a strong, self-reliant man, whowould advise me and protect me and--'

"That cussed inventor bust into the talk right here. I cal'late hethought twas time. 

"'Excuse me, sister, ' he says; 'don't humiliate yourself afore him. Remember you and me saw him tonight, saw him with our own eyes, settin'on a dark piazza with another woman. Drinkin' with her and--'

"'Drinkin'!' I yells. 

"'Yes, drinkin', ' says he, solemn. 'I don't wonder you are ashamed ofit. '

"'Ashamed! I ain't ashamed. '

"'You hear that, sister? NOW I hope you're convinced. '

"''Twa'n't nothin' but lemonade I was drinkin', ' I hollers, pretty nighcrazy. 'She asked me to stop and have a glass 'cause 'twas so hot. Andas for callin' on her, I wa'n't. I was just passin' by, and she singsout what a dreadful night 'twas, and I said 'twas, too, and she sayswon't I have somethin' cold to drink. That's all there was to it. '

"Afore Emeline could answer, Bennie comes back at me again. 

"'Perhaps you'll tell us this was the first time you have visited her, 'he purrs. 

"Well, that was a sockdolager, 'cause twa'n't the first time. I don'tknow how many times 'twas. I never kept no account of 'em. Too glad toget away from her everlastin' tongue-clackin'. But when 'twas put rightup to me this way, I--I declare I was all fussed up. I felt sick and Iguess I looked so. Emeline was lookin' at me and seemin'ly waitin' forme to say somethin'; yet I couldn't say it. And Bennie D. Laughed, quietbut wicked. 

"That laugh fixed me. I swung round and lit into him. 

"'You mind your own business, ' I roars. 'Ain't you ashamed, makin'trouble with a man's wife in his own house?'

"'I was under the impression the house belonged to my sister-in-law, ' hesays. And again I was knocked off my pins. 

"'You great big loafer!' I yelled at him; 'settin' here doin' nothin'but raisin' the divil generally! I--I--'

"He jumped as if I'd stuck a brad-awl into him. The shocked expressioncame across his face again, and he runs to Emeline and takes her arm. 

"'Sister, sister, ' he says, quick, but gentle, 'this is no place foryou. Language like that is . . . There! there! don't you think you'dbetter leave the room?'

"She didn't go. As I remember it now, it keeps comin' back to me thatshe didn't go. She just stood still and looked at me. And then she says:'Seth, why did you lie to me?'"

"'I didn't lie, ' I shouts. 'I forgot, I tell you. I never thought thatwindmill of a Christy woman was enough importance to remember. I didn'tlie to you--I never did. Oh, Emeline, you know I didn't. What's thematter with you and me, anyway? We used to be all right and now we'reall wrong. '

"'One of us is, ' says Bennie D. That was the final straw that choked thecamel. 

"'Yes, ' I says to him, 'that's right, one of us is, and I don't knowwhich. But I know this: you and I can't stay together in this house anylonger. '

"I can see that room now, as 'twas when I said that. Us three lookin' ateach other, and the clock a-tickin', and everything else still as still. I choked, but I kept on. 

"'I mean it, ' I says. 'Either you clear out of this house or I do. '

"And, while the words was on my lips, again it came to me strong that itwa'n't really my house at all. I turned to my wife. 

"'Emeline, ' says I, 'it's got to be. You must tell him to go, or else--'

"She'd been lookin' at me again with that kind of queer look in hereyes, almost a hopeful look, seem's if 'twas, and yet it couldn't havebeen, of course. Now she drawed a long breath. 

"'I can't tell him to go, Seth, ' says she. 'I promised to give him ahome as long as I had one. '

"I set my jaws together. 'All right, ' I says; 'then I'M goin'. Good by. '

"And I went. Yes, sir, I went. Just as I was, without any hat or dunnageof any kind. When I slammed the back door it seemed as if I heard hersing out my name. I waited, but I guess I was mistaken, for she didn'tcall it again. And--and I never set eyes on her since. No, sir, notonce. "

The lightkeeper stopped. John Brown said nothing, but he laid ahand sympathetically on the older man's shoulder. Seth shuddered, straightened, and went on. 

"I cleared out of that town that very night, " he said. "Walked clearinto Gloucester, put up at a tavern there till mornin', and then tookthe cars to Boston. I cal'lated fust that I'd ship as mate or somethin'on a foreign voyage, but I couldn't; somehow I couldn't bring myself todo it. You see, I'd promised her I wouldn't ever go to sea again, andso--well, I was a dum idiot, I s'pose, but I wouldn't break the promise. I knew the superintendent of lighthouses in this district, and I'd beenan assistant keeper when I was younger. I told him my yarn, and he toldme about this job. I changed my name, passed the examination and comedirectly here. And here I've stayed ever since. "

He paused again. Brown ventured to ask another question. 

"And your--and the lady?" he asked. "Where is she?"

"I don't know. Livin' in her house back there on Cape Ann, I s'pose. Shewas, last I knew. I never ask no questions. I want to forget--to forget, by time! . . . Hi hum! . . . Well, now you know what nobody this side ofBoston knows. And you can understand why I'm willin' to be buried alivedown here. 'Cause a woman wrecked my life; I'm done with women; and tothis forsaken hole no women scarcely ever come. But, when they DO come, you must understand that I expect you to show 'em round. After hearin'what I've been through, I guess you'll be willin' to do that much forme. "

He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown stroked hischin. 

"I'm sorry, Atkins, " he observed, slowly; "and I certainly do sympathizewith you. But--but, as I said, 'I guess you'll have to hire anotherboy!'"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're not the only woman-hater on the beach. "

"Hey? Has a woman given YOU the go by?"

"No. The other way around, if anything. Look here, Atkins! I'm notin the habit of discussing my private affairs with acquaintances, but you've been frank with me--and well, hang it! I've got to talk tosomebody. At least, I feel that way just now. Let's suppose a case. Suppose you were a young fellow not long out of college--a young fellowwhose mother was dead and whose dad was rich, and head over heels inmoney-making, and with the idea that his will was no more to be disputedthan a law of the Almighty. Just suppose that, will you?"

"Huh! Well, 'twill be hard supposin', but I'll try. Heave ahead. "

"Suppose that you'd never been used to working or supporting yourself. Had a position, a nominal one, in your dad's office but absolutely noresponsibility, all the money you wanted, and so on. Suppose becauseyour father wanted you to--and HER people felt the same--you had becomeengaged to a girl, a nice enough girl, too, in her way. But, thensuppose that little by little you came to realize that her way wasn'tyours. You and she liked each other well enough, but the whole thingwas a family arrangement, a money arrangement, a perfectly respectable, buy-and-sell affair. That and nothing else. And the more you thoughtabout it, the surer you felt that it was so. But when you told yourgovernor he got on his ear and sailed into you, and you sailed back, until finally he swore that you should either marry that girl or he'dthrow you out of his house and office to root for yourself. What wouldyou do?"

"Hey? Land sakes! I don't know. I always HAD to root, so I ain't acompetent judge. Go on, you've got me interested. "

"Well, I said I'd root, that's all. But I didn't have the nerve to goand tell the girl. The engagement had been announced, and all that, andI knew what a mess it would make for her. I sat in my room, amongthe things I was packing in my grip to take with me, and thought andthought. If I went to her there would be a scene. If I said I had beendisinherited she would want to know why--naturally. I had quarreledwith the governor--yes, but why? Then I should have to tell her thereal reason: I didn't want to marry her or anybody else on such abargain-counter basis. That seemed such a rotten thing to say, and shemight ask why it had taken me such a long time to find it out. No, Ijust COULDN'T tell her that. So, after my think was over, I wrote hera note saying that my father and I had had a disagreement and hehad chucked me out, or words to that effect. Naturally, under thecircumstances, marriage was out of the question, and I released her fromthe engagement. Good by and good luck--or something similar. I mailedthe letter and left the town the next morning. "

He paused. The lightkeeper made no comment. After a moment the young mancontinued. 

"I landed in Boston, " he said, "full of conceit and high-minded ideas ofworking my own way up the ladder. But in order to work up, you've got toget at least a hand-hold on the bottom rung. I couldn't get it. Nobodywanted a genteel loafer, which was me. My money gave out. I bought asteamboat passage to another city, but I didn't have enough left to buya square meal. Then, by bull luck, I fell overboard and landed here. Andhere I found the solution. I'm dead. If the governor gets soft-heartedand gets private detectives on my trail, they'll find I disappearedfrom that steamer, that's all. Drowned, of course. SHE'LL think so, too. 'Good riddance to bad rubbish' is the general verdict. I can stay herea year or so, and then, being dead and forgotten, can go back tocivilization and hustle for myself. BUT a woman is at the bottom of mytrouble, and I never want to see another. So, if my staying here dependsupon my seeing them, I guess, as I've said twice already, 'you'll haveto hire another boy. '"

He, too, rose. Seth laid a big hand on his shoulder. 

"Son, " said the lightkeeper, "I'm sorry for you; I cal'late I know howyou feel. I like you fust-rate, and if it's a possible thing, I'll fixit so's you can stay right here long's you want to. As for women folksthat do come--why, we'll dodge 'em if we can, and share responsibilityif we must. But there's one thing you've GOT to understand. You'reyoung, and maybe your woman hate'll wear off. If it does, out you go. Ican't have any sparkin' or lovemakin' around these premises. "

The assistant snorted contemptuously. 

"If ever you catch me being even coldly familiar with a female of anyage, " he declared, "I hereby request that you hit me, politely, butfirmly, with that axe, " pointing to the kindling hatchet leaning againstthe door post. 

Seth chuckled. "Good stuff!" he exclaimed. "And, for my part, if everyou catch me gettin' confectionery with a woman, I . . . Well, don'tstop to pray over me; just drown me, that's all I ask. It's a bargain. Shake!"

So they shook, with great solemnity. 

CHAPTER VIII

NEIGHBORS AND WASPS

And now affairs at the lights settled down into a daily routine inwhich the lightkeeper and his helper each played his appointed part. All mysteries now being solved, and the trust between them mutual andwithout reserve, they no longer were on their guard in each other'spresence, but talked freely on all sorts of topics, and expressed theirmutual dislike of woman with frequency and point. No regular assistantwas appointed or seemed likely to be, for the summer, at least. Seth andhis friend, the superintendent, held another lengthy conversation overthe wire, and, while Brown's uncertain status remained the same, therewas a tacit understanding that, by the first of September, if the youngman was sufficiently "broken in, " the position vacated by Ezra Payneshould be his--if he still wanted it. 

"You may change your mind by that time, " observed Seth. "This ain't noplace for a chap with your trainin', and I know it. It does well enoughfor an old derelict like me, with nobody to care a hang whether he livesor dies, but you're different. And even for me the lonesomeness of itdrives me 'most crazy sometimes. I've noticed you've been havin' bluestreaks more often than when you first came. I cal'late that by fallyou'll be headin' somewheres else, Mr. 'John Brown, '" with significantemphasis upon the name. 

Brown stoutly denied being "bluer" than usual, and his superior did notpress the point. Seth busied himself in his spare time with the work onthe Daisy M. And with his occasional trips behind Joshua to the village. Brown might have made some of these trips, but he did not care to. Solitude and seclusion he still desired, and there were more of thesethan anything else at the Twin-Lights. 

The lightkeeper experimented with no more dogs, but he had evidently notforgotten the lifesaving man's warning concerning possible thieves, forhe purchased a big spring-lock in Eastboro and attached it to the doorof the boathouse on the little wharf. The lock was, at first, a gooddeal more of a nuisance than an advantage, for the key was always beingforgotten or mislaid, and, on one occasion, the door blew shut withAtkins inside the building, and he pounded and shrieked for ten minutesbefore his helper heard him and descended to the rescue. 

June crawled by, and July came. Crawled is the proper word, for JohnBrown had never known days so long or weeks so unending as those of thatearly summer. The monotony was almost never broken, and he began to findit deadly. He invented new duties about the lights and added swimmingand walks up and down the beach to his limited list of recreations. 

The swimming he especially enjoyed. The cove made a fine bathing place, and the boathouse was his dressing room, though the fragrance of theancient fish nets stored within it was not that of attar of roses. Acheap bathing suit was one of the luxuries Atkins had bought for him, byrequest, in Eastboro. Seth bought the suit under protest, for he scoffedopenly at his helper's daily bath. 

"I should think, " the lightkeeper declared over and over again, "thatyou'd had salt water soak enough to last you for one spell; a fellerthat come as nigh drownin' as you done!"

Seth did not care for swimming; the washtub every Saturday nightfurnished him with baths sufficient. 

He was particular to warn his helper against the tide in the inlet: "Thecove's all right, " he said, "but you want to look out and not try toswim in the crick where it's narrow, or in that deep hole by the end ofthe wharf, where the lobster car's moored. When the tide's comin' in orit's dead high water, the current's strong there. On the ebb it'll snakeyou out into the breakers sure as I'm settin' here tellin' you. Thecove's all right and good and safe; but keep away from the narrer partof the crick. "

Swimming was good fun, and walking, on pleasant days, was an aid inshaking off depression; but, in spite of his denials and his attempts atappearing contented, the substitute assistant realized that he was farfrom that happy condition. He did not want to meet people, least of allpeople of his own station in life--his former station. Atkins was afine chap, in his way; but . . . Brown was lonely . . . And when oneis lonely, one thinks of what might have been, and, perhaps, regrets. Regrets, unavailing regrets, are the poorest companions possible. 

The lightkeeper, too, seemed lonely, which, considering his yearsof experience in his present situation, was odd. He explained hisloneliness one evening by observing that he cal'lated he missed thepainting chaps. 

"What painting chaps?" asked Brown. 

"Oh, them two young fellers that always used to come to thecottage--what you call the bungalow--across the cove there, the ones Itold you about. They was real friendly, sociable young chaps, and I kindof liked to have 'em runnin' in and out. Seems queer to have it July, and they not here to hail me and come over to borrow stuff. And they wasforever settin' around under white sunshades, sloppin' paint onto paper. I most wish they hadn't gone to Europe. I cal'late you'd have liked 'em, too. "

"Perhaps, " said the helper, doubtfully. 

"Oh, you would; no perhaps about it. It don't seem right to see thebungalow all shuttered up and deserted this time of year. You'd haveliked to meet them young painters; they was your kind. "

"Yes, I know. Perhaps that's why I shouldn't like to meet them. "

"Hey? . . . Oh, yes, yes; I see. I never thought of that. But 'tain'tlikely they'd know you; they hailed from Boston, not New York. "

"How did you know I came from New York? I didn't tell you that. "

"No, you didn't, that's a fact. But, you said you left the city whereyou lived and came to Boston, so I sort of guessed New York. But that'sall right; I don't know and I don't care. Names and places you and memight just as well not tell, even to each other. If we don't tell them, we can answer 'don't know' to questions and tell the truth; hey?"

One morning about a week later, Brown, his dish washing and sweepingdone, was busy in the light-room at the top of the right hand tower, polishing the brass of the lantern. The curtains were drawn on thelandward side, and those toward the sea open. Seth, having finished hisnight watching and breakfast, was audibly asleep in the house. Brownrubbed and polished leisurely, his thoughts far away, and a frown on hisface. For the thousandth time that week he decided that he was a loaferand a vagabond, and that it would have been much better for himself, and creation generally, if he had never risen after the plunge over thesteamer's rail. 

He pulled the cloth cover over the glittering lantern and descended theiron stair to the ground floor. When he emerged into the open air, heheard a sound which made him start and listen. The sound was the distantrattle of wheels from the direction of the village. Was another "picnic"coming? He walked briskly to the corner of the house and peered down thewinding road. A carriage was in sight certainly, but it was going, notcoming. He watched it move further away each moment. Someone--not thegrocer or a tradesman--was driving to the village. But where had hebeen, and who was he? Not Seth, for Seth was asleep--he could hear him. 

The driver of the carriage, whoever he was, had not visited the lights. And, as Atkins had said, there was nowhere else to go on that road. Brown, puzzled, looked about him, at the sea, the lights, the house, the creek, the cove, the bluff on the other side of the cove, thebungalow--ah! the bungalow!

For the door of the bungalow was open, and one or two of the shutterswere down. The carriage had brought some person or persons to thebungalow and left them there. Instantly, of course, Brown thought of theartists from Boston. Probably they had changed their minds and decidedto summer at Eastboro after all. His frown deepened. 

Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream, a feminine scream. The assistant started, scarcely believing his ears. Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron inher hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, andwaved the apron like a flag. 

"Hi!" she screamed. "Hi, you! Mr. Lighthouseman! come quick! do pleasecome here quick and help us!"

There was but one thing to do, and Brown did it instinctively. He racedthrough the beach grass, down the hill, in obedience to the call. As heran, he wondered who on earth the stout woman could be. Seth had saidthat the artists did their own housekeeping. 

"Hurry up!" shrieked the stout woman, dancing an elephantine fandango infront of the bungalow. "Come ON!"

To run around the shore line of the cove would have taken a good deal oftime. However, had the tide been at flood there would have been no otherway--excepting by boat--to reach the cottage. But the tide was out, andthe narrowest portion of the creek, the stream connecting the cove withthe ocean, was but knee deep. Through the water splashed the substituteassistant and clambered up the bank beyond. 

"Quick!" screamed the woman. "They'll eat us alive!"

"Who? What?" panted Brown. 

"Wasps! They're in there! The room's full of 'em. If there's one thingon earth I'm scart of, it's . . . Don't stop to talk! Go IN!"

She indicated the door of a room adjoining the living room of the littlecottage. From behind the door came sounds of upsetting furniture andsharp slaps. Evidently the artists were having a lively time. But theymust be curious chaps to be afraid of wasps. Brown opened the door andentered, partly of his own volition, partly because he was pushed by thestout woman. Then he gasped in astonishment. 

The wasps were there, dozens of them, and they had built a nest in theupper corner of the room. But they were not the astonishing part of thepicture. A young woman was there, also; a young woman with dark hair andeyes, the sleeves of a white shirtwaist rolled above her elbows, and awet towel in her right hand. She was skipping lightly about the room, slapping frantically at the humming insects. 

"Mrs. Bascom, " she panted, "don't stand there screaming. Get anothertowel and--"

Then she turned and saw Brown. For an instant she, too, seemedastonished. But only for an instant. 

"Oh, I'm so glad you came!" she exclaimed. "Here! take this! you musthit quick and HARD. "

"This" was the towel. The assistant took it mechanically. The young ladydid not wait to give further orders. She rushed out of the room and shutthe door. Brown was alone with the wasps, and they were lively company. When, at last, the battle was over, the last wasp was dead, the nest wasa crumpled gray heap over in the corner, and the assistant's brow wasornamented with four red and smarting punctures, which promised toshortly become picturesque and painful lumps. Rubbing these absentlywith one hand, and bearing the towel in the other, he opened the doorand stepped out into the adjoining room. 

The two women were awaiting him. He found them standing directly infront of him as he emerged. 

"Have you--have you killed them?" begged the younger of the pair. 

"Be they all dead?" demanded the other. 

Brown nodded solemnly. "I guess so, " he said. "They seem to be. "

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried the dark haired girl. "I'm--we--are so muchobliged to you. "

"If there's any critters on earth, " declared the stout woman, "that Ican't stand, it's wasps and hornets and such. Mice, I don't mind--"

"I do, " interrupted her companion with emphasis. 

"But when I walked into that room and seen that nest in the corner I waspretty nigh knocked over--and, " she added, "it takes consider'ble to dothat to ME. "

The assistant looked at her. "Yes, " he said, absently, "I should thinkit might. That is, I mean--I--I beg your pardon. "

He paused and wiped his forehead with the towel. The young lady burstinto a peal of laughter, in which the stout woman joined. The laugh wasso infectious that even Brown was obliged to smile. 

"I apologize, " he stammered. "I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded. I'm not responsible mentally--yet--I guess. "

"I don't wonder. " It was the stout woman who answered. The girl hadturned away and was looking out the window; her shoulders shook. "Ishouldn't think you would be. Hauled in bodily, as you might say, andshut up in a room to fight wasps! And by folks you never saw afore anddon't know from Adam! You needn't apologize. I'd forgive you if yousaid somethin' a good deal worse'n that. I'm long past the age where I'msensitive about my weight, thank goodness. "

"And we ARE so much obliged to you. " The girl was facing him once more, and she was serious, though the corners of her mouth still twitched. "The whole affair is perfectly ridiculous, " she said, "but Mrs. Bascomwas frightened and so was I--when I had time to realize it. Thank youagain. "

"You're quite welcome, I'm sure. No trouble at all. "

The assistant turned to go. His brain was beginning to regain a littleof its normal poise, and he was dimly conscious that he had been absentfrom duty quite long enough. 

"Maybe you'd like to know who 'tis you've helped, " observed the stoutwoman. "And, considerin' that we're likely to be next-door neighborsfor a spell, I cal'late introductions are the proper thing. My name'sBascom. I'm housekeeper for Miss Ruth Graham. This is Miss Graham. "

The young lady offered a hand. Brown took it. 

"Graham?" he repeated. "Where?" Then, remembering a portion of what Sethhad told him, he added, "I see! the--the artist?"

"My brother is an artist. He and his friend, Mr. Hamilton, own thisbungalow. They are abroad this summer, and I am going to camp here for afew weeks--Mrs. Bascom and I. I paint a little, too, but only for fun. "

Brown murmured a conventionality concerning his delight at meeting thepair, and once more headed for the door. But Mrs. Bascom's curiositywould not permit him to escape so easily. 

"I thought, " she said, "when I see you standin' over there by thelights, that you must be one of the keepers. Not the head keeper--Iknew you wa'n't him--but an assistant, maybe. But I guess you're only avisitor, Mister--Mister--?"

"Brown. "

"Yes, Mr. Brown. I guess you ain't no keeper, are you?"

"I am the assistant keeper at present. Yes. "

"You don't say!" Mrs. Bascom looked surprised. So, too, did Miss Graham. "You don't look like a lighthouse keeper, " continued the former. "Oh, Idon't mean your clothes!" noticing the young man's embarrassed glance athis wet and far from immaculate garments. "I mean the way you talk andact. You ain't been here long, have you?"

"No. "

"Just come this summer?"

"Yes. "

"I thought so. You ain't a Cape Codder?"

"No. "

"I was sure you wa'n't. Where DO you come from?"

Brown hesitated. Miss Graham, noticing his hesitation, hastened to endthe inquisition. 

"Mr. Brown can't stop to answer questions, Mrs. Bascom, " she said. "I'msure he wants to get back to his work. Good morning, Mr. Brown. No doubtwe shall see each other often, being the only neighbors in sight. Callagain--do. I solemnly promise that you shall have to fight no morewasps. "

"Say!" The stout woman took a step forward. "Speakin' of wasps . . . Stand still a minute, Mr. Brown, won't you. What's them lumps on yourforehead? Why, I do believe you've been bit. You have, sure and sartin!"

Miss Graham was very much concerned. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed; "I hopenot. Let me see. "

"No, indeed!" The assistant was on the step by this time and movingrapidly. "Nothing at all. No consequence. Good morning. "

He almost ran down the hill and crossed the creek at the wading place. As he splashed through, the voice of the housekeeper reached his ears. 

"Cold mud's the best thing, " she screamed. "Put it on thick. It takesout the smart. Good and thick, mind!"

For the next hour or two the lightkeeper's helper moved about hishousehold tasks in a curious frame of mind. He was thoroughly angry--orthought he was--and very much disturbed. Neighbors of any kind werelikely to be a confounded nuisance, but two women! Heavens! And thestout woman was sure to be running in for calls and to borrow things. Asfor the other, she seemed a nice girl enough, but he never wanted to seeanother girl, nice or otherwise. Her eyes were pretty, so was her hair, but what of it? Oh, hang the luck! Just here he banged his swollenforehead on the sharp edge of the door, and found relief in profanity. 

Seth Atkins was profane, also, when he heard the news. Brown saidnothing until his superior discovered with his own eyes that thebungalow was open. Then, in answer to the lightkeeper's questions, camethe disclosure of the truth. 

"Women!" roared Seth. "You say there's two WOMEN goin' to live there? ByJudas! I don't believe it!"

"Go and see for yourself, then, " was the brusque answer. 

"I sha'n't, neither. Who told you?"

"They did. "

"They DID? Was you there?"

"Yes. "

"What for? I thought you swore never to go nigh a woman again. "

"I did, but--well, it wasn't my fault. I--"

"Yes? Go on. "

"I went because I couldn't help myself. Went to help some one else, infact. I expected to find Graham and that other artist. But--"

"Well, go ON. "

"I was stung, " said Mr. Brown, gloomily, and rubbed his forehead. 

CHAPTER IX

THE BUNGALOW GIRL

During the following day the occupants of the lightkeeper's dwelling sawlittle or nothing of the newcomers at the bungalow. Brown, his foreheadresembling a section of a relief map of the Rocky Mountains, remainedindoors as much as possible, working when there was anything to do, andreading back-number magazines when there was not. Seth went, as usual, to his room soon after noon. His slumbers must, however, have beenfitful ones, for several times the substitute assistant, turningquickly, saw the bedroom door swing silently shut. The third time thatthis happened he ran to the door and threw it open in season to catchMr. Atkins in an undignified dive for the bed. A tremendous snorefollowed the dive. The young man regarded him in silence for a fewmoments, during which the snores continued. Then he shook his head. 

"Humph!" he soliloquized; "I must 'phone for the doctor at once. Eitherthe doctor or the superintendent. If he has developed that habit, heisn't fit for this job. "

He turned away. The slumberer stirred uneasily, rolled over, opened oneeye, and sat up. 

"Hi!" he called. "Come back here! Where you goin'?"

Brown returned, looking surprised and anxious. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "are you awake?"

"Course I'm awake! What a fool question that is. Think I'm settin' uphere and talkin' in my sleep?"

"Well, I didn't know. "

"Why didn't you know? And, see here! what did you mean by sayin' you wasgoin' to 'phone the doctor or the superintendent, one or t'other? Yes, you said it. I heard you. "

"Oh, no! you didn't. "

"Tell you I did. Heard you with my own ears. "

"But how could you? You weren't awake. "

"Course I was awake! Couldn't have heard you unless I was, could I? Whatails you? Them stings go clear through to your brains, did they?"

Again Brown shook his head. 

"This is dreadful!" he murmured. "He walks in his sleep, and snores whenhe's awake. I MUST call the doctor. "

"What--what--" The lightkeeper's wrath was interfering with hisutterance. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sputteredincoherently. 

"Be calm, Atkins, " coaxed the assistant. "Don't complicate your diseasesby adding heart trouble. Three times today I've caught you peeping at methrough the crack of that door. Within fifteen seconds of the last peepI find you snoring. Therefore, I say--"

"Aw, belay! I was only--only just lookin' out to see what time it was. "

"But you must have done it in your sleep, because--"

"I never. I was wide awake as you be. "

"But why did you snore? You couldn't have fallen asleep between the doorand the bed. And you hadn't quite reached the bed when I got here. "

"I--I--I--Aw, shut up!"

Brown smiled blandly. "I will, " he said, "provided you promise to keepthis door shut and don't do any more spying. "

"Spyin'? What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I said. You and I had a discussion concerning that samepractice when I fell over the bank at the Slough a while ago. I was notspying then, but you thought I was, and you didn't like it. Now I thinkyou are, and I don't like it. "

"Wh--what--what would I be spyin' on you for? Wh--what reason would Ihave for doin' it?"

"No good reason; because I have no intention of visiting our newneighbors--none whatever. That being understood, perhaps you'll shut thedoor and keep it shut. "

Seth looked sheepish and guilty. 

"Well, " he said, after a moment's reflection, "I beg your pardon. ButI couldn't help feelin' kind of uneasy. I--I ought to know better, Is'pose; but, with a young, good-lookin' girl landed unexpected rightnext to us, I--I--"

"How did you know she was good-looking? I didn't mention her looks. "

"No, you didn't, but--but . . . John Brown, I've been young myself, andI know that at your age most ANY girl's good-lookin'. There!"

He delivered this bit of wisdom with emphasis and a savage nod of thehead. Brown had no answer ready, that is, no relevant answer. 

"You go to bed and shut the door, " he repeated, turning to go. 

"All right, I will. But don't you forget our agreement. "

"I have no intention of forgetting it. "

"What ARE you goin' to do?"

"Do? What do you mean?"

"I mean what are you goin' to do now that things down here's changed, and you and me ain't alone, same as we was?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure that I sha'n't leave--clear out. "

"What? Clear out? Run away and leave me alone to--to . . . By time! Ididn't think you was a deserter. "

The substitute assistant laughed bitterly. "You needn't worry, " he said. "I couldn't go far, even if I wanted to. I haven't any money. "

"That's so. " Seth was evidently relieved. "All right, " he observed;"don't you worry. 'Twon't be but a couple of months anyway, and we'llfight it through together. But ain't it a shame! Ain't it an everlastin'shame that this had to happen just as we'd come to understand each otherand was so contented and friendly! Well, there's only one thing to do;that's to make the best of it for us and the worst for them. We'll keepto ourselves and pay no attention to em no more'n if they wa'n'tthere. We'll forget 'em altogether; hey? . . . I say we'll forget 'emaltogether, won't we?"

Brown's answer was short and sharp. 

"Yes, " he said, and slammed the door behind him. Seth slowly shook hishead before he laid it on the pillow. He was not entirely easy in hismind, even yet. 

However, there was no more spying, and the lightkeeper did not mentionthe bungalow tenants when he appeared at supper time. After the mealhe bolted to the lights, and was on watch in the tower when his helperretired. 

Early the next afternoon Brown descended the path to the boathouse. Hehad omitted his swim the day before. Now, however, he intended to haveit. Simply because those female nuisances had seen fit to intrude wherethey had no business was no reason why he should resign all pleasure. Hegave a quick glance upward at the opposite bank as he reached the wharf. There was no sign of life about the bungalow. 

He entered the boathouse, undressed, and donned his bathing suit. In afew minutes he was ready, and, emerging upon the wharf, walked brisklyback along the shore of the creek to where it widened into the cove. There he plunged in, and was soon luxuriating in the cool, clear water. 

He swam with long, confident strokes, those of a practiced swimmer. Thiswas worth while. It was the one place where he could forget that hewas no longer the only son of a wealthy father, heir to a respectedname--which was NOT Brown--a young man with all sorts of brilliantprospects; could forget that he was now a disinherited vagabond, aloafer who had been unable to secure a respectable position, an outcast. He swam and dove and splashed, rejoicing in his strength and youth andthe freedom of all outdoors. 

Then, as he lay lazily paddling in deep water, he heard the rattle ofgravel on the steep bank of the other side of the cove. Looking up, he saw, to his huge disgust, a female figure in a trim bathing suitdescending the bluff from the bungalow. It was the girl who had lefthim to fight the wasps. Her dark hair was covered with a jauntily tiedcolored handkerchief, and, against the yellow sand of the bluff, shemade a very pretty picture. Not that Brown was interested, but she did, nevertheless. 

She saw him and waved a hand. "Good morning, " she called. "Beautiful dayfor a swim, isn't it?"

"Yes, " growled the young man, brusquely. He turned and began to swim inthe opposite direction, up the cove. The girl looked after him, raised apuzzled eyebrow, and then, with a shrug, waded into the water. The nexttime the assistant looked at her, she was swimming with long, sweepingstrokes down the narrow creek to the bend and the deep hole at the endof the wharf. Round that bend and through that hole the tide whirled, like a rapid, out into the miniature bay behind Black Man's Point. Itwas against that tide that Seth Atkins had warned him. 

And the girl was swimming directly toward the dangerous narrows. Browngrowled an exclamation of disgust. He had no mind to continue theacquaintance, and yet he couldn't permit her to do that. 

"Miss Graham!" he called. "Oh, Miss Graham!"

She heard him, but did not stop. 

"Yes?" she called in answer, continuing to swim. "What is it?"

"You mustn't--" shouted Brown. Then he remembered that he must notshout. Shouting might awaken the lightkeeper, and the latter wouldmisunderstand the situation, of course. So he cut his warning to oneword. 

"Wait!" he called, and began swimming toward her. She did not come tomeet him, but merely ceased swimming and turned on her back to float. And, floating, the tide would carry her on almost as rapidly as if sheassisted it. That tide did not need any assistance. Brown swung on hisside and settled into the racing stroke, the stroke which had won himcups at the athletic club. 

He reached her in a time so short that she was surprised into anadmiring comment. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "you CAN swim!"

He did not thank her for the compliment. There was no time for that, even if he had felt like it. 

"You shouldn't be here, " he said sharply. 

She looked at him. 

"Why, what do you mean?" she demanded. 

"It isn't safe. A little farther, and the tide would carry you out tosea. Come back, back up to the cove at once. "

He expected her to ask more questions, but she did not. Instead sheturned and struck out in silence. Against the tide, even there, the pullwas tremendous. 

"Shall I help you?" he asked. 

"No, I can make it. "

And she did. It was his turn to be surprised into admiration. 

"By Jove!" he panted, as they swung into the quiet water of the cove andstood erect in the shallows, "that was great! You are a good swimmer. "

"Thank you, " she answered, breathlessly. "It WAS a tug, wasn't it? Thankyou for warning me. Now tell me about the dangerous places, please. "

He told her, repeating Seth's tales of the tide's strength. 

"But it is safe enough here?" she asked. 

"Oh, yes! perfectly safe anywhere this side of the narrow part--thecreek. "

"I'm so glad. This water is glorious, and I began to be afraid I shouldhave to give it up. "

"The creek, and even the bay itself are safe enough at flood, " he wenton. "I often go there then. When the tide is coming in it is all righteven for--"

He paused. She finished the sentence for him. "Even for a girl, you weregoing to say. " She waded forward to where the shoal ended and the deeperpart began. There she turned to look at him over her shoulder. 

"I'm going to that beach over there, " she said, pointing across thecove. "Do you want to race?"

Without waiting to see whether he did or not, she struck out for thebeach. And, without stopping to consider why he did it, the young manfollowed her. 

The race was not so one-sided. Brown won it by some yards, but he had towork hard. His competitor did not give up when she found herself fallingbehind, but was game to the end. 

"Well, " she gasped, "you beat me, didn't you? I never could get thatside stroke, and it's ever so much faster. "

"It's simple enough. Just a knack. I'll teach you if you like. "

"Will you? That's splendid. "

"You are the strongest swimmer, Miss Graham, for a girl, that I eversaw. You must have practiced a great deal. "

"Yes, Horace--my brother--taught me. He is a splendid swimmer, one ofthe very best. "

"Horace Graham? Why, you don't mean Horace Graham of the HarvardAthletic?"

"Yes, I do. He is my brother. But how . . . Do you know him?"

The surprise in her tone was evident. Brown bit his lip. He rememberedthat Cape Cod lightkeepers' helpers were not, as a usual thing, supposedto be widely acquainted in college athletic circles. 

"I have met him, " he stammered. 

"But where--" she began; and then, "why, of course! you met him here. Iforgot that he has been your neighbor for three summers. "

The assistant had forgotten it, too, but he was thankful for thereminder. 

"Yes. Yes, certainly, " he said. She regarded him with a puzzled look. 

"It's odd he didn't mention you, " she observed. "He has told me a greatdeal about the bungalow, and the sea views, and the loneliness and thequaintness of it all. That was what made me wish to spend a monthdown here and experience it myself. And he has often spoken, " with anirrepressible smile, "of your--of the lightkeeper, Mr. Atkins. That ishis name, isn't it?"

"Yes. "

"I want to meet him. Horace said he was--well, rather odd, but, when youknew him, a fine fellow and full of dry humor. I'm sure I should likehim. "

Brown smiled, also--and broadly. He mentally pictured Seth's receptionof the news that he was "liked" by the young lady across the cove. Andthen it occurred to him, with startling suddenness, that he had beenconversing very familiarly with that young lady, notwithstanding thesolemn interchange of vows between the lightkeeper and himself. 

"I must be going, " he said hastily; "good morning, Miss Graham. "

He waded to the shore and strode rapidly back toward the boathouse. Hiscompanion called after him. 

"I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, " she said. "You've promised toteach me that side stroke, remember. "

Brown dressed in a great hurry and climbed the path to the lights at thedouble quick. All was safe and serene in the house, and he breathed morefreely. Atkins was sound asleep, really asleep, in the bedroom, and whenhe emerged he was evidently quite unaware of his helper's unpremeditatedtreason. Brown's conscience pricked him, however, and he went tobed that night vowing over and over that he would be more carefulthereafter. He would take care not to meet the Graham girl again. Havingreached this decision, there remained nothing but to put her out of hismind entirely; which he succeeded in doing at a quarter after eleven, when he fell asleep. Even then she was not entirely absent, for hedreamed a ridiculous dream about her. 

Next day he did not go for a swim, but remained in the house. Seth, atsupper, demanded to know what ailed him. 

"You're as mum as the oldest inhabitant of a deaf and dumb asylum, " wasthe lightkeeper's comment. "And ugly as a bull in fly time. What ailsyou?"

"Nothing. "

"Humph! better take somethin' for it, seems to me. Little 'StomachBalm, ' hey? No? Well, GO to bed! Your room's enough sight better'n yourcompany just now. "

The helper's ill nature was in evidence again at breakfast time. Sethendeavored to joke him out of it, but, not succeeding, and findinghis best jokes received with groans instead of laughter, gave it up indisgust and retired. The young man cleared the table, piled the dishesin the sink, heated a kettleful of water and began the day's drudgery, drudgery which he once thought was fun. 

Why had he had the ill luck to fall overboard from that steamer. Orwhy didn't he drown when he did fall overboard? Then he would have beencomfortably dead, at all events. Why hadn't he stayed in New York orBoston or somewhere and kept on trying for a position, for work--anykind of work? He might have starved while trying, but people who werestarving were self-respecting, and when they met other people--forinstance, sisters of fellows they used to know--had nothing to beashamed of and needn't lie--unless they wanted to. He was a commonloafer, under a false name, down on a sandheap washing dishes. At thispoint he dropped one of the dishes--a plate--and broke it. 

"D--n!" observed John Brown, under his breath, but with enthusiasm. 

He stooped to pick up the fragments of the plate, and, rising once moreto an erect position, found himself facing Miss Ruth Graham. She wasstanding in the doorway. 

"Don't mind me, please, " she said. "No doubt I should feel the same wayif it were my plate. "

The young man's first move, after recovery, was to make sure that thedoor between the kitchen and the hall leading to the lightkeeper'sbedroom was shut. It was, fortunately. The young lady watched him insilence, though her eyes were shining. 

"Good morning, Mr. Brown, " she observed, gravely. 

The assistant murmured a good morning, from force of habit. 

"There's another piece you haven't picked up, " continued the visitor, pointing. 

Brown picked up the piece. 

"Is Mr. Atkins in?" inquired the girl. 

"Yes, he's--he's in. "

"May I see him, please?"

"I--I--"

"If he's busy, I can wait. " She seated herself in a chair. "Don't let meinterrupt you, " she continued. "You were busy, too, weren't you?"

"I was washing dishes, " declared Brown, savagely. 

"Oh!"

"Yes. Washing and sweeping and doing scrubwoman's work are my regularemployments. "

"Indeed! Then I'm just in time to help. Is this the dish towel?"regarding it dubiously. 

"It is, but I don't need any help, thank you. "

"Of course you do. Everyone is glad to be helped at doing dishes. I mayas well make myself useful while I'm waiting for Mr. Atkins. "

She picked up a platter and proceeded to wipe it, quite as a matter ofcourse. Brown, swearing inwardly, turned fiercely to the suds. 

"Did you wish to see Atkins on particular business?" he asked, a momentlater. 

"Oh, no; I wanted to make his acquaintance, that's all. Horace told meso many interesting things about him. By the way, was it last summer, orthe summer before, that you met my brother here?"

No answer. Miss Graham repeated her question. "Was it last summer or thesummer before?" she asked. 

"Oh--er--I don't remember. Last summer, I think. "

"Why, you must remember. How could any one forget anything that happeneddown here? So few things do happen, I should say. So you met him lastsummer?"

"Yes. "

"Hum! that's odd. "

"Shall I call Atkins? He's in his room. "

"I say it is odd, because, when Mrs. Bascom and I first met you, youtold us this was your first summer here. "

There wasn't any answer to this; at least the assistant could think ofnone at the moment. 

"Do you wish me to call Atkins?" he asked, sharply. "He's asleep, but Ican wake him. "

"Oh! he's asleep. Now I understand why you whisper even when yousw--that is, when you break a plate. You were afraid of waking him. Howconsiderate you are. "

Brown put down the dishcloth. "It isn't altogether consideration forhim--or for myself, " he said grimly. "I didn't care to wake him unlessyou took the responsibility. "

"Why?"

"Because, Miss Graham, Seth Atkins took the position of lightkeeper herealmost for the sole reason that no women ever came here. Mr. Atkins is awoman-hater of the most rabid type. I'll wake him up if you wish, but Iwon't be responsible for the consequences. "

The young lady stared at him in surprise, delighted surprise apparently, judging by the expression of her face. 

"A woman-hater?" she repeated. "Is he really?"

"He is. " Mr. Brown neglected to add that he also had declared himself amember of the same fraternity. Perhaps he thought it was not necessary. 

"A woman-hater!" Miss Graham fairly bubbled with mischievous joy. "Oh, jolly! now I'm CRAZY to meet him!"

The assistant moved toward the hall door. "Very good!" he observed withgrim determination. "I think he'll cure your lunacy. "

His hand was outstretched toward the latch, when the young lady spokeagain. 

"Wait a minute, " she said. "Perhaps I had better not wake him now. "

"Just as you say. The pleasure is--or will be--entirely mine, I assureyou. "

"No--o. On the whole, I think I'll wait until later. I may call again. Good morning. "

She moved across the threshold. Then, standing on the mica slab whichwas the step to the kitchen door, she turned to say:

"You didn't swim yesterday. "

"No--o. I--I was busy. "

"I see. "

She paused, as if expecting him to say something further on the subject. He was silent. Her manner changed. 

"Good morning, " she said, coldly, and walked off. The assistant watchedher as she descended the path to the cove, but she did not once lookback. Brown threw himself into a chair. He had never hated anyone asthoroughly as he hated himself at the moment. 

"What a cheerful liar she must think I am, " he reflected. "She caught mein that fool yarn about meeting her brother here last summer; and now, after deliberately promising to teach her that stroke, I don't go nearher. What a miserable liar she must think I am! And I guess I am. ByGeorge, I can't be such a cad. I've got to make good somehow. I mustgive her ONE lesson. I must. "

The tide served for bathing about three that afternoon. At ten minutesbefore that hour the substitute assistant keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lightstiptoed silently to the bedroom of his superior and peeped in. Seth wassnoring peacefully. Brown stealthily withdrew. At three, precisely, heemerged from the boathouse on the wharf, clad in his bathing suit. 

Fifteen minutes after three, Seth Atkins, in his stocking feet and withsuspicion in his eye, crept along the path to the edge of the bluff. Crouching behind a convenient sand dune he raised his head and peeredover it. 

Below him was the cove, its pleasant waters a smooth, deep blue, streaked and bordered with pale green. But the water itself did notinterest Seth. In that water was his helper, John Brown, of nowhere inparticular, John Brown, the hater of females, busily engaged in teachinga young woman to swim. 

Atkins watched this animated picture for some minutes. Then, carefullycrawling back up to the path until he was well out of possible sightfrom the cove, he rose to his feet, raised both hands, and shook theirclenched fists above his head. 

"The liar!" grated Mr. Atkins, between his teeth. "The traitor! Theyoung blackguard! After tellin' me that he . . . And after my doin'everything for him that . . . Oh, by Judas, wait! only wait till hecomes back! I'LL l'arn him! I'LL show him! Oh, by jiminy crimps!"

He strode toward the doorway of the kitchen. There he stopped short. A woman was seated in the kitchen rocker; a stout woman, with her backtoward him. The room, in contrast to the bright sunshine without, wasshadowy, and Seth, for an instant, could see her but indistinctly. However, he knew who she must be--the housekeeper at thebungalow--"Basket" or "Biscuit" his helper had said was her name, asnear as he could remember it. The lightkeeper ground his teeth. Anotherfemale! Well, he would teach this one a few things!

He stepped across the threshold. 

"Ma'am, " he began, sharply, "perhaps you'll tell me what you--"

He stopped. The stout woman had, at the sound of his step, risen fromthe chair, and turned to face him. And now she was staring at him, herface almost as white as the stone-china cups and saucers on the table. 

"Why . . . Why . . . SETH!" she gasped. 

The lightkeeper staggered back until his shoulders struck the doorpost. 

"Good Lord!" he cried; "good . . . LORD! Why--why--EMELINE!"

For over a minute the pair stared at each other, white and speechless. Then Mrs. Bascom hurried to the door, darted out, and fled along thepath around the cove to the bungalow. Atkins did not follow her; he didnot even look in the direction she had taken. Instead, he collapsed inthe rocking-chair and put both hands to his head. 

CHAPTER X

THE BUNGALOW WOMAN

When, an hour later, the swimming teacher, his guilty consciencepricking him, and the knowledge of having been false to his superiorstrong within him, came sneaking into the kitchen, he was startled andhorrified to find the lightkeeper awake and dressed. Mentally he bracedhimself for the battery of embarrassing questions which, he felt sure, he should have to answer. It might be that he must face something moreserious than questions. Quite possible Seth, finding him absent, hadinvestigated--and seen. Well, if he had, then he had, that was all. Themurder would be out, and Eastboro Twin-Lights would shortly be shy asubstitute assistant keeper. 

But there were no embarrassing questions. Atkins scarcely noticedhim. Seated in the rocker, he looked up as the young man entered, andimmediately looked down again. He seemed to be in a sort of waking dreamand only dimly conscious of happenings about him. 

"Hello!" hailed the assistant, with an assumption of casualcheerfulness. 

"Hey? Oh! how be you?" was Mr. Atkins's reply. 

"I've been for my dip, " explained Brown. "The water was fine to-day. "

"Want to know!"

"You're up early, aren't you?"

"Hey? Yes, I guess likely I be. "

"What's wrong? Not sick, are you?"

"No. Course I ain't sick. Say!" Seth seemed to take a sudden interest inthe conversation, "you come straight up from the cove, have you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"You ain't been hangin' around outside here, have you?"

"Hanging around outside? What do you mean?"

"Nothin'. Why do you stand there starin' at me as if I was some sort ofdime show curiosity? Anything queer about me?"

"No. I didn't know I was staring. " The young man was bewildered bythis strange behavior. He was prepared for suspicion concerning his ownactions; but Seth seemed rather to be defending himself from suspicionon the part of his helper. 

"Humph!" The lightkeeper looked keenly at him for a moment. Then hesaid:

"Well, ain't there nothin' to do but stand around? Gettin' pretty nighto supper time, ain't it? Put the kettle on and set the table. "

It was not supper time, but Brown obeyed orders. Seth went to cooking. He spoke perhaps three words during the culinary operations, and a halfdozen more during the meal, of which he ate scarcely a mouthful. Afterit was over, he put on his cap and went out, not to his usual loungingspot, the bench, but to walk a full half mile along the edge of thebluff and there sit in the seclusion of a clump of bayberry bushesand gaze stonily at nothing in particular. Here he remained until thedeepening dusk reminded him that it was time the lights were burning. Returning, he lit the lanterns and sat down in the room at the top ofthe left-hand tower to think, and think, and think. 

The shadows deepened; the last flush of twilight faded from the westernsky; the stars came out; night and the black silence of night shroudedEastboro Twin-Lights. The clock in the tower room ticked on to nine andthen to ten. Still Seth sat, a huddled, dazed figure in the camp chair, by the great lantern. At last he rose and went out on the iron balcony. He looked down at the buildings below him; they were black shapeswithout a glimmer. Brown had evidently gone to bed. In the little stableJoshua thumped the side of his stall once or twice--dreaming, perhaps, that he was again pursued by the fly-papered Job--and subsided. Atkinsturned his gaze across the inlet. In the rear window of the bungalow adim light still burned. As he watched, it was extinguished. He groanedaloud, and, with his arms on the railing, thought and thought. 

Suddenly he heard sounds, faint, but perceptible, above the low grumbleof the surf. They were repeated, the sounds of breaking sticks, as ifsome one was moving through the briers and bushes beyond the stable. Some one was moving there, coming along the path from the upper end ofthe cove. Around the corner of the stable a bulky figure appeared. Itcame on until it stood beneath the balcony. 

"Seth, " called a low voice; "Seth, are you there?"

For a moment the agitated lightkeeper could not trust his voice toanswer. 

"Seth, " repeated the voice; "Seth. "

The figure was moving off in the direction of the other tower. Then Sethanswered. 

"Here--here I be, " he stammered, in a hoarse whisper. "Who is it?"

He knew who it was, perfectly well; the question was quite superfluous. 

"It's me, " said the voice. "Let me in, I've got to talk to you. "

Slowly, scarcely certain that this was not a part of some dreadfulnightmare, Seth descended the iron ladder to the foot of the tower, dragged his faltering feet to the door, and slowly swung it open. Thebulky figure entered instantly. 

"Shut the door, " said Mrs. Bascom. 

"Hey? What?" stammered Seth. 

"I say, shut that door. Hurry up! Land sakes, HURRY! Do you suppose Iwant anybody to know I'm here?"

The lightkeeper closed the door. The clang reverberated through thetower like distant thunder. The visitor started nervously. 

"Mercy!" she exclaimed; "what a racket! What made you slam it?"

"Didn't, " grumbled Seth. "Any kind of a noise sounds up in here. "

"I should think as much. It's enough to wake the dead. "

"Ain't nobody BUT the dead to wake in this place. "

"Yes, there is; there's that young man of yours, that Brown one. Heain't dead, is he?"

"Humph! he's asleep, and that's next door to dead--with him. "

"Well, I'm glad of it. My nerves are pretty steady as a general thing, but I declare I'm all of a twitter to-night--and no wonder. It's darkerthan a pocket in here. Can't we have a light?"

Atkins stumbled across the stone floor and took the lantern fromthe hook by the stairs. He struck a match, and it went out; he triedanother, with the same result. Mrs. Bascom fidgeted. 

"Mercy on us!" she cried; "what DOES ail the thing?"

Seth's trembling fingers could scarcely hold the third match. He rakedit across the whitewashed wall and broke the head short off. 

"Thunder to mighty!" he snarled, under his breath. 

"But what DOES--"

"What does? What do you s'pose? You ain't the only one that's gotnerves, are you?"

The next trial was successful, and the lantern was lighted. With it inhis hand, he turned and faced his caller. They looked at each other. Mrs. Bascom drew a long breath. 

"It is you, " she said. "I couldn't scarcely believe it. It is reallyyou. "

Seth's answer was almost a groan. "It's you, " he said. "You--down here. "

This ended the conversation for another minute. Then the lady seemed toawake to the realities of the situation. 

"Yes, " she said, "it's me--and it's you. We're here, both of us. Thoughwhy on earth YOU should be, I don't know. "

"Me? Me? Why, I belong here. But you--what in time sent you here?Unless, " with returning suspicion, "you came because I--"

He paused, warned by the expression on his caller's face. 

"What was that?" she demanded. 

"Nothin'. "

"Nothin', I guess. If you was flatterin' yourself with the idea that Icame here to chase after you, you never was more mistaken in your life, or ever will be. You set down. You and I have got to talk. Set rightdown. "

The lightkeeper hesitated. Then he obeyed orders by seating himself onan oil barrel lying on its side near the wall. The lantern he placed onthe floor at his feet. Mrs. Bascom perched on one of the lower steps ofthe iron stairs. 

"Now, " she said, "we've got to talk. Seth Bascom--"

Seth started violently. 

"What is it?" asked the lady. "Why did you jump like that? Nobodycomin', is there?"

"No. No . . . But I couldn't help jumpin' when you called me that name. "

"That name? It's your name, isn't it? Oh, " she smiled slightly; "Iremember now. You've taken the name of Atkins since we saw each otherlast. "

"I didn't take it; it belonged to me. You know my middle name. I justdropped the Bascom, that's all. "

"I see. Just as you dropped--some other responsibilities. Why didn'tyou drop the whole christenin' and start fresh? Why did you hang on to'Seth'?"

The lightkeeper looked guilty. Mrs. Bascom's smile broadened. "I know, "she went on. "You didn't really like to drop it all. It was too much ofa thing to do on your hook, and there wasn't anybody to tell you to doit, and so you couldn't quite be spunky enough to--"

He interrupted her. "That wa'n't the reason, " he said shortly. 

"What was the reason?"

"You want to know, do you?"

"Yes, I do. "

"Well, the 'Bascom' part wa'n't mine no more--not all mine. I'd given itto you. "

"O--oh! oh, I see. And you ran away from your name as you ran away fromyour wife. I see. And . . . Why, of course! you came down here to runaway from all the women. Miss Ruth said this mornin' she was told--Idon't know who by--that the lightkeeper was a woman-hater. Are you thewoman-hater, Seth?"

Mr. Atkins looked at the floor. "Yes, I be, " he answered, sullenly. "Doyou wonder?"

"I don't wonder at your runnin' away; that I should have expected. Butthere, " more briskly, "this ain't gettin' us anywhere. You're here--andI'm here. Now what's your idea of the best thing to be done, under thecircumstances?"

Seth shifted his feet. "One of us better go somewheres else, if you askme, " he declared. 

"Run away again, you mean? Well, I sha'n't run away. I'm Miss Ruth'shousekeeper for the summer. I answered her advertisement in the Bostonpaper and we agreed as to wages and so on. I like her and she likes me. Course if I'd known my husband was in the neighborhood, I shouldn't havecome here; but I didn't know it. Now I'm here and I'll stay my time out. What are you goin' to do?"

"I'm goin' to send in my resignation as keeper of these lights. That'swhat I'm goin' to do, and I'll do it to-morrow. "

"Run away again?"

"Yes. "

"Why?"

"Why? WHY? Emeline Bascom, do you ask me that?"

"I do, yes. See here, Seth, we ain't children, nor sentimental youngfolks. We're sensible, or we'd ought to be. Land knows we're old enough. I shall stay here and you ought to. Nobody knows I was your wife or thatyou was my husband, and nobody needs to know it. We ain't even gotthe same names. We're strangers, far's folks know, and we can staystrangers. "

"But--but to see each other every day and--"

"Why not? We've seen each other often enough so that the sight won't beso wonderful. And we'll keep our bein' married a secret. I sha'n't boastof it, for one. "

"But--but to SEE each other--"

"Well, we needn't see each other much. Why, we needn't see each otherany, unless I have to run over to borrer somethin', same as neighborshave to every once in a while. I can guess what's troublin' you; it'syoung Brown. You've told him you're a woman-hater, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have. "

"Humph! Is he one, too?"

The lightkeeper's mouth was twisted with a violent emotion. Heremembered his view of that afternoon's swimming lesson. 

"He said he was, " he snarled. "He pretends he is. "

Mrs. Bascom smiled. "I want to know, " she said. "Umph! I thought . . . However, it's no matter. Perhaps he is. Anyhow he can pretend to be andyou can pretend to believe him. That'll be the easiest way, I guess. Ofcourse, " she added, "I ain't tellin' you what to do with any idea thatyou'll do it because I say so. The time for that is all past and gone. But it seems to me that, for once in my life, I'd be man enough to stickit out. I wouldn't run away again. "

Seth did not answer. He scowled and stared at the circle of lanternlight on the stone floor. Mrs. Bascom rose from her seat on the stairs. 

"Well, " she observed, "I must be gettin' back to the house if I want toget any sleep to-night. I doubt if I get much, for a body don't get overa shock, such as I've had, in a minute. But I'm goin' to get over itand I'm goin' to stay right here and do my work; I'm goin' to go throughwith what seems to be my duty, no matter how hard it is. I've done itafore, and I'll do it again. I've promised, and I keep my promises. Goodnight. "

She started toward the door. Her husband sprang from the oil barrel. 

"Hold on, " he cried; "you wait a minute. I've got somethin' to say. "

She shook her head. "I can't wait, " she said; "I've got to go. "

"No, you ain't, neither. You can stay a spell longer, if you want to. "

"Perhaps, but I don't want to. "

"Why not? What are you afraid of?"

"Afraid! I don't know as I'm afraid of anything--that is, " with acontemptuous sniff, "nothin' I see around here. "

"Then what are YOU runnin' away for?"

This was putting the matter in a new light. Mrs. Bascom regarded herhusband with wrathful amazement, which slowly changed to an amusedsmile. 

"Oh, " she said, "if you think I'm runnin' away, why--"

"I don't see what else 'tis. If I ain't scart to have you here, I don'tsee why you should be scart to stay. Set down on them stairs again; Iwant to talk to you. "

The lady hesitated an instant and then returned to her former seat. Sethwent back to his barrel. 

"Emeline, " he said. "I'll stay here on my job. "

She looked surprised, but she nodded. 

"I'm glad to hear it, " she said. "I'm glad you've got that much spunk. "

"Yup; well, I have. I came down here to get clear of everybody, womenmost of all. Now the one woman that--that--"

"That you 'specially wanted to get clear of--"

"No! No! that ain't the truth, and you know it. She set out to get clearof me--and I let her have her way, same as I done in everything else. "

"She didn't set out to get clear of you. "

"She did. "

"No, she didn't. "

"I say she did. "

Mrs. Bascom rose once more. "Seth Bascom, " she declared, "if all youwanted me to stay here for is to be one of a pair of katydids, hollerin'at each other, I'm goin'. I'm no bug; I'm a woman. "

"Emeline, you set down. You've hove out a whole lot of hints about mynot bein' a man because I run away from your house. Do you think I'dhave been more of a man if I'd stayed in it? Stayed there and beena yaller dog to be kicked out of one corner and into another by youand--and that brother-in-law of yours. That's all I was--a dog. "

"Humph! if a dog's the right breed--and big enough--it's his own faultif he's kicked twice. "

"Not if he cares more for his master than he does for himself--'taint. "

"Why, yes, it is. He can make his master respect him by provin' he ain'tthe kind of dog to kick. And maybe one of his masters--his real master, for he hadn't ought to have but one--might be needin' the right kind ofwatchdog around the house. Might be in trouble her--himself, I mean; andbe hopin' and prayin' for the dog to protect her--him, I should say. Andthen the--"

"Emeline, what are you talkin' about?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'. Seth, what's the use of us two settin' here attwelve o'clock at night and quarrelin' over what's past and settled? Isha'n't do it, for one. I don't want to quarrel with you. "

Seth sighed. "And I don't want to quarrel with you, Emeline, " he agreed. "As you say, there's no sense in it. Dear! dear! this, when you cometo think of it, is the queerest thing altogether that ever was in theworld, I guess. Us two had all creation to roam 'round in, and we landedat Eastboro Twin-Lights. It seems almost as if Providence done it, forsome purpose or other. "

"Yes; or the other critter, for HIS purposes. How did you ever come tobe keeper of a light, Seth?"

"Why--why--I don't know. I used to be in the service, 'fore I went tosea much. You remember I told you I did. And I sort of drifted downhere. I didn't care much what became of me, and I wanted a lonesomehole to hide in, and this filled the bill. I've been here ever since Ileft--left--where I used to be. But, Emeline, how did YOU come here? Youanswered an advertisement, you told me; but why?"

"'Cause I wanted to do somethin' to earn my livin'. I was alone, and Irented my house and boarded. But boardin' ain't much comfort, 'speciallywhen you board where everybody knows you, and knows your story. So I--"

"Wait a minute. You was alone, you say? Where was--was HE?"

"He?"

"Yes. You know who I mean. "

He would not speak the hated name. His wife spoke it for him. 

"Bennie?" she asked. "Oh, he ain't been with me for 'most two year now. He--he went away. He's in New York now. And I was alone and I saw MissGraham's advertisement for a housekeeper and answered it. I needed themoney and--"

"Hold on! You needed the money? Why, you had money. "

"Abner left me a little, but it didn't last forever. And--"

"You had more'n a little. I wrote to bank folks there and turned overmy account to you. And I sent 'em a power of attorney turnin' over somestocks--you know what they was--to you, too. I done that soon's I got toBoston. Didn't they tell you?"

"Yes, they told me. "

"Well, then, that ought to have helped along. "

"You don't s'pose I took it, do you?"

"Why--why not?"

"Why not! Do you s'pose I'd use the money that belonged to the husbandthat run off and left me? I ain't that kind of a woman. The money andstocks are at the bank yet, I s'pose; anyhow they're there for all ofme. "

The lightkeeper's mouth opened and stayed open for seconds before hecould use it as a talking machine. He could scarcely believe what he hadheard. 

"But--but I wanted you to have it, " he gasped. "I left it for you. "

"Well, I didn't take it; 'tain't likely!" with fiery indignation. "Didyou think I could be bought off like a--a mean--oh, I don't know what?"

"But--but I left it at the bank--for you. What--what'll I do with it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. You might give it to Sarah Ann Christy; Iwouldn't wonder if she was less particular than I be. "

Seth's guns were spiked, for the moment. He felt the blood rush to face, and his fists, as he brandished them in the air, trembled. 

"I--I--you--you--" he stammered. "I--I--you think I--"

He knew that his companion would regard his agitation as an evidence ofconscious guilt, and this knowledge did not help to calm him. He strodeup and down the floor. 

"Look out, " said Mrs. Bascom, coldly, "you'll kick over the lantern. "

Her husband stopped in his stride. "Darn the lantern!" he shouted. 

"S-sh-sh! you'll wake up the Brown man. "

This warning was more effective. But Seth was still furious. 

"Emeline Bascom, " he snarled, shaking his forefinger in her face, "you've said over and over that I wa'n't a man. You have, haven't you?"

She was looking at his shirt cuff, then but a few inches from her nose. 

"Who sewed on that button?" she asked. 

This was so unexpected that his wrath was, for the instant, displaced byastonishment. 

"What?" he asked. "What button?"

"That one on your shirt sleeve. Who sewed it on?"

"Why, I did, of course. What a crazy question that is!"

She smiled. "I guessed you did, " she said. "Nobody but a man would sewa white button on a white shirt--or one that was white once--with blackthread. "

He looked at the button and then at her. His anger returned. 

"You said I wa'n't a man, didn't you?" he demanded. 

"Yes, I did. But I'll have to take part of it back. You're half a mananyhow; that sewin' proves it. "

"Huh! I want to know. Well, maybe I ain't a man; maybe I'm only half aone. But I ain't a fool! I ain't a fool!"

She sighed wearily. "Well, all right, " she admitted. "I sha'n't argueit. "

"You needn't. I ain't--or anyhow I ain't an EVERLASTIN' fool. And nobodybut the everlastin'est of all fools would chase Sarah Ann Christy. Ididn't. That whole business was just one of your--your Bennie D. 's lies. You know that, too. "

"I know some one lied; I heard 'em. They denied seein' Sarah Ann, and Isaw 'em with her--with my own eyes I saw 'em. . . . But there, there, "she added; "this is enough of such talk. I'm goin' now. "

"I didn't lie; I forgot. "

"All right, then, you forgot. I ain't jealous, Seth. I wa'n't evenjealous then. Even then I give you a chance, and you didn't take it--you'forgot' instead. I'm goin' back to the bungalow, but afore I go let'sunderstand this: you're to stay here at the lights, and I stay where Iam as housekeeper. We don't see each other any oftener than we have to, and then only when nobody else is around. We won't let my Miss Grahamnor your Brown nor anybody know we've ever met afore--or are meetin'now. Is that it?"

Seth hesitated. "Yes, " he said, slowly, "I guess that's it. But, " headded, anxiously, "I--I wish you'd be 'specially careful not to letthat young feller who's workin' for me know. Him and me had a--a sort ofagreement and--and I--I--"

"He sha'n't know. Good-by. "

She fumbled with the latch of the heavy door. He stepped forward andopened it for her. The night was very dark; a heavy fog, almost a rain, had drifted in while they were together. She didn't seem to notice ormind the fog or blackness, but went out and disappeared beyond the faintradiance which the lantern cast through the open door. She blundered onand turned the corner of the house; then she heard steps behind her. 

"Who is it?" she whispered, in some alarm. 

"Me, " whispered the lightkeeper, gruffly. "I'll go with you a ways. "

"No, of course you won't. I'm goin' alone. "

"It's too dark for you to go alone. You'll lose the way. "

"I'm goin' alone, I tell you! Go back. I don't want you. "

"I know you don't; but I'm goin'. You'll fetch up in the cove orsomewheres if you try to navigate this path on your own hook. "

"I sha'n't. I'm used to findin' my own way, and I'm goin' alone--as I'vehad to do for a good while. Go back. "

She stopped short. Seth stopped, also. 

"Go back, " she insisted, adding scornfully: "I don't care for your helpat all. I'm partic'lar about my company. "

"I ain't, " sullenly. "Anyhow, I'm goin' to pilot you around the end ofthat cove. You sha'n't say I let you get into trouble when I might havekept you out of it. "

"Say? Who would I say it to? Think I'm so proud of this night's cruisethat I'll brag of it? WILL you go back?"

"No. "

They descended the hill, Mrs. Bascom in advance. She could not see thepath, but plunged angrily on through the dripping grass and bushes. 

"Emeline--Emeline, " whispered Seth. She paid no attention to him. Theyreached the foot of the slope and suddenly the lady realized that hershoes, already wet, were now ankle deep in water. And there seemed to bewater amid the long grass all about her. 

"Why? What in the world?" she exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it?"

"The salt marsh at the end of the cove, " answered the lightkeeper. "Itold you you'd fetch up in it if you tried to go alone. Been tryin' totell you you was off the track, but you wouldn't listen to me. "

And she would not listen to him now. Turning, she splashed past him. 

"Hold on, " he whispered, seizing her arm. "That ain't the way. "

She shook herself from his grasp. 

"WILL you let me be, and mind your own business?" she hissed. 

"No, I won't. I've set out to get you home, and I'll do it if I have tocarry you. "

"Carry me? You? You DARE!"

His answer was to pick her up in his arms. She was no light weight, andshe fought and wriggled fiercely, but Seth was big and strong and heheld her tight. She did not scream; she was too anxious not to wakeeither the substitute assistant or Miss Graham, but she made her bearerall the trouble she could. They splashed on for some distance; then Sethset her on her feet, and beneath them was dry ground. 

"There!" he grumbled, breathlessly. "Now I cal'late you can't miss therest of it. There's the bungalow right in front of you. "

"You--you--" she gasped, chokingly. 

"Ugh!" grunted her husband, and stalked off into the dark. 

CHAPTER XI

BEHIND THE SAND DUNE

"A fog last night, wasn't there?" inquired Brown. Breakfast was over, and Seth was preparing for his day's sleep. 

"Yes, some consider'ble, " was the gruff answer; then, more sharply, "How'd you know? 'Twas all gone this mornin'. "

"Oh, I guessed, that's all. "

"Humph! Guessed, hey? You wa'n't up in the night, was you?"

"No. Slept like a top all through. "

"Humph! . . . Well, that's good; sleep's a good thing. Cal'late I'llturn in and get a little myself. "

He moved toward the living room. At the door he paused and asked anotherquestion. 

"How'd you--er--guess there was fog last night?" he inquired. 

"Oh, that was easy; everything--grass and bushes--were so wet thismorning. Those boots of yours, for example, " pointing to the pair thelightkeeper had just taken off, "they look as if you had worn themwading. "

His back was toward his superior as he spoke, therefore he did not seethe start which the latter gave at this innocent observation, nor thehorrified glare at the soaked boots. But he could not help noticing thechange in Seth's voice. 

"Wa--wadin'?" repeated Atkins faintly. "What's that you say?"

"I said the boots were as wet as if you had been wading. Why?"

"Wha--what made you say a fool thing like that? How could I go wadin' ontop of a lighthouse?"

"I don't know. . . . There, there!" impatiently, "don't ask any morequestions. I didn't say you had been wading, and I didn't suppose youreally had. I was only joking. What IS the matter with you?"

"Nothin' . . . Nothin'. So you was just jokin', hey? Ha, ha! Yes, yes, wadin' up in a lighthouse would be a pretty good joke. I--I didn't seeit at first, you know. Ha, ha! I thought you must be off your head. Thought you'd been swimmin' too much or somethin'. So long, I'm goin' tobed. "

But now it was the helper's turn to start and stammer. 

"Wait!" he cried. "What--what did you say about my--er--swimming, wasit?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'. I was just jokin', same as you was about thewadin'. Ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha!"

Both laughed with great heartiness. The door shut between them, and eachstared doubtfully at his side of it for several moments before turningaway. 

That forenoon was a dismal one for John Brown. His troublesomeconscience, stirred by Seth's reference to swimming, was again in fullworking order. He tried to stifle its reproaches, tried to give hisentire attention to his labors about the lights and in the kitchen, butthe consciousness of guilt was too strong. He felt mean and traitorous, a Benedict Arnold on a small scale. He had certainly treated Atkinsshabbily; Atkins, the man who trusted him and believed in him, whom hehad loftily reproved for "spying" and then betrayed. Yet, in a way histreason, so far, had been unavoidable. He had promised--had even OFFEREDto teach the Graham girl the "side stroke. " He had not meant to makesuch an offer or promise, but Fate had tricked him into it, and he couldnot, as a gentleman, back out altogether. He had been compelled to giveher one lesson. But he need not give her another. He need not meet heragain. He would not. He would keep the agreement with Seth and forgetthe tenants of the bungalow altogether. Good old Atkins! Good old Seth, the woman-hater! How true he was to his creed, the creed which he, Brown, had so lately professed. It was a good creed, too. Women were atthe bottom of all the world's troubles. They deserved to be hated. Hewould never, never--

"Well, by George!" he exclaimed aloud. 

He was looking once more at the lightkeeper's big leather boots. One ofthem was lying on its side, and the upturned sole and heel were thicklycoated with blue clay. He crossed the room, picked up the boots andexamined them. Each was smeared with the clay. He put them down again, shook his head, wandered over to the rocking-chair and sat down. 

Seth had cleaned and greased those boots before he went to bed the daybefore; Brown had seen him doing it. He had put them on after supper, just before going on watch; the substitute assistant had seen him dothat, also. Therefore, the clay must have been acquired sometime duringthe evening or night just past. And certainly there was no clay at the"top of the lighthouse, " or anywhere in the neighborhood except atone spot--the salt marsh at the inner end of the cove. Seth must havevisited that marsh in the nighttime. But why? And, if he had done so, why did he not mention the fact? And, now that the helper thought of it, why had he been so agitated at the casual remark concerning wading? Whatwas he up to? Now that the Daisy M. And story of the wife were no longersecrets, what had Seth Atkins to conceal?

Brown thought and guessed and surmised, but guesses and surmises werefruitless. He finished his dishwashing and began another of the loathedhousekeeping tasks, that of rummaging the pantry and seeing whateatables were available for his luncheon and the evening meal. 

He spread the various odds and ends on the kitchen table, preparatory totaking account of stock. A part of a slab of bacon, a salt codfish, somecold clam fritters, a few molasses cookies, and half a loaf of bread. Hehad gotten thus far in the inventory when a shadow darkened the doorway. He turned and saw Mrs. Bascom, the bungalow housekeeper. 

"Good mornin', " said Mrs. Bascom. 

Brown answered coldly. Why on earth was it always his luck to be presentwhen these female nuisances made their appearance? And why couldn'tthey let him alone, just as he had determined to let them alone--in thefuture? Of course he was glad that the caller was not Miss Graham, butthis one was bad enough. 

"Morning, " he grunted, and took another dish, this one containing asection of dry and ancient cake, Seth's manufacture, from the pantry. 

"What you doin'? Gettin' breakfast this time of day?" asked thehousekeeper, entering the kitchen. She had a small bowl in her hand. 

"No, " replied Brown. 

"Dinner, then? Pretty early for that, ain't it?"

"I am not getting either breakfast or dinner--or supper, madam, " repliedthe helper, with emphasis. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, I don't know but there is. I come over hopin' you might. How'sthe stings?"

"The what?"

"The wasp bites. "

"They're all, right, thank you. "

"You're welcome, I'm sure. Did you put the cold mud on 'em, same as Itold you to?"

"No. . . . What was it you wanted?"

Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat. The rocker was at the opposite sideof the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr. Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of theconventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and hadforgotten to take with him. The lady picked up the garment, looked atit, and sat down in the chair. 

"Your boss is to bed, I s'pose likely?" she asked. 

"You mean Mr. Atkins? I suppose likely he is. "

"Um. I judged he was by"--with a glance at the garment which she stillheld--"the looks of things. What in the world ARE you doin'--cleanin'house?"

The young man sighed wearily. "Yes, " he said with forced resignation, "something of that sort. "

"Seein' what there was to eat, I guess. "

"You guess right. You said you had an errand, I think. "

"Did I? Well, I come to see if I couldn't . . . What's that stuff?Cake?"

She rose, picked up a slice of the dry cake, broke it between herfingers, smelled of it, and replaced it on the plate. 

"'Tis cake, ain't it?" she observed; "or it was, sometime or other. Whomade it? You?"

"No. "

"Oh, your boss, Mr. --er--Atkins, hey?"

"Yes. Considering that there are only two of us here, and I didn't makeit, it would seem pretty certain that he must have. "

"Yes, I guess that's right; unless 'twas some that washed ashore fromNoah's Ark, and it's too dry for that. What on earth are these?" pickingup one of the molasses cookies; "stove lids?"

Brown grinned, in spite of his annoyance. 

"Those are supposed to be cookies, " he admitted. 

"Are they? Yes, yes. Mr. Atkins responsible for them?"

"No--o. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins'sdirections and orders. I'm rather proud of those cookies, myself. "

"You'd ought to be. There, there!" with a smile, "I guess you think I'mpretty free with my criticism and remarks, don't you? You must excuseme. Housekeepin'--'specially the cookin' part--is my hobby, as you mightsay, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with thejob. I mustn't set around and keep you from your work. You might want tomake some more cookies, or somethin'. "

The substitute assistant laughed aloud. "I wasn't thinking of it, " hesaid; "but I shall be glad to make the attempt if it would afford youamusement. "

Mrs. Bascom laughed, too. "I guess you're better natured than I thoughtyou was, " she observed. "It might amuse me some, I will admit, but Iain't got the time. I came to borrow some butter, if you've got any tospare. Down here we're as far from supplies as the feller that run theArk I was mentionin', old Noah himself. "

Brown took the bowl from her hands and went to the pantry to get thebutter. When he turned again she was standing by the door, one handhidden beneath her apron. She took the bowl with the other. 

"Much obliged, " she said. "I'll fetch this back soon's the grocery cartcomes. Miss Graham made arrangements to have him drive across everySaturday. Or, rather, I arranged for it myself. Her head's too full ofpaintin' and scenery to think of much else. I tell her you can't eat anile paintin'--unless you're born a goat. Good-by. "

She went away. Brown chuckled and went on with his account of stock. 

Seth "turned out" rather early that day. At half past one he appeared inthe kitchen, partially dressed. 

"Where in time is my shirt?" he demanded impatiently. 

"Your what?"

"My shirt. I thought I took it off out here. Could have sworn I did. Guess likely I didn't, though. Must be gettin' absent-minded. "

He was on his way back to the bedroom when his helper called. 

"You did take it off out here, " he cried. "It was on that chair there. Iremember seeing it. Probably it has fallen on the floor somewhere. "

Atkins returned, grumbling that the kitchen floor was a "healthy placeto heave a shirt. "

"Where is it?" he asked after a hurried search. "I can't find itnowheres. Didn't put it in the fire, did ye?"

"Of course I didn't. I saw it. . . . Why, I remember that woman'spicking it up when she sat down. "

"Woman? What woman?"

"That Baskin--Buskin--whatever her name is. The housekeeper at thebungalow. "

"Was she--HERE?" Seth's question was almost a shout. His helper staredat him. 

"Yes, " he answered; "she was. She came to borrow some butter. "

"To--to borrow--butter?"

"Why, yes. You didn't think I invited her in for a morning call, didyou? Don't act as if you had been struck by lightning. It's not so veryserious. We've got to expect some trouble of that kind. I got rid of heras soon as I could. "

"You--you did?"

"Yes, I did. You should thank me. I am on duty during the day, and Isuppose most of that sort of thing will fall on me. You're lucky. Ourneighbors aren't likely to make many calls after dark. . . . What's thematter now? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Seth walked to the door and leaned against the post. Brown repeated hisquestion. "What IS the matter?" he asked. "You act just as you did whenI first happened into this forsak--this place. If you've got any morehideous secrets up your sleeve I'm going to quit. "

"Secrets!" Atkins laughed, or tried to. "I ain't got any secrets, " hedeclared, "any more than you have. "

The latter half of this speech shut off further questioning. Brownturned hastily away, and the lightkeeper went into his bedroom andfinished dressing. 

"Find your shirt?" asked the young man an hour or so later. 

"Hey? Yes, yes; I found it. "

"In your room? That's odd. I could have sworn I saw it out here. Is thatit you're wearing?"

"Hey? No. That was--was sort of s'iled, so I put on my other one. I--Ical'late I'll go over and work on the Daisy M. A spell, unless you needme. "

"I don't need you. Go ahead. "

The time dragged for John Brown after his superior's departure. Therewas work enough to be done, but he did not feel like doing it. Hewandered around the house and lights, gloomy, restless and despondent. Occasionally he glanced at the clock. 

It was a beautiful afternoon, just the afternoon for a swim, and he wasdebarred from swimming, not only that day, but for all the summer daysto come. No matter what Seth's new secret might be, it was surely notconnected with the female sex, and Brown would be true to the solemncompact between them. He could not bathe in the cove because Miss Grahamwould be there. 

At four o'clock he stood in the shadow of the light tower looking acrossthe cove. As he looked he saw Miss Graham, in bathing attire, emergefrom the bungalow and descend the bluff. She did not see him and, tomake sure that she might not, he dodged back out of sight. Then he sawsomething else. 

Out on the dunes back of the barn he caught a glimpse of a figuredarting to cover behind a clump of bushes. The figure was a familiarone, but what was it doing there? He watched the bushes, but they didnot move. Then he entered the house, went upstairs, and cautiouslypeered from the back attic window. 

The bushes remained motionless for some minutes. Then they stirredever so slightly, and above them appeared the head of Seth Atkins. Sethseemed to be watching the cove and the lights. For another minute hepeered over the bushes, first at the bathing waters below and then athis own dwelling. Brown ground his teeth. The light-keeper was "spying"again, was watching to see if he violated his contract. 

But no, that could not be, for now Seth, apparently sure that the coastwas clear, emerged from his hiding place and ran in a stooping postureuntil he reached another clump further off and nearer the end of thecove. He remained there an instant and then ran, still crouching, untilhe disappeared behind a high dune at the rear of the bungalow. And therehe stayed; at least Brown did not see him come out. 

What he did see, however, was just as astonishing. The landward door ofthe bungalow opened, and Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, stepped out intothe yard. She seemed to be listening and looking. Apparently she musthave heard something, for she moved away for some little distance andstood still. Then, above the edge of the dune, showed Seth's head andarm. He beckoned to her. She walked briskly across the interveningspace, turned the ragged, grass-grown corner of the knoll anddisappeared, also. Brown, scarcely believing his eyes, waited andwatched, but he saw no more. Neither Seth nor the housekeeper came outfrom behind that dune. 

But the substitute assistant had seen enough--quite enough. Seth Atkins, Seth, the woman-hater, the man who had threatened him with all sorts ofpenalties if he ever so much as looked at a female, was meeting one ofthe sex himself, meeting her on the sly. What it meant Brown could notimagine. Probably it explained the clay smears on the boots and Seth'sdiscomfiture of the morning; but that was immaterial. The fact, the oneessential fact, was this: the compact was broken. Seth had broken it. Brown was relieved of all responsibility. If he wished to swim in thatcove, no matter who might be there, he was perfectly free to do it. Andhe would do it, by George! He had been betrayed, scandalously, meanlybetrayed, and it would serve the betrayer right if he paid him in hisown coin. He darted down the attic stairs, ran down the path to theboathouse, hurriedly changed his clothes for his bathing suit, ran alongthe shore of the creek and plunged in. 

Miss Graham waved a hand to him as he shook the water from his eyes. 

Over behind the sand dune a more or less interesting interview wastaking place. Seth, having made sure that his whistles were heard andhis signals seen, sank down in the shadow and awaited developments. Theywere not long in coming. A firm footstep crunched the sand, and Mrs. Bascom appeared. 

"Well, " she inquired coldly, "what's the matter now?"

Mr. Atkins waved an agitated hand. 

"Set down, " he begged. "Scooch down out of sight, Emeline, for the landsakes. Don't stand up there where everybody can see you. "

The lady refused to "scooch. "

"If I ain't ashamed of bein' seen, " she observed, "I don't know why youshould be. What are you doin' over here anyhow; skippin' 'round in thesand like a hoptoad?"

The lightkeeper repeated his plea. 

"Do set down, Emeline, please, " he urged. "I thought you and me'd agreedthat nobody'd ought to see us together. "

Mrs. Bascom gathered her skirts about her and with great deliberationseated herself upon a hummock. 

"We did have some such bargain, " she replied. "That's why I can'tunderstand your hidin' at my back door and whistlin' and wavin' like ayoung one. What did you come here for, anyway?"

Seth answered with righteous indignation. 

"I come for my shirt, " he declared. 

"Your shirt?"

"Yes, my other shirt. I left it in the kitchen this mornin', andthat--that helper of mine says you was in the chair along with it. "

"Humph! Did he have the impudence to say I took it?"

"No--o. No, course he didn't. But it's gone and--and--"

"What would I want of your shirt? Didn't think I was cal'latin' to wearit, did you?"

"No, but--"

"I should hope not. I ain't a Doctor Mary Walker, or whatever her nameis. "

"But you did take it, just the same. I'm sartin you did. You must have. "

The lady's mouth relaxed, and there was a twinkle in her eye. 

"All right, Seth, " she said. "Suppose I did; what then?"

"I want it back, that's all. "

"You can have it. Now what do you s'pose I took it for?"

"I--I--I don't know. "

"You don't know? Humph! Did you think I wanted to keep it as a souveneerof last night's doin's?"

Her companion looked rather foolish. He picked up a handful of sand andsifted it through his fingers. 

"No--o, " he stammered. "I--I know how partic'lar you are--you used tobe about such things, and I thought maybe you didn't like the way thatbutton was sewed on. "

He glanced up at her with an embarrassed smile, which broadened as henoticed her expression. 

"Well, " she admitted, "you guessed right. There's some things I can'tbear to have in my neighborhood, and your kind of sewin' is one of 'em. Besides, I owed you that much for keepin' me out of the wet last night. "

"Oh! I judged by the way you lit into me for luggin' you acrost thatmarsh that all you owed me was a grudge. I DID lug you, though, in spiteof your kickin', didn't I?"

He nodded with grim triumph. She smiled. 

"You did, that's a fact, " she said. "I was pretty mad at the time, butwhen I come to think it over I felt diff'rent. Anyhow I've sewed onthose buttons the way they'd ought to be. "

"Much obliged. I guess they'll stay now for a spell. You always couldsew on buttons better'n anybody ever I see. "

"Humph!" . . . Then, after an interval of silence: "What are yougrinnin' to yourself about?"

"Hey? . . . Oh, I was just thinkin' how you mended up that Rogersyoung one's duds when he fell out of our Bartlett pear tree. He was theraggedest mess ever I come acrost when I picked him up. Yellin' like awild thing he was, and his clothes half tore off. "

"No wonder he yelled. Caught stealin' pears--he expected to be thrashedfor that--and he KNEW Melindy Rogers would whip him, for tearin' hisSunday suit. Poor little thing! Least I could do was to make his clotheswhole. I always pity a child with a stepmother, special when she'sMelindy's kind. "

"What's become of them Rogerses? Still livin' in the Perry house, arethey?"

"No. Old Abel Perry turned 'em out of that when the rent got behind. He's the meanest skinflint that ever strained skim milk. He got marriedagain a year ago. "

"NO! Who was the victim? Somebody from the Feeble-Minded Home?"

She gave the name of Mr. Perry's bride, and before they knew it thepair were deep in village gossip. For many minutes they discussed thehappenings in the Cape Ann hamlet, and then Seth was recalled to thepresent by a casual glance at his watch. 

"Land!" he exclaimed. "Look at the time! This talk with you has seemedso--so natural and old-timey, that . . . Well, I've got to go. "

He was scrambling to his feet. She also attempted to rise, but found itdifficult. 

"Here, " he cried, "give me your hand. I'll help you up. "

"I don't want any help. Let me alone. Let me ALONE, I tell you. "

His answer was to seize her about the waist and swing her bodily toher feet. She was flushed and embarrassed. Then she laughed shortly andshook her head. 

"What are you laughin' at?" he demanded, peering over the knoll to makesure that neither John Brown nor Miss Graham was in sight. 

"Oh, not much, " she answered. "You kind of surprise me, Seth. "

"Why?"

"'Cause you've changed so. "

"Changed? How?"

"Oh, changed, that's all. You seem to have more spunk than you used tohave. "

"Humph! Think so, do you?"

"Yes, I do. I think bein' a lightkeeper must be good for somefolks--some kind of folks. "

"I want to know!"

"Yes, you better be careful, or you'll be a real man some day. "

His answer was an angry stare and a snort. Then he turned on his heeland was striding off. 

"Wait!" she called. "Hold on! Don't you want your shirt? Stay here, andI'll go into the house and fetch it. "

He waited, sullen and reluctant, until she returned with the article ofapparel in one hand and the other concealed beneath her apron. 

"Here it is, " she said, presenting the shirt to him. 

"Thank you, " he grumbled, taking it. "Much obliged for sewin' on thebutton. "

"You're welcome. It squares us for your pilotin' me over the marsh, that's all. 'Twa'n't any favor; I owed it to you. "

He was turning the shirt over in his hands. 

"Well, " he began, then stopped and looked fixedly at the garment. 

"I see you've mended that hole in the sleeve, " he said. "You didn't oweme that, did you?"

She changed color slightly. 

"Oh, " she said, with a toss of her head, "that's nothin'. Just for goodmeasure. I never could abide rags on anybody that--that I had to look atwhether I wanted to or not. "

"'Twas real good of you to mend it, Emeline. Say, " he stirred the sandwith his boot, "you mentioned that you cal'lated I'd changed some, wasmore of a man than I used to be. Do you know why?"

"No. Unless, " with sarcasm, "it was because I wa'n't around. "

"It ain't that. It's because, Emeline, it's because down here I'm nigherbein' where I belong than anywheres else but one place. That place is atsea. When I'm on salt water I'm a man--you don't believe it, but I am. On land I--I don't seem to fit in right. Keepin' a light like this isnext door to bein' at sea. "

"Seth, I want to ask you a question. Why didn't you go to sea when youran--when you left me? I s'posed of course you had. Why didn't you?"

He looked at her in surprise. 

"Go to sea?" he repeated. "Go to SEA? How could I? Didn't I promise youI'd never go to sea again?"

"Was that the reason?"

"Sartin. What else?"

She did not answer. There was an odd expression on her face. He turnedto go. 

"Well, good-by, " he said. 

"Good-by. Er--Seth. "

"Yes; what is it?"

"I--I want to tell you, " she stammered, "that I appreciated your leavin'that money and stocks at the bank in my name. I couldn't take 'em, ofcourse, but 'twas good of you. I appreciated it. "

"That's all right. "

"Wait. Here! Maybe you'd like these. " She took the hand from beneathher apron and extended it toward him. It held a pan heaped with objectsflat, brown, and deliciously fragrant. He looked at the pan and itscontents uncomprehendingly. 

"What's them?" he demanded. 

"They're molasses cookies. I've been bakin', and these are some extryones I had left over. You can have 'em if you want 'em. "

"Why--why, Emeline! this is mighty kind of you. "

"Not a mite, " sharply. "I baked a good many more'n Miss Ruth and I candispose of, and that poor helper man of yours ought to be glad to get'em after the cast-iron pound-weights that you and he have been tryin'to live on. Mercy on us! the thoughts of the cookies he showed me thismornin' have stayed in my head ever since. Made me feel as if I waspartly responsible for murder. "

"But it's kind of you, just the same. "

"Rubbish! I'd do as much for a pig any day. There! you've got yourshirt; now you'd better go home. "

She forced the pan of cookies into his hand and moved off. Thelightkeeper hesitated. 

"I--I'll fetch the pan back to-morrer, " he called after her in a loudwhisper. 

CHAPTER XII

THE LETTER AND THE 'PHONE

The cookies appeared on the table that evening. Brown noticed them atonce. 

"When did you bake these?" he asked. 

Atkins made no reply, so the question was repeated with a variation. 

"Did you bake these this afternoon?" inquired the substitute assistant. 

"Humph? Hey? Oh, yes, I guess so. Why? Anything the matter with 'em?"

"Matter with them? No. They're the finest things I've tasted since Icame here. New receipt, isn't it?"

"Cal'late so. "

"I thought it must be. I'll take another. "

He took another, and many others thereafter. He and his superior clearedthe plate between them. 

Brown was prepared for questions concerning his occupation of theafternoon and was ready with some defiant queries of his own. But nooccasion arose for either defiance or cross-examination. Seth neverhinted at a suspicion nor mentioned the young lady at the bungalow. Brown therefore remained silent concerning what he had seen from theattic window. He would hold that in reserve, and if Atkins ever didaccuse him of bad faith or breach of contract he could retort in kind. His conscience was clear now--he was no more of a traitor than Sethhimself--and, this being so, he felt delightfully independent. Iftrouble came he was ready for it, and in the meantime he should do as hepleased. 

But no trouble came. That day, and for many days thereafter, thelightkeeper was sweetness itself. He and his helper had never been moreanxious to please each other, and the house at Twin-Lights was--to allappearances--an abode of perfect trust and peace. Every day, when Sethwas asleep or out of the way, "working on the Daisy M. , " the assistantswam to the cove, and every day he met Miss Graham there! During thefirst week he returned from his dips expecting to be confronted by hissuperior, and ready with counter accusations of his own. After thishe ceased to care. Seth did not ask a question and was so trustful andunsuspecting that Brown decided his secret was undiscovered. In fact, the lightkeeper was so innocent that the young man felt almost wicked, as if he were deceiving a child. He very nearly forgot the meetingbehind the sand dune, having other and much more important things tothink of. 

July passed, and the first three weeks of August followed suit. Theweather, which had been glorious, suddenly gave that part of the coasta surprise party in the form of a three days' storm. It was an offshoregale, but fierce, and the lighthouse buildings rocked in its grasp. Bathing was out of the question, and one of Seth's dories broke itsanchor rope and went to pieces in the breakers. Atkins and Brown sleptbut little during the storm, both being on duty the greater part of thetime. 

The fourth day broke clear, but the wind had changed to the east andthe barometer threatened more bad weather to come. When Seth came in tobreakfast he found his helper sound asleep in a kitchen chair, his headon the table. The young man was pretty well worn out. Atkins insistedupon his going to bed for the forenoon. 

"Of course I sha'n't, " protested Brown. "It's my watch, and you needsleep yourself. "

"No, I don't, neither, " was the decided answer. "I slept between timesup in the tower, off and on. You go and turn in. I've got to drive overto Eastboro by and by, and I want you to be wide awake while I'm away. We ain't done with this spell of weather yet. We'll have rain and aneasterly blow by night, see if we don't. You go right straight to bed. "

"I shall do nothing of the sort. "

"Yes, you will. I'm your boss and I order you to do it. No back talk, now. Go!"

So Brown went, unwilling but very tired. He was sound asleep in tenminutes. 

Seth busied himself about the house, occasionally stepping to the windowto look out at the weather. An observer would have noticed that beforeleaving the window on each of these occasions, his gaze invariablyturned toward the bungalow. His thoughts were more constant than hisgaze; they never left his little cottage across the cove. In fact, theyhad scarcely left it for the past month. He washed the breakfast dishes, set the room in order, and was turning once more toward the window, whenhe heard a footstep approaching the open door. He knew the step; it wasone with which he had been familiar during other and happier days, andnow, once more--after all the years and his savage determination toforget and to hate--it had the power to awaken strange emotions in hisbreast. Yet his first move was to run into the living room and close hishelper's chamber door. When he came back to the kitchen, shutting theliving-room door carefully behind him, Mrs. Bascom was standing on thesill. She started when she saw him. 

"Land sakes!" she exclaimed. "You? I cal'lated, of course, you was abedand asleep. "

The lightkeeper waved his hands. 

"S-sh-h!" he whispered. 

"What shall I s-sh-h about? Your young man's gone somewhere, I s'pose, else you wouldn't be here. "

"No, he ain't. He's turned in, tired out. "

"Oh, then I guess I'd better go back home. 'Twas him I expected to see, else, of course, I shouldn't have come. "

"Oh, I know that, " with a sigh. "Where's your boss, Miss Graham?"

"She's gone for a walk along shore. I came over to--to bring back themeggs I borrowed. "

"Did you? Where are they?"

The housekeeper seemed embarrassed, and her plump cheeks reddened. 

"I--I declare I forgot to bring 'em after all, " she stammered. 

"I want to know. That's funny. You don't often--that is, you didn't useto forget things hardly ever, Emeline. "

"Hum! you remember a lot, don't you. "

"I remember more'n you think I do, Emeline. "

"That's enough of that, Seth. Remember what I told you last time we saweach other. "

"Oh, all right, all right. I ain't rakin' up bygones. I s'pose I deserveall I'm gettin'. "

"I s'pose you do. Well, long's I forgot the eggs I guess I might as wellbe trottin' back. . . . You--you've been all right--you and Mr. Brown, Imean--for the last few days, while the storm was goin' on?"

"Um-h'm, " gloomily. "How about you two over to the bungalow? You've keptdry and snug, I judge. "

"Yes. "

"I didn't know but you might be kind of nervous and scart when 'twasblowin'. All alone so. "

"Humph! I've got used to bein' alone. As for Miss Ruth, I don't thinkshe's scart of anythin'. "

"Well, I was sort of nervous about you, if you wa'n't about yourself. 'Twas consider'ble of a gale of wind. I thought one spell I'd blow outof the top of the tower. "

"So did I. I could see your shadow movin' 'round up there once in awhile. What made you come out on the gallery in the worst of it nightafore last?"

"Oh, the birds was smashin' themselves to pieces against the glass sameas they always do in a storm, and I . . . But say! 'twas after twelvewhen I came out. How'd you come to see me? What was your doin' up thattime of night?"

Mrs. Bascom's color deepened. She seemed put out by the question. 

"So much racket a body couldn't sleep, " she explained sharply. "Ithought the shingles would lift right off the roof. "

"But you wa'n't lookin' at the shingles. You was lookin' at thelighthouses; you jest said so. Emeline, was you lookin' for me? Was youworried about me?"

He bent forward eagerly. 

"Hush!" she said, "you'll wake up the other woman-hater. "

"I don't care. I don't care if I wake up all creation. Emeline, Ibelieve you was worried about me, same as I was about you. More'n that, "he added, conviction and exultation in his tone, "I don't believe 'twaseggs that fetched you here this mornin' at all. I believe you came tofind out if we--if I was all right. Didn't you?"

"I didn't come to SEE you, be sure of that, " with emphatic scorn. 

"I know. But you was goin' to see Brown and find out from him. Answerme. Answer me now, didn't--"

She stepped toward the door. He extended an arm and held her back. 

"You answer me, " he commanded. 

She tried to pass him, but his arm was like an iron bar. She hesitated amoment and then laughed nervously. 

"You certainly have took to orderin' folks round since the old days, "she said. "Why, yes, then; I did come to find out if you hadn't gotcold, or somethin'. You're such a child and I'm such a soft-headed foolI couldn't help it, I cal'late?"

"Emeline, s'pose I had got cold. S'pose you found I was sick--whatthen?"

"Why--why, then I guess likely I'd have seen the doctor on my waythrough Eastboro. I shall be goin' that way to-morrer when I leavehere. "

"When you leave here? What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I say. Miss Graham's goin' to Boston to-morrer, and I'm goin'with her--as far as the city. "

"But--but you're comin' back!"

"What should I come back here for? My summer job's over. If you wantto know, my principal reason for comin' here this mornin' was to saygood-by--to Mr. Brown, of course. "

Seth's arm dropped. He leaned heavily against the doorpost. 

"You're goin' away!" he exclaimed. "You're goin' away! Where?"

"I don't know. Back home, I s'pose. Though what I'll do when I get thereI don't know. I've sold the house, so I don't exactly know where I'llput up. But I guess I'll find a place. "

"You've sold your house? The house we used to live in?"

"Yes. The man that's been hirin' it has bought it. I'm glad, for I needthe money. So good-by, Seth. 'Tain't likely we'll meet again in thislife. "

She started toward the door once more, and this time he was too greatlydisturbed and shaken by what she had told him to detain her. At thethreshhold she turned and looked at him. 

"Good-by, Seth, " she said again. "I hope you'll be happy. And, " witha half smile, "if I was you I'd stay keepin' lights; it, or somethin'else, has improved you a whole lot. Good-by. "

Then he sprang forward. "Emeline, " he cried, "Emeline, wait. You mustn'tgo. I can't let you go this way. I . . . What's that?"

"That" was the sound of horse's feet and the rattle of wheels. Thelightkeeper ran to the window. 

"It's Henry G. 's grocery cart, " he said. "I cal'late he's fetchin' sometruck I ordered last week. Do you want him to see you here?"

"I don't care. He don't know but what you and me are the best offriends. Yet, I don't know. Maybe it's just as well he don't see me;then there'll be no excuse for talk. I'll step inside and wait. "

She returned to the kitchen, and Seth went out to meet the wagon. Itsdriver was the boy who had brought the flypaper and "Job. "

"Hello, " hailed the youngster, pulling in his steed; "how be you, Mr. Atkins? I've got some of them things you ordered. The rest ain't comefrom Boston yet. Soon's they do, Henry G. 'll send 'em down. How youfeelin' these days? Ain't bought no more dogs, have you?"

Seth curtly replied that he "wa'n't speculatin' in dogs to no greatextent any more, " and took the packages which the boy handed him. Withthem was a bundle of newspapers and an accumulation of mail matter. 

"I fetched the mail for the bungalow, too, " said the boy. "There's twoor three letters for that Graham girl and one for Mrs. Bascom. She'shousekeeper there, you know. "

"Yes. Here, you might's well leave their mail along with mine. I'll seeit's delivered, all right. "

"Will you? Much obliged. Goin' to take it over yourself? Better lookout, hadn't you? That Graham girl's a peach; all the fellers at thestore's talkin' about her. Seems a pity she's wastin' her sassiety on awoman-hater like you; that's what they say. You ain't gettin' over yourfemale hate, are you? Haw, haw!"

Mr. Atkins regarded his questioner with stern disapproval. 

"There's some things--such as chronic sassiness--some folks never getover, " he observed caustically. "Though when green hides are too freshthey can be tanned; don't forget that, young feller. Any more chattyremarks you've got to heave over? No? Well, all right; then I'd betrottin' back home if I was you. Henry G. 'll have to shut up shop if youdeprive him of your valuable services too long. Good day to you. "

The driver, somewhat abashed, gathered up the reins. "I didn't mean tomake you mad, " he observed. "Anything in our line you want to order?"

"No. I'm cal'latin' to go to the village myself this afternoon, and if Iwant any more groceries I'll order 'em then. As for makin' me mad--well, don't you flatter yourself. A moskeeter can pester me, but he don't makeme mad but once--and his funeral's held right afterwards. Now trot alongand keep in the shade much as you can. You're so fresh the sun mightspile you. "

The boy, looking rather foolish, laughed and drove out of the yard. Seth, his arms full, went back to the kitchen. He dumped the packagesand newspapers on the table and began sorting the letters. 

"Here you are, Emeline, " he said. "Here's Miss Graham's mail andsomethin' for you. "

"For me?" The housekeeper was surprised. "A letter for me! What is it, Iwonder? Somethin' about sellin' the house maybe. "

She took the letter from him and turned to the light before opening it. Seth sat down in the rocker and began inspecting his own assortmentof circulars and papers. Suddenly he heard a sound from his companion. Glancing up he saw that she was leaning against the doorpost, the openletter in her hand, and on her face an expression which caused him tospring from his chair. 

"What is it, Emeline?" he demanded. "Any bad news?"

She scarcely noticed him until he spoke again. Then she shook her head. 

"No, " she said slowly. "Nothin' but--but what I might have expected. "

"But what is it? It is bad news. Can't I help you? Please let me, if Ican. I--I'd like to. "

She looked at him strangely, and then turned away. "I guess nobody canhelp me, " she answered. "Least of all, you. "

"Why not? I'd like to; honest, I would. If it's about that housebusiness maybe I--"

"It ain't"

"Then what is it? Please, Emeline. I know you don't think much of me. Maybe you've got good reasons; I'm past the place where I'd deny that. I--I've been feelin' meaner'n meaner every day lately. I--I don't know'sI done right in runnin' off and leavin' you the way I did. Don't yous'pose you could give me another chance? Emeline, I--"

"Seth Bascom, what do you mean?"

"Just what I say. Emeline, you and me was mighty happy together once. Let's try it again. I will, if you will. "

She was staring at him in good earnest now. 

"Why, Seth!" she exclaimed. "What are you talkin' about? You--thechronic woman-hater!"

"That be blessed! I wa'n't really a woman-hater. I only thought I was. And--and I never hated you. Right through the worst of it I never did. Let's try it again, Emeline. You're in trouble. You need somebody tohelp you. Give me the chance. "

There was a wistful look in her eyes; she seemed, or so he thought, tobe wavering. But she shook her head. "I was in trouble before, Seth, "she said, "and you didn't help me then. You run off and left me. "

"You just as much as told me to go. You know you did. "

"No, I didn't. "

"Well, you didn't tell me to stay. "

"It never seemed to me that a husband--if he was a man--would need to becoaxed to stay by his wife. "

"But don't you care about me at all? You used to; I know it. And Ialways cared for you. What is it? Honest, Emeline, you never took anystock in that Sarah Ann Christy doin's, you know you didn't; now, didyou?"

She was close to tears, but she smiled in spite of them. 

"Well, no, Seth, " she answered. "I will confess that Sarah Ann neverworried me much. "

"Then DON'T you care for me, Emeline?"

"I care for you much as I ever did. I never stopped carin' for you, foolthat I am. But as for livin' with you again and runnin' the risk of--"

"You won't run any risk. You say I've improved, yourself. Your principalfault with me was, as I understand it, that I was too--too--somethin'or other. That I wa'n't man enough. By jiminy crimps, I'll show you thatI'm a man! Give me the chance, and nothin' nor nobody can make me leaveyou again. Besides, there's nobody to come between us now. We was allright until that--that Bennie D. Came along. He was the one that tookthe starch out of me. Now he's out of the way. HE won't bother us anymore and . . . Why, what is it, Emeline?"

For she was looking at him with an expression even more strange. Andagain she shook her head. 

"I guess, " she began, and was interrupted by the jingle of the telephonebell. 

The instrument was fastened to the kitchen wall, and the lightkeeperhastened to answer the ring. 

"Testin' the wire after the storm, most likely, " he explained, takingthe receiver from the hook. "Hello! . . . Hello! . . . Yep, this isEastboro Lights. . . . I'm the lightkeeper, yes. . . . Hey? . . . MissGraham? . . . Right next door. . . . Yes. . . . WHO?" Then, turning tohis companion, he said in an astonished voice: "It's somebody wants totalk with you, Emeline. "

"With ME?" Mrs. Bascom could hardly believe it. "Are you sure?"

"So they say. Asked me if I could get you to the 'phone without anytrouble. She's right here now, " he added, speaking into the transmitter. "I'll call her. "

The housekeeper wonderingly took the receiver from his hand. 

"Hello!" she began. "Yes, this is Mrs. Bascom. . . . Who? . . . What? . . . OH!"

The last exclamation was almost a gasp, but Seth did not hear it. As shestepped forward to the 'phone she had dropped her letter. Atkins wentover and picked it up. It lay face downward on the floor, and the lastpage, with the final sentence and signature, was uppermost. He couldnot help seeing it. "So we shall soon be together as of old. Your lovingbrother, Benjamin. "

When Mrs. Bascom turned away from the 'phone after a rather protractedconversation she looked more troubled than ever. But Seth was notlooking at her. He sat in the rocking-chair and did not move nor raisehis head. She waited for him to speak, but he did not. 

"Well, " she said with a sigh, "I guess I must go. Good-by, Seth. "

The lightkeeper slowly rose to his feet. "Emeline, " he stammered, "youain't goin' without--"

He stopped without finishing the sentence. She waited a moment and thenfinished it for him. 

"I'll answer your question, if that's what you mean, " she said. "And theanswer is no. All things considered, I guess that's best. "

"But Emeline, I--I--"

"Good-by, Seth. "

"Sha'n't I, " desperately, "sha'n't I see you again?"

"I expect to be around here for another day or so. But I can't seeanythin' to be gained by our meetin'. Good-by. "

Taking her letter and those addressed to Miss Graham from the tableshe went out of the kitchen. Seth followed her as far as the door, thenturned and collapsed in the rocking-chair. 

CHAPTER XIII

"JOHN BROWN" CHANGES HIS NAME

"So we shall soon be together again as of old. Your loving brother, Benjamin. "

The sentence which had met his eyes as he picked up the note whichhis caller had dropped was still before them, burned into his memory. Benjamin! "Bennie D. "! the loathed and feared and hated Bennie D. , causeof all the Bascom matrimonial heartbreaks, had written to say that heand his sister-in-law were soon to be together as they used to be. Thatmeant that there had been no quarrel, but merely a temporaryseparation. That she and he were still friendly. That they had been incorrespondence and that the "inventor" was coming back to take hisold place as autocrat in the household with all his old influenceover Emeline. Seth's new-found courage and manhood had vanished at thethought. Bennie D. 's name had scarcely been mentioned during the variousinterviews between the lightkeeper and his wife. She had said her firsthusband's brother had been in New York for two years, and her manner ofsaying it led Seth to imagine a permanent separation following some sortof disagreement. And now! and now! He remembered Bennie D. 's superiorairs, his polite sneers, his way of turning every trick to his advantageand of perverting and misrepresenting his, Seth's, most innocent speechand action into crimes of the first magnitude. He remembered the meaningof those last few months in the Cape Ann homestead. All hisfiery determination to be what he had once been--Seth Bascom, theself-respecting man and husband--collapsed and vanished. He groaned inabject surrender. He could not go through it again; he was afraid. Ofany other person on earth he would not have been, but the unexpectedresurrection of Bennie D. Made him a hesitating coward. Therefore he wassilent when his wife left him, and he realized that his opportunity wasgone, gone forever. 

In utter misery and self-hatred he sat, with his head in his hands, beside the kitchen table until eleven o'clock. Then he rose, got dinner, and called Brown to eat it. He ate nothing himself, saying that he'dlost his appetite somehow or other. After the meal he harnessed Joshuato the little wagon and started on his drive to Eastboro. "I'll be backearly, I cal'late, " were his last words as he drove out of the yard. 

After he had gone, and Brown had finished clearing away and theother housekeeping tasks which were now such a burden, the substituteassistant went out to sit on the bench and smoke. The threatenedeasterly wind had begun to blow, and the sky was dark with tumblingclouds. The young man paid little attention to the weather, however. Allskies were gloomy so far as he was concerned, and the darkest day was noblacker than his thoughts. Occasionally he glanced at the bungalow, and on one such occasion was surprised to see a carriage, one of theturnouts supplied by the Eastboro livery stable, roll up to its doorand Mrs. Bascom, the housekeeper, emerge, climb to the seat beside thedriver, and be driven away in the direction of the village. He idlywondered where she was going, but was not particularly interested. When, a half hour later, Ruth Graham left the bungalow and strolled off alongthe path at the top of the bluff, he was very much interested indeed. He realized, as he had been realizing for weeks, that he was moreinterested in that young woman than in anything else on earth. Also, that he had no right--miserable outcast that he was--to be interested inher; and certainly it would be the wildest insanity to imagine that shecould be interested in him. 

For what the lightkeeper might say or do, in the event of his secretbeing discovered, he did not care in the least. He was long past thatpoint. And for the breaking of their solemn compact he did not careeither. Seth might or might not have played the traitor; that, too, wasa matter of no importance. Seth himself was of no importance; neitherwas he. There was but one important person in the whole world, and shewas strolling along the bluff path at that moment. Therefore he left hisseat on the bench, hurried down the slope to the inner end of the cove, noting absently that the tide of the previous night must have beenunusually high, climbed to the bungalow, turned the corner, and walkedslowly in the direction of the trim figure in the blue suit, which waswalking, even more slowly, just ahead of him. 

It may be gathered that John Brown's feelings concerning the oppositesex had changed. They had, and he had changed in other ways, also. Howmuch of a change had taken place he did not himself realize, until thisvery afternoon. He did not realize it even then until, after he and thegirl in blue had met, and the customary expressions of surprise at theircasual meeting had been exchanged, the young lady seated herself on adune overlooking the tumbling sea and observed thoughtfully:

"I shall miss all this"--with a wave of her hand toward the waves--"nextweek, when I am back again in the city. "

Brown's cap was in his hand as she began to speak. After she hadfinished he stooped to pick up the cap, which had fallen to the ground. 

"You are going away--next week?" he said slowly. 

"We are going to-morrow. I shall remain in Boston for a few days. Then Ishall visit a friend in the Berkshires. After that I may join my brotherin Europe; I'm not sure as to that. "

"To-morrow?"

"Yes!"

There was another one of those embarrassing intervals of silence whichof late seemed to occur so often in their conversation. Miss Graham, asusual, was the first to speak. 

"Mr. Brown, " she began. The substitute assistant interrupted her. 

"Please don't call me that, " he blurted involuntarily. "It--oh, confoundit, it isn't my name!"

She should have been very much surprised. He expected her to be. Insteadshe answered quite calmly. 

"I know it, " she said. 

"You DO?"

"Yes. You are 'Russ' Brooks, aren't you?"

Russell Brooks, alias John Brown, dropped his cap again, but did notpick it up. He swallowed hard. 

"How on earth did you know that?" he asked as soon as he could sayanything. 

"Oh, it was simple enough. I didn't really know; I only guessed. Youweren't a real lightkeeper, that was plain. And you weren't used towashing dishes or doing housework--that, " with the irrepressible curl ofthe corners of her lips, "was just as plain. When you told me that fibabout meeting my brother here last summer I was sure you had met himsomewhere, probably at college. So in my next letter to him I describedyou as well as I could, mentioned that you were as good or a betterswimmer than he, and asked for particulars. He answered that theonly fellow he could think of who fitted your description was 'Russ'Brooks--Russell, I suppose--of New York; though what Russ Brooks wasdoing as lightkeeper's assistant at Eastboro Twin-Lights he DIDN'T know. Neither did I. But then, THAT was not my business. "

The substitute assistant did not answer: he could not, on such shortnotice. 

"So, " continued the girl, "I felt almost as if I had known you for along time. You and Horace were such good friends at college, and hehad often told me of you. I was very glad to meet you in real life, especially here, where I had no one but Mrs. Bascom to talk to; Mr. Atkins, by reason of his aversion to my unfortunate sex, being barred. "

Mr. Brown's--or Mr. Brooks'--next speech harked back to her previousone. 

"I'll tell you while I'm here, " he began. 

"You needn't, unless you wish, " she said. "I have no right toknow"--adding, with characteristic femininity, "though I'm dying to. "

"But I want you to know. As I told Atkins when I first came, I haven'tmurdered anyone and I haven't stolen anything. I'm not a crook runningfrom justice. I'm just a plain idiot who fell overboard from a steamerand"--bitterly--"hadn't the good luck to drown. "

She made no comment, and he began his story, telling it much as he hadtold it to the lightkeeper. 

"There!" he said in conclusion, "that's the whole fool business. That'swhy I'm here. No need to ask what you think of it, I suppose. "

She was silent, gazing at the breakers. He drew his own conclusions fromher silence. 

"I see, " he said. "Well, I admit it. I'm a low down chump. Still, if Ihad it to do over again, I should do pretty much the same. A few thingsdifferently, but in general the very same. "

"What would you do differently?" she asked, still without looking athim. 

"For one thing, I wouldn't run away. I'd stay and face the music. Earnmy living or starve. "

"And now you're going to stay here?"

"No longer than I can help. If I get the appointment as assistant keeperI'll begin to save every cent I can. Just as soon as I get enough towarrant risking it I'll head for Boston once more and begin the earningor starving process. And, " with a snap of his jaws, "I don't intend tostarve. "

"You won't go back to your father?"

"If he sees fit to beg my pardon and acknowledge that I was right--nototherwise. And he must do it of his own accord. I told him that when Iwalked out of his office. It was my contribution to our fond farewell. His was that he would see me damned first. Possibly he may. "

She smiled. 

"You must have been a charming pair of pepper pots, " she observed. "Andthe young lady--what of her?"

"She knows that I am fired, cut off even without the usual shilling. That will be quite sufficient for her, I think. "

"How do you know it will? How do you know she might not have beenwilling to wait while you earned that living you are so sure is coming?"

"Wait? She wait for me? Ann Davidson wait for a man without a cent whilehe tried to earn a good many dollars? Humph! you amuse me. "

"Why not? You didn't give her a chance. You calmly took it for grantedthat she wanted only money and social position and you walked off andleft her. How do you know she wouldn't have liked you better for tellingher just how you felt. If a girl really cared for a man it seems to methat she would be willing to wait for him, years and years if it werenecessary, provided that, during that time, he was trying his best forher. "

"But--but--she isn't that kind of a girl. "

"How do you know? You didn't put her to the test. You owed her that. Itseems to me you owe it to her now. "

The answer to this was on his tongue. It was ready behind his closedlips, eager to burst forth. That he didn't love the Davidson girl, neverhad loved her. That during the past month he had come to realize therewas but one woman in the wide world for him. And did that woman meanwhat she said about waiting years--and years--provided she cared? Anddid she care?

He didn't utter one word of this. He wanted to, but it seemed sopreposterous. Such an idiotic, outrageous thing to ask. Yet it isprobable that he would have asked it if the young lady had given himthe chance. But she did not; after a sidelong glance at his face, shehurriedly rose from the rock and announced that she must be getting backto the house. 

"I have some packing to do, " she explained; "and, besides, I think it isgoing to rain. "

"But, Miss Graham, I--"

A big drop of rain splashing upon his shoe confirmed the weatherprophecy. She began to walk briskly toward the bungalow, and he walkedat her side. 

"Another storm, " she said. "I should think the one we have just passedthrough was sufficient for a while. I hope Mrs. Bascom won't get wet. "

"She has gone to the village, hasn't she?"

"Yes. She has received some message or other--I don't know how itcame--which sent her off in a hurry. A livery carriage came for her. Shewill be back before night. "

"Atkins has gone, too. He had some errands, I believe. I can't make outwhat has come over him of late. He has changed greatly. He used to be sojolly and good-humored, except when female picnickers came. Now he is assolemn as an owl. When he went away he scarcely spoke a word. I thoughthe seemed to be in trouble, but when I asked him, he shut me up sopromptly that I didn't press the matter. "

"Did he? That's odd. Mrs. Bascom seemed to be in trouble, too. I thoughtshe had been crying when she came out of her room to go to the carriage. She denied it, but her eyes looked red. What can be the matter?"

"I don't know. "

"Nor I. Mr. --er--Brooks--Or shall I still call you 'Brown'?"

"No. Brown is dead; drowned. Let him stay so. "

"Very well. Mr. Brooks, has it occurred to you that your Mr. Atkins is apeculiar character? That he acts peculiarly?"

"He has acted peculiarly ever since I knew him. But to what particularpeculiarity do you refer?"

"His queer behavior. Several times I have seen him--I am almost sureit was he--hiding or crouching behind the sand hills at the rear of ourbungalow. "

"You have? Why, I--"

He hesitated. Before he could go on or she continue, the rain came in adeluge. They reached the porch just in time. 

"Well, I'm safe and reasonably dry, " she panted. "I'm afraid you will bedrenched before you get to the lights. Don't you want an umbrella?"

"No. No, indeed, thank you. "

"Well, you must hurry then. Good-by. "

"But, Miss Graham, " anxiously, "I shall see you again before you go. To-morrow, at bathing time, perhaps?"

"Judging by the outlook just at present, bathing will be out of thequestion to-morrow. "

"But I want to see you. I must. "

She shook her head doubtfully. "I don't know, " she said. "I shall bevery busy getting ready to leave; but perhaps we may meet again. "

"We must. I--Miss Graham, I--"

She had closed the door. He ran homeward through the rain, the stormwhich soaked him to the skin being but a trifle compared to the tornadoin his breast. 

He spent the balance of the day somehow, he could not have told how. Therain and wind continued; six o'clock came, and Seth should have returnedan hour before, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if Mrs. Bascomhad returned. He had not seen the carriage, but she might have comewhile he was inside the house. The lightkeeper's nonappearance began toworry him a trifle. 

At seven, as it was dark, he took upon himself the responsibilityof climbing the winding stairs in each tower and lighting the greatlanterns. It was the first time he had done it, but he knew how, and theduty was successfully accomplished. Then, as Atkins was still absent andthere was nothing to do but wait, he sat in the chair in the kitchen andthought. Occasionally, and it showed the trend of his thoughts, herose and peered from the window across the dark to the bungalow. Inthe living room of the latter structure a light burned. At ten it wasextinguished. 

At half past ten he went to Seth's bedroom, found a meager assortment ofpens, ink and note paper, returned to the kitchen, sat down by the tableand began to write. 

For an hour he thought, wrote, tore up what he had written, and beganagain. At last the result of his labor read something like this:

"DEAR MISS GRAHAM:

"I could not say it this afternoon, although if you had stayed I think Ishould. But I must say it now or it may be too late. I can't let you gowithout saying it. I love you. Will you wait for me? It may be a verylong wait, although God knows I mean to try harder than I have evertried for anything in my life. If I live I will make something of myselfyet, with you as my inspiration. You know you said if a girl reallycared for a man she would willingly wait years for him. Do you care forme as much as that? With you, or for you, I believe I can accomplishanything. DO you care?

"RUSSELL BROOKS. "

He put this in an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and withoutstopping to put on either cap or raincoat went out in the night. 

The rain was still falling, although not as heavily, but the wind wascoming in fierce squalls. He descended the path to the cove, flounderingthrough the wet bushes. At the foot of the hill he was surprised to findthe salt marsh a sea of water not a vestige of ground above the surface. This was indeed a record-breaking tide, such as he had never knownbefore. He did not pause to reflect upon tides or such trivialities, but, with a growl at being obliged to make the long detour, he roundedthe end of the cove and climbed up to the door of the bungalow. Underthe edge of that door he tucked the note he had written. As soon asthis was accomplished he became aware that he had expressed himself veryclumsily. He had not written as he might. A dozen brilliant thoughtscame to him. He must rewrite that note at all hazards. 

So he spent five frantic minutes trying to coax that envelope from underthe door. But, in his care to push it far enough, it had dropped beyondthe sill, and he could not reach it. The thing was done for betteror for worse. Perfectly certain that it was for worse, he splashedmournfully back to the lights. In the lantern room of the right-handtower he spent the remainder of the night, occasionally wandering out onthe gallery to note the weather. 

The storm was dying out. The squalls were less and less frequent, andthe rain had been succeeded by a thick fog. The breakers pounded in thedark below him, and from afar the foghorns moaned and wailed. It was abad night, a night during which no lightkeeper should be absent from hispost. And where was Seth?

CHAPTER XIV

"BENNIE D. "

Seth's drive to Eastboro was a dismal journey. Joshua pounded along overthe wet sand or through ruts filled with water, and not once during thetrip was he ordered to "Giddap" or "Show some signs of life. " Notuntil the first scattered houses of the village were reached did thelightkeeper awaken from his trance sufficiently to notice that the oldhorse was limping slightly with the right forefoot. 

"Hello!" exclaimed Seth. "What's the matter with you, Josh?"

Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of three-legged progress. Thedriver leaned forward and then pulled on the reins. 

"Whoa!" he ordered. "Stand still!"

Joshua stood still, almost with enthusiasm. Seth tucked the end of thereins between the whip socket and the dashboard, and swung out ofthe wagon to make an examination. Lifting the lame foot, he found thetrouble at once. The shoe was loose. 

"Humph!" he soliloquized. "Cal'late you and me'll have to give Benijaha job. Well, " climbing back into the vehicle, "I said I'd never give himanother after the row we had about the last, but I ain't got ambitionenough to go clear over to the Denboro blacksmith's. I don't care. Idon't care about nothin' any more. Giddap. "

Benijah Ellis's little, tumble-down blacksmith shop was located in themain street of Eastboro, if that hit-or-miss town can be said to possessa main street. Atkins drove up to its door, before which he foundBenijah and a group of loungers inspecting an automobile, the body ofwhich had been removed in order that the engine and running gear mightbe the easier reached. The blacksmith was bending over the car, his headand shoulders down amidst the machinery; a big wrench was in his hand, and other wrenches, hammers, and tools of various sizes were scatteredon the ground beside him. 

"Hello, Benije, " grunted Seth. 

Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaftand straightened up. He was a near-sighted, elderly man, and worespectacles. Just now his hands, arms, and apron were covered with greaseand oil, and, as he wiped his forehead with the hand not holding thewrench, he left a wide mourning band across it. 

"Well?" he panted. "Who is it? Who wants me?"

One of the loafers, who had been assisting the blacksmith by holding hispipe while he dove into the machinery, languidly motioned toward the newarrival. Benijah adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the wagon. 

"Who is it?" he asked crossly. Then, as he recognized his visitor, hegrunted: "Ugh! it's you, hey. Well, what do YOU want?"

"Want you to put a new shoe on this horse of mine, " replied Seth, nottoo graciously. 

"Is that so! Well, I'm busy. "

"I don't care if you be. I guess you ain't so busy you can't do a job ofwork. If you are, you're richer'n I ever heard you was. "

"I want to know! Maybe I'm particular who I work for, Seth Atkins. "

"Maybe you are. I ain't so particular; if I was, I wouldn't come here, I tell you that. This horse of mine's got a loose shoe, and I want himattended to quick. "

"Thought you said you'd never trust me with another job. "

"I ain't trustin' you now. I'll be here while it's done. And I ain'taskin' you to trust me, neither. I'll pay cash--cash, d'ye understand?"

The bystanders grinned. Mr. Ellis's frown deepened. "I'm busy, " hedeclared, with importance. "I've got Mr. Delancey Barry's automobile tofix, and I can't stop to bother with horses--specially certain kind ofhorses. "

This sneer at Joshua roused his owner's ire. He dropped the reins andsprang to the ground. 

"See here, Benije Ellis, " he growled, advancing upon the repairer ofautomobiles, who retreated a step or two with promptness. "I don't carewhat you're fixin', nor whose it is, neither. I guess 'twill be 'fixed'all right when you get through with it, but that ain't neither here northere. And it don't make no difference if it does belong to Mr. Barry. If 'twas Elijah's chariot of fire 'twould be just the same. That autowon't be done this afternoon, and nobody expects it to be. Here's myhorse sufferin' to be shod; I want him shod and I've got the money topay for it. When it's winter time you're around cryin' that you can'tearn money to pay your bills. Now, just because it's summer and there'scity big-bugs in the neighborhood innocent enough to let you tinker withtheir autos--though they'll never do it but once--I don't propose tobe put off. If you won't shoe this horse of mine I'll know it's becauseyou've got so much money you don't need more. And if that's the case, there's a whole lot of folks would be mighty glad to know it--Henry G. Goodspeed for one. I'm goin' up to his store now. Shall I tell him?"

This was a shot in the bull's-eye. Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills, had owed them for a long time, and Mr. Goodspeed's was by no meansthe smallest. The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith's mannerbecame more conciliatory. 

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it for you, Seth, " he pleaded. "I'm alwayswillin' to do your work. You're the one that's been complainin'. "

"Ugh! Well, I'm likely to complain some more, but the complaint's onething, and the need's another. I'm like Joel Knowles--he said when hecouldn't get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum. Ineed a blacksmith, and if I can't get a real one I'll put up with animitation. Will you shoe this horse for me?"

"Course I'll shoe him. But I can't do it this minute. I've got thisconsarned machine, " waving a hand toward the automobile, "out of doorhere and all to pieces. And it's goin' to rain. Just let me put enoughof it together so's I can shove it into the shop out of the wet, andthen I'll tackle your job. You leave your horse and team here and go doyour other errands. He'll be ready when you come back. "

So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trustthe precious Joshua out of his sight, but, after some parley, he agreedto do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into theshop, the carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper wentaway promising to be back in an hour. As soon as he had gone, Ellisdived again into the vitals of the auto. 

The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far asSeth was concerned. In a measure it afforded a temporary vent for hisfeelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at thegrocery store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour nothalf over, he strolled out to walk about the village. And then, aloneonce more, all his misery and heartache returned. He strode along, hishead down, scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until hereached the railway station, where he sat down on the baggage truck tomentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and thedreadful collapse of his newborn hopes and plans. 

As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a manevidently not a native of Eastboro. He was dressed in a rather loud, butsomewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifleover one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrantcigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting character under a temporaryfinancial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his self-satisfaction norshadow his magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastborobefore him with condescending scorn, and then, catching sight of thedoleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it. 

"I say, my friend, " he observed briskly, "have you a match concealedabout your person? If so, I--"

He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in hisdirection, had sprung from the truck and was gazing at him as if he wassome apparition, some figure in a nightmare, instead of his blase self. And he, as he looked at the lightkeeper's astounded countenance, dropped the cigar stump from his fingers and stepped backward in alarmedconsternation. 

"You--you--YOU?" gasped Seth. 

"YOU!" repeated the stranger. 

"You!" cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but, under the circumstances, excusable, for the nonchalant person inthe plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brother-in-law, the genius, the"inventor, " the one person whom he hated--and feared--more than anyoneelse in the world--Bennie D. Himself. 

There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pairspoke. Seth, open-mouthed and horror-stricken, was incapable of speech, and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a certainnervousness, almost as if he feared a physical assault. However, as thelightkeeper made no move, and his fists remained open, the nervousnessdisappeared, and Bennie D. Characteristically took command of thesituation. 

"Hum!" he observed musingly. "Hum! May I ask what you are doing here?"

"Huh--hey?" was Seth's incoherent reply. 

"I ask what you are doing here? Have you followed me?"

"Fol-follered you? No. "

"You're sure of that, are you?"

"Yes, I be. " Seth did not ask what Bennie D. Was doing there. Alreadythat question was settled in his mind. The brother-in-law had foundout that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that hersummer engagement was over, and he had come to take her away. 

"Well?" queried the inventor sharply, "if you haven't followed me, whatare you doing here? What do you mean by being here?"

"I belong here, " desperately. "I work here. "

"You do? And may I ask what particular being is fortunate enough toemploy you?"

"I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'lateyou know it already. "

Bennie D. 's coolness was not proof against this. He started. 

"The lighthouses?" he repeated. "The--what is it they call them?--theTwin-Lights?"

"Yes. You know it; what's the use of askin' fool questions?"

The inventor had not known it--until that moment, and he took time toconsider before making another remark. His sister-in-law was employed ashousekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close proximity tothe Twin-Lights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morningtrain. Prior to that he had known only that she was in Eastboro forthe summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested in herlocation. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that hehad used her and her rapidly depleting supply of cash as long as wassafe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to NewYork to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom hissmooth tongue had interested in his "inventions, " he had not taken thetrouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the NewYorker's credulity and his "loans" had ceased to be material assets. Then Bennie D. , face to face with the need of funds, remembered hissister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be providedwith a home as long as she had one. 

He journeyed to Cape Ann and found, to his dismay, that she was nolonger there. After some skillful detective work, he learned of theEastboro engagement and wrote the letter--a piteous, appealing letter, full of brotherly love and homesickness--which, held back by the storm, reached Mrs. Bascom only that morning. In it he stated that he wason his way to her and was counting the minutes until they should betogether once more. And he had, as soon after his arrival in the villageas possible, 'phoned to the Lights and spoken with her. Her tone, asshe answered, was, he thought, alarmingly cold. It had made himapprehensive, and he wondered if his influence over her was on the wane. But now--now he understood. Her husband--her husband, of all people--hadbeen living next door to her all summer. No doubt she knew he was therewhen she took the place. Perhaps they had met by mutual agreement. Why, this was appalling! It might mean anything. And yet Seth did notlook triumphant or even happy. Bennie D. Resolved to show no signs ofperturbation or doubt, but first to find out, if he could, the truth, and then to act accordingly. 

"Mr. Bascom--" he began. The lightkeeper, greatly alarmed, interruptedhim. 

"Hush!" he whispered. "Don't say that. That ain't my name--down here. "

"Indeed? What is your name?"

"Down here they call me Seth Atkins. "

Bennie D. Looked puzzled. Then his expression changed. He was relieved. When he 'phoned to the Lights--using the depot 'phone--the station agenthad seemed to consider his calling a woman over the lighthouse wiregreat fun. The lightkeeper, so the agent said, was named Atkins, and wasa savage woman-hater. He would not see a woman, much less speak to one;it was a standing joke in the neighborhood, Seth's hatred of females. That seemed to prove that Emeline and her husband were not reconciledand living together, at least. Possibly their being neighbors was merelya coincidence. If so, he might not have come too late. When he nextaddressed his companion it was in a different tone and without the"Mister. "

"Bascom--or--er--Atkins, " he said sharply, "I hoped--I sincerely hopedthat you and I might not meet during my short stay here; but, as we havemet, I think it best that we should understand each other. Suppose wewalk over to that clump of trees on the other side of the track. We shall be alone there, and I can say what is necessary. I don'twish--even when I remember your behavior toward my sister--to humiliateyou in the town where you may be trying to lead a better life. Come. "

He led the way, and Seth, yielding as of old to this man's almosthypnotic command over him and still bewildered by the unexpectedmeeting, followed like a whipped dog. Under the shelter of the treesthey paused. 

"Now then, " said Bennie D. , "perhaps you'll tell me what you mean bydecoying my sister down here in my absence, when I was not present toprotect her. What do you mean by it?"

Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Decoyin' her?" he repeated. "Inever decoyed her. I've been here ever since I left--left you and herthat night. I never asked her to come. I didn't know she was comin'. Andshe didn't know I was here until--until a month or so ago. I--"

Bennie D. Held up a hand. He was delighted by this piece of news, but hedid not show it. 

"That will do, " he said. "I understand all that. But since then--sincethen? What do you mean by trying to influence her as you have? Answerme!"

The lightkeeper rubbed his forehead. 

"I ain't tried to influence her, " he declared. "She and me have scarcelyseen each other. Nobody knows that we was married, not even Miss Grahamnor the young feller that's--that's my helper at the lights. You mustknow that. She must have wrote you. What are you talkin' about?"

She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the twoyears, but again the wily "genius" was equal to the occasion. He lookedwise and nodded. 

"Of course, " he said importantly. "Of course. Certainly. "

He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be. AndSeth, having had time to collect, in a measure, his scattered wits, began to do some thinking on his own account. 

"Say, " he said suddenly, "if you knew all this aforehand, what are youaskin' these questions for?"

"That, " Bennie D. 's gesture was one of lofty disdain, "is my business. "

"I want to know! Well, then, maybe I've got some business of my own. Whomade my business your business? Hey?"

"The welfare of my sister--"

"Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain'tgot me penned up in a house, neither. By jiminy crimps!" His angerboiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarminglyalive. "By jiminy crimps!" repeated Seth, "I've been prayin' all theseyears to meet you somewheres alone, and now I've a good mind to--to--"

His big fist closed. Bennie D. Stepped backward out of reach. 

"Bascom--" he cried, "don't--"

"Don't you call me that!"

"Bascom--" The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rosealmost to a shout. 

The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any nativeof Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, shouldhear him addressed as "Bascom, " the fat would be in the fire for goodand all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and allthe miserable story would, sooner or later, be known. 

"Don't call me Bascom, " he begged. "Er--please don't. "

Bennie D. 's courage returned. Yet he realized that if a trump card wasto be played it must be then. This man was dangerous, and, somehowor other, his guns must be spiked. A brilliant idea occurred to him. Exactly how much of the truth Seth knew he was not sure, but he took therisk. 

"Very well then--Atkins, " he said contemptuously. "I am not used toaliases--not having dealt with persons finding it necessary to employthem--and I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended Iwish you to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect mysister and to remove her from your persecution. I am here to assist herin procuring a divorce. "

"A divorce! A DIVORCE! Good heavens above!"

"Yes, sir, " triumphantly, "a divorce from the man she was trapped intomarrying and who deserted her. You did desert her, you can't denythat. So long as she remains your wife, even in name, she is liableto persecution from you. She understands this. She and I are to see alawyer at once. That is why I am here. "

Seth was completely overwhelmed. A divorce! A case for the papers toprint, and all of Ostable county to read!

"I--I--I--" he stammered, and then added weakly, "I don't believe it. She wouldn't . . . There ain't no lawyer here. "

"Then we shall seek the one nearest here. Emeline understands. I 'phonedher this morning. "

"Was it YOU that 'phoned?"

"It was. Now--er--Atkins, I am disposed to be as considerate of yourwelfare as possible. I know that any publicity in this matter mightprejudice you in the eyes of your--of the government officials. I shallnot seek publicity, solely on your account. The divorce will be obtainedprivately, provided--PROVIDED you remain out of sight and do notinterfere. I warn you, therefore, not to make trouble or to attempt tosee my sister again. If you do--well, if you do, the consequences willbe unpleasant for you. Do you understand?"

Seth understood, or thought he did. He groaned and leaned heavilyagainst a tree trunk. 

"You understand, do you?" repeated Bennie D. "I see that you do. Verygood then. I have nothing more to say. I advise that you remain--er--inseclusion for the next few days. Good-by. "

He gave a farewell glance at the crushed figure leaning against thetree. Then he turned on his heel and walked off. 

Seth remained where he was for perhaps ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Then he seemed to awaken, looked anxiously in the direction of the depotto make sure that no one was watching, pulled his cap over his eyes, jammed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk across thefields. He had no fixed destination in mind, had no idea where he wasgoing except that he must go somewhere, that he could not keep still. 

He stumbled along, through briers and bushes, paying no attention toobstacles such as fences or stone walls until he ran into them, when heclimbed over and went blindly on. A mile from Eastboro, and he wasalone in a grove of scrub pines. Here he stopped short, struck his handstogether, and groaned aloud:

"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!"

For he was beginning not to believe it. At first he had not thoughtof doubting Bennie D. 's statement concerning the divorce. Now, as histhoughts became clearer, his doubts grew. His wife had not mentioned thesubject in their morning interview. Possibly she would not have doneso in any event, but, as the memory of her behavior and speech becameclearer in his mind, it seemed to him that she could not have kept sucha secret. She had been kinder, had seemed to him more--yes, almost--why, when he asked her to be his again, to give him another chance, she hadhesitated. She had not said no at once, she hesitated. If she was aboutto divorce him, would she have acted in such a way? It hardly seemedpossible. 

Then came the letter and the telephone message. It was after these thatshe had said no with decision. Perhaps . . . Was it possible that shehad known of her brother-in-law's coming only then? Now that he thoughtof it, she had not gone away at once after the talk over the 'phone. Shehad waited a moment as if for him to speak. He, staggered and paralyzedby the sight of his enemy's name in that letter, had not spoken andthen she . . . He did not believe she was seeking a divorce! It was allanother of Bennie D. 's lies!

But suppose she was seeking it. Or suppose--for he knew the persuasivepower of that glib tongue only too well--suppose her brother-in-lawshould persuade her to do it. Should he sit still--in seclusion, as hislate adviser had counseled--and let this irrevocable and final movebe made? After a divorce--Seth's idea of divorces were vague andPuritanical--there would be no hope. He and Emeline could never cometogether after that. And he must give her up and all his hopes ofhappiness, all that he had dreamed of late, would be but dreams, neverrealities. No! he could not give them up. He would not. Publicity, scandal, everything, he could face, but he would not give his wife upwithout a fight. What should he do?

For a long time he paced up and down beneath the pines trying to plan, to come to some decision. All that he could think of was to return tothe Lights, to go openly to the bungalow, see Emeline and make one lastappeal. Bennie D. Might be there, but if he was--well, by jiminy crimps, let him look out, that's all!

He had reached this point in his meditations when the wind, which hadbeen steadily increasing and tossing the pinetops warningly, suddenlybecame a squall which brought with it a flurry of rain. He started andlooked up. The sky was dark, it was late in the afternoon, and the stormhe had prophesied had arrived. 

Half an hour later he ran, panting and wet, into the blacksmith's shop. The automobile was standing in the middle of the floor, and Mr. Elliswas standing beside it, perspiring and troubled. 

"Where's Joshua?" demanded Seth. 

"Hey?" inquired the blacksmith absently. 

"Where's my horse? Is he ready?"

Benijah wiped his forehead. 

"Gosh!" he exclaimed. "By . . . Gosh!"

"What are you b'goshin' about?"

"Seth--I don't know what you'll say to me--but--but I declare I forgotall about your horse. "

"You FORGOT about him?"

"Yes. You see that thing?" pointing pathetically at the auto. "Well, sir, that pesky thing's breakin' my heart--to say nothin' of my back. Igot it apart all right, no trouble about that. And by good rightsI've got it together again, leastways it looks so. Yet, by time, " indistracted agitation, "there's a half bucket of bolts and nuts and oddsand ends that ain't in it yet--left over, you might say. And I can'tfind any place to put one of 'em. Do you wonder I forget trifles?"

Trifles! the shoeing of Joshua a trifle! The lightkeeper had beensuffering for an opportunity to blow off steam, and the opportunity washere. Benijah withered under the blast. 

"S-sh-sh! sh-sh!" he pleaded. "Land sakes, Seth Atkins, stop it! I don'tblame you for bein' mad, but you nor nobody else sha'n't talk to me thatway. I'll fix your horse in five minutes. Yes, sir, in five minutes. Shut up now, or I won't do it at all!"

He rushed over to the stall in the rear of the shop, woke Joshua fromthe sweet slumber of old age, and led him to the halter beside theforge. The lightkeeper, being out of breath, had nothing further to sayat the moment. 

"What's the matter with all you lighthouse folks?" asked Benijah, anxious to change the subject. "What's possessed the whole lot of you tocome to the village at one time? Whoa, boy, stand still!"

"The whole lot of us?" repeated Seth. "What do you mean?"

"Mean I've seen two of you at least this afternoon. That Bascom woman, housekeeper at the Graham bungalow she is, went past here twice. Fusttime she was in one of Snow's livery buggies, Snow's boy drivin' her. Then, about an hour ago, she went by again, but the boy'd gone, andthere was another feller pilotin' the team--a stranger, nobody I eversee afore. "

Seth's red face turned pale. "What?" he cried. "Em--Mrs. Bascom ridin'with a stranger! What sort of a stranger?"

"Oh, a feller somewheres between twenty and fifty. Smooth-faced critterwith a checked suit and a straw hat. . . . What on earth's the matterwith you now?"

For the lightkeeper was shaking from head to foot. 

"Did--did--which way was they goin'? Back to the Lights or--or where?"

"No, didn't seem to be goin' to the Lights at all. They went on theother road. Seemed to be headin' for Denboro if they kept on as theystarted. . . . Seth Atkins, have you turned loony?"

Seth did not answer. With a leap he landed at Joshua's head, unhookedthe halter, and ran out of the shop leading the horse. The astonishedblacksmith followed as far as the door. Seth was backing the animal intohis wagon, which stood beneath the shed. He fastened the traces withtrembling fingers. 

"What in the world has struck you?" shouted Ellis. "Ain't you goin' tohave that shoe fixed? He can't travel that way. Seth! Seth Atkins! . . . By time, he IS crazy!"

Seth did not deny the charge. Climbing into the wagon, he took up thereins. 

"Are you sure and sartin' 'twas the Denboro road they took?" hedemanded. 

"Who took? That feller and the Bascom woman? Course I am, but . . . Well, I swan!"

For the lightkeeper waited to hear no more. He struck the unsuspectingJoshua with the end of the reins and, with a jump, the old horse startedforward. Another moment, and the lighthouse wagon was splashing andrattling through the pouring rain along the road leading to Denboro. 

CHAPTER XV

THE VOYAGE OF THE DAISY M. 

Denboro is many long miles from Eastboro, and the road, even in thebest of weather, is not a good one. It winds and twists and climbs anddescends through woods and over hills. There are stretches of marshyhollows where the yellow clay needs but a little moistening to become apaste which sticks to wheels and hoofs and makes traveling, even behinda young and spirited horse, a disheartening progress. 

Joshua was neither young nor spirited. And the weather could not havebeen much worse. The three days' storm had soaked everything, and theclay-bottomed puddles were near kin to quicksands. As the lighthousewagon descended the long slope at the southern end of the village andbegan the circle of the inner extremity of Eastboro Back Harbor, Sethrealized that his journey was to be a hard one. The rain, driven by thenortheast wind, came off the water in blinding gusts, and the waves inthe harbor were tipped with white. Also, although the tide was almostat its lowest, streaks of seaweed across the road showed where it hadreached that forenoon, and prophesied even a greater flood that night. He turned his head and gazed up the harbor to where it narrowed andbecame Pounddug Slough. In the Slough, near its ocean extremity, his oldschooner, the Daisy M. , lay stranded. He had not visited her for a week, and he wondered if the "spell of weather" had injured her to any extent. This speculation, however, was but momentary. The Daisy M. Must look outfor herself. His business was to reach Judge Gould's, in Denboro, beforeMrs. Bascom and Bennie D. Could arrange with that prominent citizen andlegal light for the threatened divorce. 

That they had started for Judge Gould's he did not doubt for a moment. "I shall seek the nearest lawyer, " Bennie D. Had said. And the judgewas the nearest. They must be going there, or why should they takethat road? Neither did he doubt now that their object was to secure thedivorce. How divorces were secured, or how long it took to get one, Sethdid not know. His sole knowledge on that subject was derived from thenewspapers and comic weeklies, and he remembered reading of places inthe West where lawyers with the necessary blanks in their pockets metapplicants at the arrival of one train and sent them away, rejoicing andfree, on the next. 

 "You jump right off the cars and then Turn round and jump right on again. "

This fragment of a song, sung at a "moving-picture" show in the townhall, and resung many times thereafter by Ezra Payne, John Brown'spredecessor as assistant keeper at the lights, recurred to him as heurged the weary Joshua onward. So far as Seth knew, the Reno custommight be universal. At any rate, he must get to Judge Gould's beforeEmeline and her brother-in-law left there. What he should do when hearrived and found them there was immaterial; he must get there, that wasall. 

Eastboro Back Harbor was left behind, and the long stretch of woodsbeyond was entered. Joshua, his hoofs swollen by the sticky clayto yellow cannon balls, plodded on, but, in spite of commands andpleadings--the lightkeeper possessed no whip and would not have used oneif he had--he went slower and slower. He was walking now, and limpingsadly on the foot where the loose shoe hung by its bent and brokennails. 

Five miles, six, seven, and the limp was worse than ever. Seth, whoseconscience smote him, got out of the carriage into the rain and mudand attempted repairs, using a stone as a hammer. This seemed to helpmatters some, but it was almost dark when the granite block marking thetownship line was passed, and the windows in the houses were alight whenhe pulled up at the judge's door. 

The judge himself answered the knock, or series of knocks. He seemedmuch surprised to find the keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights standing onhis front step. 

"Why, hello, Atkins!" he cried. "What in the world are you doing overhere? a night like this!"

"Has--has Mrs. Bascom been here? Is she here now?" panted Sethanxiously. 

"Mrs. Bascom? Who is Mrs. Bascom?"

"She--she's a friend of mine. She and--and a relation of hers was comin'over here to see you on business. Ain't they here? Ain't they beenhere?"

"No. No one has been here this afternoon. I've been in since oneo'clock, and not a soul has called, on business or otherwise. "

The lightkeeper could scarcely believe it. 

"You're sure?" he demanded. 

"Certainly. If they came before one my wife would have told me, I think. I'll ask her. "

"No, no, " hastily. "You needn't. If they ain't been since one they ain'tbeen. But I don't understand. . . . There's no other lawyer nigh here, is there?"

"No; none nearer than Bayport. "

"My land! My LAND! Then--then I'm out of soundin's somehow. They nevercame for it, after all. "

"Came for what?"

"Nothin', nothin', I guess, " with a sickly smile. "I've made some sortof mistake, though I don't know how. Benije must have . . . I'll breakthat feller's neck; I will!"

The lawyer began to share the blacksmith's opinion that his caller hadgone crazy. 

"Come in, Atkins, " he urged. "Come in out of the wet. What IS thematter? What are you doing here at this time of night so far from theLights? Is it anything serious? Come in and tell me about it. "

But Seth, instead of accepting the invitation, stared at him aghast. Then, turning about, he leaped down the steps, ran to the wagon andclimbed in. 

"Giddap!" he shouted. Poor, tired Joshua lifted his clay-daubed hoofs. 

"You're not going back?" cried Gould. "Hold on, Atkins! Wait!"

But Seth did not wait. Already he had turned his horse's head towardEastboro, and was driving off. The lawyer stood still, amazedly lookingafter him. Then he went into the house and spent the next quarter of anhour trying to call the Twin-Lights by telephone. As the northeast windhad finished what the northwest one had begun and the wire was down, his attempt was unsuccessful. He gave it up after a time and sat down todiscuss the astonishing affair with his wife. He was worried. 

But his worriment was as nothing compared to Seth's. The lawyer'sreference to the Lights had driven even matrimonial troubles from theAtkins mind. The lights! the Twin-Lights! It was long past the time forthem to be lit, and there was no one to light them but Brown, a greenhand. Were they lit at all? If not, heaven knew what might happen or hadhappened already. 

He had thought of this before, of course, had vaguely realized thathe was betraying his trust, but then he had not cared. The Lights, hisposition as keeper, everything, were side issues compared with the onething to be done, the getting to Denboro. He had reached Denboroand found his journey all a mistake; his wife and Bennie D. Had not, apparently, visited that village; perhaps had not even started for it. Therefore, in a measure relieved, he thought of other things. He wasmany miles from his post of duty, and now his sole idea was to get backto it. 

At ten o'clock Mrs. Hepsibah Deacon, a widow living in a little housein the woods on the top of the hill on the Denboro side of Eastboro BackHarbor, with no neighbors for a mile in either direction, was awakenedby shouts under her bedroom window. Opening that window she thrust forthher head. 

"Who is it?" she demanded quaveringly. "What's the matter? Is anythingafire?"

From the blackness of the rain and fog emerged a vague shape. 

"It's me, Mrs. Deacon; Seth Atkins, down to the Lights, you know. I'veleft my horse and carriage in your barn. Josh--he's the horse--isgone lame and played himself out. He can't walk another step. I'veunharnessed him and left him in the stall. He'll be all right. I'vegiven him some water and hay. Just let him stay there, if it ain't toomuch trouble, and I'll send for him to-morrer and pay for his keep. It'sall right, ain't it? Much obliged. Good night. "

Before the frightened widow could ask a question or utter a word he wasgone, ploughing down the hill in the direction of the Back Harbor. Whenhe reached the foot of that hill where the road should have been, hefound that it had disappeared. The tide had risen and covered it. 

It was pitch-dark, the rain was less heavy, and clouds of fog weredrifting in before the wind. Seth waded on for a short distance, but soon realized that wading would be an impossibility. Then, as indespair, he was about ready to give up the attempt, a dark object cameinto view beside him. It was a dory belonging to one of the lobstermen, which, at the end of its long anchor rope, had swung inshore untilit floated almost over the road. Seth seized it in time to preventcollision with his knees. The thole pins were in place, and the oarslaid lengthwise on its thwarts. As his hands touched the gunwale a newidea came to him. 

He had intended walking the rest of the way to Eastboro, routing out theliveryman and hiring a horse and buggy with which to reach the Lights. Now he believed chance had offered him an easier and more direct methodof travel. He could row up the Harbor and Slough, land close to wherethe Daisy M. Lay, and walk the rest of the way in a very short time. Heclimbed into the dory, pulled up the anchor, and seated himself at theoars. 

The bottom of the boat was two inches deep with rain water, and thethwart was dripping and cold. Seth, being already about as wet as hecould be, did not mind this, but pulled with long strokes out into theharbor. The vague black shadows of the land disappeared, and in a minutehe was, so far as his eyes could tell him, afloat on a shoreless sea. He had no compass, but this did not trouble him. The wind, he knew, wasblowing directly from the direction he wished to go, and he kept thedory's bow in the teeth of it. He rowed on and on. The waves, out herein the deep water, were of good size, and the spray flew as he splashedinto them. He knew that he was likely to get off the course, but theBack Harbor was, except for its upper entrance, landlocked, and he couldnot go far astray, no matter where he might hit the shore. 

The fog clouds, driven by the squalls, drifted by and passed. At rareintervals the sky was almost clear. After he had rowed for half an hourand was beginning to think he must be traveling in circles, one ofthese clear intervals came and, far off to the left and ahead, he sawsomething which caused him to utter an exclamation of joy. Twofiery eyes shone through the dark. The fog shut them in again almostimmediately, but that one glance was sufficient to show that all waswell at the post he had deserted. The fiery eyes were the lanterns inthe Twin-Lights towers. John Brown had been equal to the emergency, andthe lamps were lighted. 

Seth's anxiety was relieved, but that one glimpse made him even moreeager for home. He rowed on for a short time, and then began edging intoward the invisible left-hand shore. Judging by the length of time hehad been rowing, he must be close to the mouth of the Slough, where, winding through the salt marshes, it emerged into the Back Harbor. 

He crept in nearer and nearer, but no shore came in sight. The fog wasnow so thick that he could see not more than ten feet from the boat, but if he was in the mouth of the Slough he should have grounded on themarsh bank long before. The reason that he did not, a reason which didnot occur to him at the time, was that the marshes were four feet underwater. Owing to the tremendous tide Pounddug Slough was now merely acontinuation of the Harbor and almost as wide. 

The lightkeeper began to think that he must have miscalculated hisdistance. He could not have rowed as far as he thought. Therefore, he again turned the dory's nose into the teeth of the wind and pulledsteadily on. At intervals he stopped and listened. All he heard wasthe moan of distant foghorns and the whistling of the gusts in treessomewhere at his left. There were pine groves scattered all along thebluffs on the Eastboro side, so this did not help him much except toprove that the shore was not far away. He pulled harder on the rightoar. Then he stopped once more to listen. 

Another blast howled through the distant trees and swept down upon him. Then, borne on the wind, he heard from somewhere ahead, and alarminglynear at hand, other sounds, voices, calls for help. 

"Ahoy!" he shouted. "Ahoy there! Who is it? Where are you?"

"Help!" came the calls again--and nearer. "Help!"

"Look out!" roared Seth, peering excitedly over his shoulder into thedark. "Where are you? Look out or you'll be afoul of . . . Jumpin'Judas!"

For out of the fog loomed a bulky shape driving down upon him. He pulledfrantically at the oars, but it was too late. A mast rocked against thesky, a stubby bowsprit shot over the dory, and the little boat, struckbroadside on, heeled to the water's edge. Seth, springing franticallyupward, seized the bowsprit and clung to it. The dory, pushed aside andhalf full of water, disappeared. From the deck behind the bowsprit twovoices, a man's voice and a woman's, screamed wildly. 

Seth did not scream. Clinging to the reeling bowsprit, he swung up onit, edged his way to the vessel's bows and stepped upon the deck. 

"For thunder sakes!" he roared angrily, "what kind of navigation's this?Where's your lights, you lubbers? What d'you mean by--Where are youanyhow? And--and what schooner's this?"

For the deck, as much as he could see of it in the dark, lookedastonishingly familiar. As he stumbled aft it became more familiarstill. The ropes, a combination of new and old, the new boards in thedeck planking, the general arrangement of things, as familiar to him asthe arrangement of furniture in the kitchen of the Lights! It could notbe . . . But it was! The little schooner was his own, his hobby, hisafternoon workshop--the Daisy M. Herself. The Daisy M. , which he hadlast seen stranded and, as he supposed, hard and fast aground! The DaisyM. Afloat, after all these years!

From the stern by the cabin hatch a man came reeling toward him, holdingto the rail for support with one hand and brandishing the other. 

"Help!" cried the man wildly. "Who is it? Help us! we're drowning! We're. . . Can't you put us ashore. Please put us . . . Good Lord!"

Seth made no answer. How could he? The man was Bennie D. 

And then another figure followed the first, and a woman's voice spokepleadingly. 

"Have you got a boat?" it cried. "We're adrift on this dreadful thingand . . . Why, SETH!"

The woman was Emeline Bascom. 

"Why, SETH!" she said again. Then the sounds of the wind and waves andthe creaking and cracking of the old schooner alone broke the silence. 

But Bennie D. , even under the shock of such a surprise as this, did notremain silent long. His precious self was in danger. 

"You put us ashore!" he shouted. "You put us ashore right off, do youhear? Don't stand there like a fool! Do something. Do you want us todrown? DO something!"

Seth came to life. His first speech was sharp and businesslike. 

"Emeline, " he said, "there's a lantern hanging up in the cabin. Go lightit and fetch it to me. Hurry!"

"It's upset, " was the frightened answer. "Bennie found it when we firstcame aboard. When we--when this awful boat started, it upset and wentout. "

"Never mind. Probably there's ile enough left for a spell. Go fetchit. There's matches in a box on the wall just underneath where 'twashangin'. Don't stop to talk! Move!"

Mrs. Bascom moved. Seth turned to the "inventor. "

"Come for'ard with me, " he ordered. "Here! this way! for'ard! FOR'ARD!"

He seized his companion by the arm and pulled him toward the bow. Thefrightened genius held back. 

"What in time is the matter with you?" snarled the lightkeeper. "Areyour feet asleep? Come!"

Bennie D. Came, under compulsion. Seth half led, half dragged him to thebow, and, bending down, uncoiled a rope and put it in his hands. 

"Them's the jib halliards, " he explained. "Haul on 'em quick and hardas you can. If we can h'ist the jib we can get some steerage way on her, maybe. Haul! haul till you can't haul no more. Then hang on till I comeback and make fast. "

He rushed back to the wheel. The tiller ropes were new, and he couldtrust them, fortunately. From the cabin hatchway emerged Mrs. Bascombearing the lighted lantern. 

"Good!" snapped Seth. "Now we can see what we're doin' and, if we showa glim, maybe we won't run down no more dories. You go for'ard and--No, you take this wheel and hold it just as 'tis. JUST as 'tis; understand?I'll be back in a jiffy. What in thunder's the matter with that foolheadat the jib?"

He seized the lantern and rushed to the bow. Bennie D. Had dropped thehalliard and was leaning over the rail screaming for help. 

Seth hoisted the jib himself, made it fast, and then turned hisattention to the mutinous hand. 

"Shut up!" he bellowed, catching him by the arm. "Who do you cal'late'sgoin' to hear you? Shut up! You come with me. I want you to pump. Theold craft would do well enough if she was tight, but she's more'n likelytakin' water like a sieve. You come and pump. "

But Bennie had no notion of pumping. With a jerk he tore loose from thelightkeeper's grasp and ran to the stern, where he continued his howlsfor help. 

Seth was at his heels. 

"Stop that, I tell you, " he commanded angrily. "It don't do no good. Ifyou don't want to go to the bottom you'll work that pump. Don't be sucha clown. "

The frantic genius paid no attention. His sister-in-law left the wheeland put her hand on his shoulder. "Please, Bennie, " she pleaded. "Pleasedo as he says. He knows, and--"

Bennie D. Pushed her backward with savage force. "Mind your ownbusiness, " he yelled with an oath. "'Twas your foolishness got me intothis. " Then, leaning over the rail, he called shrilly, "He--lp! I'mdrowning! Help!"

Mrs. Bascom staggered back against the wheel, which Seth had seized theinstant she deserted it. "Oh!" she said, "you hurt me. "

Her husband freed an arm and put it about her. "Are you much hurt, Emeline?" he asked sharply. 

"No--o. No, Seth. I--I guess I ain't really hurt at all. "

"Good! Then you take this wheel and hold her just so. That's it. ANDDON'T YOU DROP IT AGAIN. I'll attend to this feller. "

His wiry fingers locked themselves in Bennie D. 's shirt collar. 

"I ordered you to pump, " said Seth. "Now then, you come and pump!"

"Let go!" screamed his captive. "Take your hands off me, or--"

The back of his head striking the deck put a period in the middle ofhis sentence. The next moment he was being dragged by the collar to thelittle hand pump amidships. 

"Pump!" roared the lightkeeper. "Pump! or I'll break your everlastin'neck. Lively now!"

The dazed genius rose to his knees. "What--" he stammered. "Where--"

"Right there in front of you. Lively, you lubber!"

A well-directed kick helped to facilitate liveliness. 

"What shall I do?" wailed Bennie D. , fumbling the pump brake. "How doesit go?"

"Up and down--so. " Seth jerked his victim's head up and down, by way ofillustration. "Now, then, " he continued, "you pump till I say quit, orI'll--I swan to man I'll make a spare tops'l out of your hide!"

He left the inventor working as he had not worked in the memory of man, and strode back to the wheel. Mrs. Bascom was clinging to the spokes fordear life. 

"I--I ain't dropped it, Seth, " she declared. "Truly I ain't. "

"All right. You can drop it now. I'll take it myself. You set down andrest. "

He took the wheel and she collapsed, breathless, against the rail. Aftera time she ventured to ask a question. 

"Seth!" she said, "how do you know which way to steer?"

"I don't, " was the reply. "All I'm tryin' to do is keep her afore it. Ifthis no'theast wind would hold, we'd be all right, but it's dyin' fast. And the tide must be at flood, if not startin' to go out. With no wind, and no anchor, and the kind of ebb tide there'll be pretty soon--well, if we don't drift out to sea we'll be lucky. . . . Pump! pump! you sonof a roustabout. If I hear you stoppin' for a second I'll come for'ardand murder you. "

Bennie D. , who had ventured to rest for a moment, bent his aching backto the task. Was this man-slaughtering tyrant his mild-mannered, meekbrother-in-law, the creature whom he had brow-beaten so often andmanaged so effectively? He could not understand--but he pumped. 

Perhaps Seth did not understand, either; perhaps he did not try to. Yet the explanation was simple and natural. The sea, the emergency, thedanger, his own deck beneath his feet--these were like old times, here was a situation he knew how to handle. He forgot that he was alightkeeper absent from duty, forgot that one of his passengers was thewife he had run away from, and the other his bugbear, the dreaded andformidable Bennie D. He forgot all this and was again the able seaman, the Tartar skipper who, in former days, made his crews fear, respect, and swear by him. 

And he reveled in his authority. Once Mrs. Bascom rose to peer over therail. 

"Emeline, " he snapped, "didn't I tell you to set down and set still?Must I give orders twice? SET DOWN!"

Emeline "set. "

The wind died to fitful gusts. The schooner barely moved. The fog wasas thick as ever. Still Seth did not lose courage. When the housekeeperventured to murmur that she was certain they would drown, he reassuredher. 

"Keep your pennant mast-high, Emeline, " he said cheerfully. "We ain'tout at sea, that's sure and sartin. And, until we get in the breakers, we're safe enough. The old gal leaks some; she ain't as dry as aGood-Templar prayer meetin', but she's afloat. And when I'm afloat Iain't afraid, and you needn't be. "

Some time after that he asked a question in his turn. 

"Emeline, " he said, "what in the world are you doin' here, on myschooner?"

"Your schooner, Seth? Yours? Is this dreadful--is this boat yours?"

"Yup. She's mine. I bought her just for fun a long spell ago, and I'vebeen fussin' with her ever since. But I did it FOR fun; I never s'posedshe'd take a cruise--like this. And what are you and--him--doin' onher?"

Mrs. Bascom hesitated. "It was all an accident, Seth, " she explained. "This has been an awful night--and day. Bennie and I was out ridin'together, and we took the wrong road. We got lost, and the rain wasawful. We got out of the buggy to stand under some trees where 'twasdrier. The horse got scared at some limbs fallin' and run off. Then itwas most dark, and we got down to the shore and saw this boat. Therewa'n't any water round her then. Bennie, he climbed aboard and said thecabin was dry, so we went into it to wait for the storm to let up. Butit kept gettin' worse. When we came out of the cabin it was all fog likethis and water everywhere. Bennie was afraid to wade, for we couldn'tsee the shore, so we went back into the cabin again. And then, all atonce, there was a bump that knocked us both sprawlin'. The lanternwent out, and when we come on deck we were afloat. It was terrible. Andthen--and then you came, Seth, and saved our lives. "

"Humph! Maybe they ain't saved yet. . . . Emeline, where was you drivin'to?"

"Why, we was drivin' home, or thought we was. "

"Home?"

"Yes, home--back to the bungalow. "

"You was?"

"Yes. "

A pause. Then: "Emeline, there's no use your tellin' me what ain't so. I know more than you think I do, maybe. If you was drivin' home why didyou take the Denboro road?"

"The Denboro road? Why, we only went on that a ways. Then we turned offon what we thought was the road to the Lights. But it wa'n't; it musthave been the other, the one that goes along by the edge of theBack Harbor and the Slough, the one that's hardly ever used. Seth, "indignantly, "what do you mean by sayin' that I told you what wa'n't so?Do you think I lie?"

"No. No more than you thought I lied about that Christy critter. "

"Seth, I was always sorry for that. I knew you didn't lie. At least Iought to have known you didn't. I--"

"Wait. What did you take the Denboro road at all for?"

"Why--why--Well, Seth, I'll tell you. Bennie wanted to talk to me. He had come on purpose to see me, and he wanted me to do somethin'that--that . . . Anyhow, he'd come to see me. I didn't know he wascomin'. I hadn't heard from him for two years. That letter I gotthis--yesterday mornin' was from him, and it most knocked me over. "

"You hadn't HEARD from him? Ain't he been writin' you right along?"

"No. The fact is he left me two years ago without even sayin' good-by, and--and I thought he had gone for good. But he hadn't, " with a sigh, "he hadn't. And he wanted to talk with me. That's why he took the otherroad--so's he'd have more time to talk, I s'pose. "

"Humph! Emeline, answer me true: Wa'n't you goin' to Denboro to get--toget a divorce from me?"

"A divorce? A divorce from YOU? Seth Bascom, I never heard such--"

She rose from her seat against the rail. 

"Set down, " ordered her husband sharply. "You set down and keep down. "

She stared, gasped, and resumed her seat. Seth gazed straight ahead intothe blackness. He swallowed once or twice, and his hands tightened onthe spokes of the wheel. 

"That--that feller there, " nodding grimly toward the groaning figure atthe pumps, "told me himself that him and you had agreed to get a divorcefrom me--to get it right off. He give me to understand that you expectedhim, 'twas all settled and that was why he'd come to Eastboro. That'swhat he told me this afternoon on the depot platform. "

Mrs. Bascom again sprang up. 

"Set down!" commanded Seth. 

"I won't. "

"Yes, you will. Set down. " And she did. 

"Seth, " she cried, "did he--did Bennie tell you that? Did he? Why, Inever heard such a--I never! Seth, it ain't true, not a word of it. Didyou think I'd get a divorce? Me? A self-respectin' woman? And from you?"

"You turned me adrift. "

"I didn't. You turned yourself adrift. I was in trouble, bound by apromise I give my dyin' husband, to give his brother a home while I hadone. I didn't want to do it; I didn't want him with us--there, wherewe'd been so happy. But I couldn't say anything. I couldn't turn himout. And you wouldn't, you--"

She was interrupted. From beneath the Daisy M. 's keel came a long, scraping noise. The little schooner shook, and then lay still. Thewaves, no longer large, slapped her sides. 

Mrs. Bascom, startled, uttered a little scream. Bennie D. , knockedto his knees, roared in fright. Seth alone was calm. Nothing, at thatmoment, could alarm or even surprise him. 

"Humph!" he observed, "we're aground somewheres. And in the Harbor. We're safe and sound now, I cal'late. Emeline, go below where it'sdry and stay there. Don't talk--go. As for you, " leaving the wheel andstriding toward the weary inventor, "you can stop pumpin'--unless, " witha grim smile, "you like it too well to quit--and set down right whereyou be. Right where you be, I said! Don't you move till I say the word. WHEN I say it, jump!"

He went forward, lowered the jib, and coiled the halliards. Then, lantern in hand, he seated himself in the bows. After a time he filledhis pipe, lit it by the aid of the lantern, and smoked. There wassilence aboard the Daisy M. 

The wind died away altogether. The fog gradually disappeared. Fromsomewhere not far away a church clock struck the hour. Seth heard it andsmiled. Turning his head he saw in the distance the Twin-Lights burningsteadily. He smiled again. 

Gradually, slowly, the morning came. The last remnant of low-hangingmist drifted away. Before the bows of the stranded schooner appeared aflat shore with a road, still partially covered by the receding tide, along its border. Fish houses and anchored dories became visible. Behindthem were hills, and over them roofs and trees and steeples. 

A step sounded behind the watcher in the bows. Mrs. Bascom was at hiselbow. 

"Why, Seth!" she cried, "why, Seth! it's Eastboro, ain't it? We're closeto Eastboro. "

Seth nodded. "It's Eastboro, " he said. "I cal'lated we must be there orthereabouts. With that no'theast breeze to help us we couldn't do muchelse but fetch up at the inner end of the Back Harbor. "

She laid her hand timidly on his arm. 

"Seth, " she whispered, "what should we have done without you? You savedour lives. "

He swung about and faced her. "Emeline, " he said, "we've both beenawful fools. I've been the biggest one, I guess. But I've learned mylesson--I've swore off--I told you I'd prove I was a man. Do you thinkI've been one tonight?"

"Seth!"

"Well, do you? Or, " with a gesture toward the "genius" who was beginningto take an interest in his surroundings, "do you like that kind better?"

"Seth, " reproachfully, "I never liked him better. If you had--"

She was interrupted by her brother-in-law, who came swaggering towardthem. With the sight of land and safety, Bennie D. 's courage returned;also, his old assurance. 

"Humph!" he observed. "Well, sister, we are safe, I really believe. In spite of, " with a glare at the lightkeeper, "this person's insanerecklessness and brutality. Now I will take you ashore and out of hispresence. "

Seth rose to his feet. 

"Didn't I tell you, " he demanded, "not to move till I said the word?Emeline, stay right here. "

Bennie D. Stared at the speaker; then at his sister-in-law. 

"Sister, " he cried, in growing alarm, "sister, come! come! we're goingashore, I tell you. What are you waiting for?"

Seth put his arm about the lady. 

"She is goin' ashore, " he said. "But she's goin' with me, and she'sgoin' to stay with me. Ain't you, Emeline?"

The lady looked up into his face and then down again. "If you want me, Seth, " she said. 

Bennie D. Sprang forward. "Emeline, " he shrieked, "what do you mean? Areyou going to leave me? Have you forgotten--"

"She ain't forgot nothin', " broke in Seth. "But YOU'RE forgettin' what Itold you. Will you go aft there and set down, or shall I make you?"

"But--but, Emeline--sister--have you forgotten your promise to yourdying husband? To my brother? You promised to give me a home as long asyou owned one. "

Then Seth played his trump. 

"She don't own any home, " he declared triumphantly. "She sold her house, and she ain't got any home--except the one I'm goin' to give her. Andif you ever dare to show your head inside of THAT, I'll--I'll heave youover both lights. If you think I'm foolin', just try and see. Now then, Emeline. "

And, with his wife in his arms, Seth Atkins--Seth Atkins Bascom--CAPTAINSeth Atkins Bascom--swung over the rail and waded to land. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE EBB TIDE

"John Brown, " his long night's vigil over, extinguished the lights inthe two towers, descended the iron stairs, and walked across the yardinto the kitchen. His first move, after entering the house, was toring the telephone bell and endeavor to call Eastboro. He was anxiousconcerning Atkins. Seth had not returned, and the substitute assistantwas certain that some accident must have befallen him. The storm hadbeen severe, but it would take more than weather to keep the lightkeeperfrom his post; if he was all right he would have managed to returnsomehow. 

Brown rang the bell time and time again, but got no response. The stormhad wrecked the wires, that was certain, and that means of communicationwas cut off. He kindled the fire in the range and tried to forget hisanxiety by preparing breakfast. When it was prepared he waited a whileand then sat down to a lonely meal. But he had no appetite, and, afterdallying with the food on his plate, gave it up and went outside to lookabout him. 

The first thing he looked at was the road from the village. No sign oflife in that direction as far as he could see. Then he looked at thebungalow. Early as it was, a thread of blue smoke was ascending from thechimney. Did that mean that the housekeeper had returned? Or had RuthGraham been alone all through the miserable night? Under ordinarycircumstances he would have gone over and asked if all was well. Hewould have done that, even if Seth were at home--he was past the pointwhere the lightkeeper or their compact could have prevented him--but hecould not muster courage to go now. She must have found the note hehad tucked under the door, and he was afraid to hear her answer. If itshould be no, then--well, then he did not care what became of him. 

He watched the bungalow for a time, hoping that she might come out--thathe might at least see her--but the door did not open. Auguring all sortsof dismal things from this, he moped gloomily back to the kitchen. Hewas tired and had not slept for thirty hours, but he felt no desire forbed. He could not go to bed anyway until Atkins returned--and he did notwant to. 

He sat down in a chair and idly picked up one of a pile of newspaperslying in the corner. They were the New York and Boston papers which thegrocery boy had brought over from Eastboro, with the mail, the previousday. Seth had not even looked at them, and Brown, who seldom or neverread newspapers, found that he could not do so now. He tossed them onthe table and once more went out of doors. After another glance at thebungalow, he walked to the edge of the bluff and looked over. 

He was astonished to see how far the tide had risen in the night. Theline of seaweed and drift marking its highest point was well up thebank. Now the ebb was foaming past the end of the wharf. He looked forthe lobster car, which should have been floating at its moorings, butcould not see it. Either it was under the wharf or it had been sweptaway and was gone. And one of the dories was gone, too. No, there itwas, across the cove, high and dry on the beach. If so much damage wasvisible from where he stood, it was probable that a closer examinationmight show even more. He reentered the kitchen, took the boathouse keyfrom its nail--the key to Seth's wonderful purchase, the spring lockwhich was to keep out thieves and had so far been of no use except asa trouble-maker--and started for the wharf. As he passed the table hepicked up the bundle of newspapers and took them with him. The boathousewas the repository for rubbish, old papers and magazines included, and these might as well be added to the heap. Atkins had not read thisparticular lot, but the substitute assistant did not think of this. 

The lobster car was not under the wharf. The ropes which had mooredit were broken, and the car was gone. Splinters and dents in the pilesshowed where it had banged and thumped in the grasp of the tide beforebreaking loose. And, lying flat on the wharf and peering under it, itseemed to him that the piles themselves were a trifle aslant; that thewhole wharf had settled down on the outer side. 

He rose and was about to go further out for another examination, whenhis foot struck the pile of papers he had brought with him. He pickedthem up, and, unlocking the boathouse door--it stuck and requiredconsiderable effort to open it--entered the building, tossed the paperson the floor, and turned to go out. Before he could do so the door swungshut with a bang and a click. 

At first he did not realize what the click meant. Not until he tried toopen it did he understand. The settling of the wharf had thrown the doorand its frame out of the perpendicular. That was why it stuck and openedwith such reluctance. When he opened it, he had, so to speak, pushed ituphill. Its own weight had swung it back, and the spring lock--in whichhe had left the key--had worked exactly as the circular of directionsdeclared it would do. He was a prisoner in that boathouse. 

Even then he did not fully grasp the situation. He uttered anexclamation of impatience and tugged at the door; but it was heavy, jammed tight in its frame, and the lock was new and strong. He might aswell have tried to pull up the wharf. 

After a minute of fruitless effort he gave up the attempt on the doorand moved about the little building, seeking other avenues of escape. The only window was a narrow affair, high up at the back, hung on hingesand fastened with a hook and staple. He climbed up on the fish nets andempty boxes, got the window open, and thrust his head and one shoulderthrough the opening. That, however, was as far as he could go. A dwarfmight have squeezed through that window, but not an ex-varsity athletelike Russell Brooks or a husky longshoreman like "John Brown. " It wasat the back, facing the mouth of the creek and the sea, and affordeda beautiful marine view, but that was all. He dropped back on the fishnets and audibly expressed his opinion of the lock and the man who hadbought it. 

Then he tried the door again, again gave it up, and sat down on the fishnets to think. Thinking was unsatisfactory and provoking. He gave thatup, also, and, seeing a knothole in one of the boards in the landwardside of his jail, knelt and applied his eye to the aperture. His onlyhope of freedom, apparently, lay in the arrival home of the lightkeeper. If Seth had arrived he could shout through that knothole and possibly beheard. 

The knothole, however, commanded a view, not of the lighthousebuildings, but of the cove and the bungalow. The bungalow! Ruth Graham!Suddenly, and with a shock, flashed to his mind the thought that hisimprisonment, if at all prolonged, was likely to be, not a joke, but themost serious catastrophe of his life. 

For Ruth Graham was going to leave the bungalow and Eastboro that veryday. He had begged to see her once more, and this day was his lastchance. He had written her, pleading to see her and receive his answer. If he did not see her, if Seth did not return before long and heremained where he was, a prisoner and invisible, the last chance wasgone. Ruth would believe he had repented of his declaration as embodiedin the fateful note, and had fled from her. She had intimated that hewas a coward in not seeing his fiancee and telling her the truth. Shedid not like his writing that other girl and running away. Now shewould believe the cowardice was inherent, because he had written her, also--and had run away. Horrible!

Through the knothole he sent a yell for rescue. Another and another. They were unheard--at least, no one emerged from the bungalow. He sprangto his feet and made another circle of the interior of the boathouse. Then he sank down upon the heap of nets and again tried to think. Hemust get out. He must--somehow!

The morning sunshine streamed through the little window and felldirectly upon the pile of newspapers he had brought from the kitchen andthrown on the floor. His glance chanced to rest for an instant upon thetopmost paper of the pile. It was a New York journal which devotes twoof its inside pages to happenings in society. When he threw it downit had unfolded so that one of these pages lay uppermost. Absently, scarcely realizing that he was doing so, the substitute assistant readas follows:

"Engagement in High Life Announced. Another American Girl to Wed aNobleman. Miss Ann Gardner Davidson to become the Baroness Hardacre. "

With a shout he fell upon his knees, seized the paper and read on:

"Another contemplated matrimonial alliance between one of New York'sfairest daughters and a scion of the English nobility was made publicyesterday. Miss Ann Gardner Davidson, of this city, the breaking ofwhose engagement to Russell Agnew Brooks, son of George Agnew Brooks, the wealthy cotton broker, was the sensation of the early spring, is tomarry Herbert Ainsworth-Ainsworth, Baron Hardacre, of Hardacre Towers, Surrey on Kent, England. It was said that the young lady broke off herformer engagement with Young Brooks because of--"

The prisoner in the boathouse read no further. Ruth Graham had said tohim the day before that, in her opinion, he had treated Ann Davidsonunfairly. He should have gone to her and told her of his quarrel withhis father. Although he did not care for Ann, she might care for him. Might care enough to wait and . . . Wait? Why, she cared so little that, within a few months, she was ready to marry another man. And, if he owedher any debt of honor, no matter how farfetched and fantastic, it wascanceled now. He was absolutely free. And he had been right all thetime. He could prove it. He would show Ruth Graham that paper and . . . 

His jaw set tight, and he rose from the heap of fish nets with thefolded paper clinched like a club in his hand. He was going to get outof that boathouse if he had to butt a hole through its boards with hishead. 

Once more he climbed to the window and made an attempt to squeezethrough. It was futile, of course, but this time it seemed to him thatthe sill and the plank to which it was attached gave a little. He putthe paper between his teeth, seized the sill with both hands, bracedhis feet against a beam below, and jerked with all his strength. Once--twice--three times! It was giving! It was pulling loose! He landedon his back upon the nets, sill and a foot of boarding in his hands. In exactly five seconds, the folded newspaper jammed in his trouserspocket, he swung through the opening and dropped to the narrow spacebetween the building and the end of the wharf. 

The space was a bare six inches wide. As he struck, his ankle turnedunder him, he staggered, tried wildly to regain his balance, and fell. As he fell he caught a glimpse of a blue-clad figure at the top of thebluff before the bungalow. Then he went under with a splash, and theeager tide had him in its grasp. 

When he came to the surface and shook the water from his eyes, he wasalready some distance from the wharf. This, an indication of the forceof the tide, should have caused him to realize his danger instantly. Butit did not. His mind was intent upon the accomplishment of one thing, namely, the proving to Ruth Graham, by means of the item in the paper, that he was no longer under any possible obligation to the Davidsongirl. Therefore, his sole feeling, as he came sputtering to the top ofthe water, was disgust at his own clumsiness. It was when he tried toturn and swim back to the wharf that he grasped the situation as it was. He could not swim against that tide. 

There was no time to consider what was best to do. The breakers wereonly five hundred yards off, and if he wished to live he must keepout of their clutches. He began to swim diagonally across the current, putting all his strength into each stroke. But for every foot ofprogress toward the calmer water he was borne a yard toward thebreakers. 

The tide bubbled and gurgled about him. Miniature whirlpools tuggedat his legs, pulling him under. He fought nobly, setting his teeth andswearing inwardly that he would make it, he would not give up, he wouldnot drown. But the edge of the tide rip was a long way off, and he wasgrowing tired already. Another whirlpool sucked him down, and when herose he shouted for help. It was an instinctive, unreasoning appeal, almost sure to be useless, for who could hear him?--but he shouted, nevertheless. 

And the shout was answered. From somewhere behind him--a long, longdistance, so it seemed to him--came the clear call in a woman's voice. 

"All right! I'm coming. Keep on, just as you are. "

He kept on, or tried to. He swam--and swam--and swam. He went under, rose, went under again, fought his way up, and kept on swimming. Throughthe gurgle and hiss of the water, sounding dully above the humming inhis ears and the roar of the blood in his tired brain, came the clearvoice again:

"Steady now! Just as you are! one more stroke! Now one more! Quick!Quick! Now! Can you get aboard?"

The wet, red side of a dory's bow pushed past his laboring shoulder. A hand clutched his shirt collar. He reached up and grasped the boat'sgunwale, hung on with all his weight, threw one leg over the edge, andtumbled into the dory's bottom. 

"Thanks, " he panted, his eyes shut. "That--was--about the closest callI--ever had. Hey? Why! RUTH!"

She was panting, also, but she was not looking at him. She was rowingwith all her might, and gazing fearfully over her shoulder. "Are youstrong enough to help me row?" she asked breathlessly. "We must headher away from here, out of this tide. And I'm afraid that I can't do italone. "

He raised his head and looked over the rail. The breakers werealarmingly close. He scrambled to the thwart, pushed her aside andseized the oars. She resisted. 

"Only one, " she gasped. "I can manage the other. "

So, each with an oar, they fought the tide, and won--but by thenarrowest of margins. The dory edged into stiller and shoaler water, crept out of the eddying channel over the flat where the depth was buta scant four feet, turned almost by inches, and, at last, slid up on thesandy beach below the bungalow. The girl sat bowed over the handle ofher oar, her breast heaving. She said nothing. Her companion likewisesaid nothing. Staggering, he stepped over the side, walked a few feet upthe beach, and then tumbled in an unconscious heap on the sand. 

He was not unconscious long, being a healthy and robust young fellow. His first thought, upon opening his eyes, was that he must close themagain as quickly as possible because he wanted the dream to continue. To lie with one's head in the lap of an angel, while that angel strokesyour forehead and cries over you and begs you for her sake not to die, is too precious a delusion to lose. But the opening of one's eyes is amistake under such circumstances, and he had made it. The angel's nextremark was entirely unromantic and practical. 

"Are you better?" she asked. "You're all right now, aren't you?"

Her patient's reply was also a question, and irrelevant. 

"DO you care?" he asked faintly. 

"Are you better?" she asked in return. 

"Did you get my note? The note I put under the door?"

"Answer me. Are you all right again?"

"You answer ME. Did you get my note?"

"Yes. . . . Don't try to get up. You're not strong enough yet. You mustwait here while I go and get you some--"

"Don't go!" He almost shouted it. "If--if you do I'll--I'll--I think I'mgoing to faint again. "

"Oh, no, you're not. And I must go and get you some brandy or something. Stay just where you are. "

"Ruth Graham, if you go away now, I'll go with you, if I have to crawl. Maybe I can't walk, but I swear I'll crawl after you on my hands andknees unless you answer my question. DO you care enough for me to wait?"

She looked out at the little bay, at the narrow, wicked tide race, atthe breakers beyond. Then she looked down again at him. 

"Yes, " she said. . . . "OH, are you going to faint again? Don't! Pleasedon't!"

Russell Agnew Brooks, the late "John Brown, " opened his eyes. "I am notgoing to faint, " he observed. "I was merely trying to realize that I wasfully conscious. "

Some time after this--hours and minutes do not count in paradise--heremembered the item in the paper. 

"By George!" he exclaimed, "I had something to show you. I'm afraid I'velost it. Oh, no I here it is. "

He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump thathad been the New York newspaper. The page containing the sensationalannouncement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable. Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur. However, he told her about it, and she agreed that his judgment of thecharacter of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct. 

"You were very wise, " she said sagely. 

"Not so wise as I've become since, " he asserted with decision. Then headded, with a rather rueful smile, "I'm afraid, dear, people won't sayas much for you, when they know. "

"I'm satisfied. "

"You may have to wait all those years--and years--you spoke of. "

"I will. "

But she did not have to. For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdombeside her sat up and pointed to the wet newspaper lying on the sand ather feet. 

"Has my happiness affected my wits?" he demanded. "Or does salt waterbring on delusions? Aren't those my initials?"

He was pointing to a paragraph in the "Personals" column of the New Yorkpaper. This, being on one of the inner pages, had remained comparativelydry and could be read. The particular "Personal" to which he pointed wasthis:

"R. A. B. " Wherever you are. This is to certify that I herebyacknowledge that you have been absolutely correct in the A. D. Matter;witness news elsewhere. I was a fool, and I apologize publicly. Incidentally I need a head like yours in my business. Come back. Partnership awaiting you. Come back; and marry anybody or nobody as yousee fit. 

"FATHER. "

CHAPTER XVII

WOMAN-HATERS

"But what, " asked Ruth, as they entered the bungalow together, "hashappened to Mr. Atkins, do you think? You say he went away yesterdaynoon and you haven't seen him or even heard from him since. I shouldthink he would be afraid to leave the lights for so long a time. Has heever done it before?"

"No. And I'm certain he would not have done it this time of his ownaccord. If he could have gotten back last night he would, storm or nostorm. "

"But last night was pretty bad. And, " quite seriously, "of course heknew that you were here, and so everything would be all right. "

"Oh, certainly, " with sarcasm, "he would know that, of course. So longas I am on deck, why come back at all? I'm afraid Atkins doesn't shareyour faith in my transcendent ability, dear. "

"Well, " Miss Graham tossed her head, "I imagine he knew he could trustyou to attend to his old lighthouses. "

"Perhaps. If so, his faith has developed wonderfully. He never hastrusted me even to light the lanterns. No, I'm afraid something hashappened--some accident. If the telephone was in working order I couldsoon find out. As it is, I can only wait and try not to worry. By theway, is your housekeeper--Mrs. What's-her-name--all serene after her wetafternoon? When did she return?"

"She hasn't returned. I expected her last evening--she said she would beback before dark--but she didn't come. That didn't trouble me; the stormwas so severe that I suppose she stayed in the village overnight. "

"So you were alone all through the gale. I wondered if you were; I wastremendously anxious about you. And you weren't afraid? Did you sleep?"

"Not much. You see, " she smiled oddly, "I received a letter before Iretired, and it was such an important--and surprising--communicationthat I couldn't go to sleep at once. "

"A letter? A letter last night? Who--What? You don't mean my letter? Theone I put under your door? You didn't get THAT last night!"

"Oh, yes, I did. "

"But how? The bungalow was as dark as a tomb. There wasn't a lightanywhere. I made sure of that before I came over. "

"I know. I put the light out, but I was sitting by the window in thedark, looking out at the storm. Then I saw some one coming up the hill, and it was you. "

"Then you saw me push it under the door?"

"Yes. What made you stay on the step so long after you had pushed itunder?"

"Me? . . . Oh, " hastily, "I wanted to make sure it was--er--under. Andyou found it and read it--then?"

"Of course. I couldn't imagine what it could be, and I was curious, naturally. "

"Ruth!"

"I was. "

"Nonsense! You knew what it must be. Surely you did. Now, truly, didn'tyou? Didn't you, dear?"

"Why should I? . . . Oh, your sleeve is wet. You're soaking wet fromhead to foot. "

"Well, I presume that was to be expected. This water out here isremarkably damp, you know, and I was in it for some time. I should havebeen in it yet if it hadn't been for you. "

"Don't!" with a shudder, "don't speak of it. When I saw you fall intothat tide I . . . But there! you mustn't stay here another moment. Gohome and put on dry things. Go at once!"

"Dry things be hanged! I'm going to stay right here--and look at you. "

"You're not. Besides, I am wet, too. And I haven't had my breakfast. "

"Haven't you? Neither have I. " He forgot that he had attempted to haveone. "But I don't care, " he added recklessly. Then, with a flash ofinspiration, "Why can't we breakfast together? Invite me, please. "

"No, I shall not. At least, not until you go back and change yourclothes. "

"To hear is to obey. 'I go, but I return, ' as the fellow in the playobserves. I'll be back in just fifteen minutes. "

He was back in twelve, and, as to make the long detour about themarshes would, he felt then, be a wicked waste of time and the marshesthemselves were covered with puddles left by the tide, his "dry things"were far from dry when he arrived. But she did not notice, and he wastoo happy to care, so it was all right. They got breakfast together, andif the coffee had boiled too long and the eggs not long enough, that wasall right, also. 

They sat at opposite sides of the little table, and he needed frequentreminding that eating was supposed to be the business on hand. Theytalked of his father and of Ann Davidson--whom Ruth declared was to bepitied--of the wonderful coincidence that that particular paper, the onecontaining the "Personal" and the "Engagement in High Life" item, shouldhave been on top of the pile in the boathouse, and--of other things. Occasionally the talk lapsed, and the substitute assistant merelylooked, looked and smiled vacuously. When this happened Miss Grahamsmiled, also, and blushed. Neither of them thought of looking out of thewindow. 

If they had not been so preoccupied, if they had looked out of thatwindow, they would have seen a horse and buggy approaching over thedunes. Seth and Mrs. Bascom were on the buggy seat, and the lightkeeperwas driving with one hand. The equipage had been hired at the Eastborolivery stable. Joshua was undergoing repairs and enjoying a much-neededrest at the blacksmith shop in the village. 

As they drew near the lights, Seth sighed contentedly. 

"Well, Emeline, " he observed, "here we be, safe and sound. Home again!Yes, sir, by jiminy crimps, HOME! And you ain't goin' to Boston to-day, neither. "

Mrs. Bascom, the practical, moved toward the edge of the seat. 

"Take your arm away, Seth, " she cautioned. "They'll see you. "

"Who'll see me? What do I care who sees me? Ain't a man got a right toput his arm around his own wife, I'd like to know?"

"Humph! Well, all right. I can stand it if you can. Only I cal'late youryoung Brown man is in for somethin' of a shock, that's all. HE don'tknow that I'm your wife. "

Seth removed his arm. His expression changed. 

"That's so, " he admitted. "He will be set back three or four rows, won'the?"

"I shouldn't wonder. He'll think your woman-hate has had a relapse, Iguess. "

The lightkeeper looked troubled; then he nodded grimly. 

"His ain't what you'd call a desp'rate case, " he declared. "Judgin' bywhat I've seen in the cove for the last month, he's gettin' better ofit fast. I ain't no worse than he is, by time! . . . Wonder where he is!This place looks deader'n the doleful tombs. "

He hitched the horse to the back fence and assisted his wife to alightfrom the buggy. They entered the kitchen. No one was there, and Seth'shurried search of the other rooms resulted in finding them untenantedlikewise. 

"Maybe he's out in one of the lights, " he said, "wait here, Emeline, andI'll go see. "

But she would not wait. "I'm goin' right over to the bungalow, " shesaid. "I'm worried about Miss Ruth. She was alone all last night, andI sha'n't rest easy till I know nothin's happened to her. You can comewhen you find your young man. You and me have got somethin' to tell 'em, and we might as well get the tellin' done as soon as possible. Nothin'sever gained by putting off a mean job. Unless, of course, " she added, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, "you want to back out, Seth. It ain't too late even now, you know. "

He stared at her. "Back out!" he repeated; "back out! Emeline Bascom, what are you talkin' about? You go to that bungalow and go in a hurry. Don't stop to talk! go! Who's runnin' this craft? Who's the man in thisfamily--you or me?"

She laughed. "You seem to be, Seth, " she answered, "just now. "

"I am. I've been a consider'ble spell learnin' how to be, but I'velearned. You trot right along. "

Brown was in neither of the light towers, and Seth began to be worriedabout him. He descended to the yard and stood there, wondering whaton earth could have happened. Then, looking across the cove, he becameaware that his wife was standing on the edge of the bluff, makingsignals with both hands. 

He opened his mouth to shout a question, but she frantically signaledfor silence. Then she beckoned. He ran down the path at full speed. Shemet him at the other side of the cove. 

"Come here!" she whispered. "Don't say a word, but just come--and look. "

He followed her, crept close to the bungalow window and peeped in. Hishelper, "John Brown, " and Miss Ruth Graham were seated at the table. Also the substitute assistant was leaning across that table with theyoung lady's hand in his; the pair were entirely oblivious of anythingin the world except each other. 

A few moments later a thunderous knock shook the bungalow door. Theknock was not answered immediately; therefore, Seth opened the doorhimself. Miss Graham and the lightkeeper's helper were standing somedistance apart; they gazed speechlessly at the couple who now enteredthe room. 

"Well, " observed Seth, with sarcasm, "anybody got anything to say?You, " turning to the young man, "seems to me you ought to say SOMETHIN'. Considerin' a little agreement you and me had, I should imagine Iwas entitled to some triflin' explanation. What are you doin' overhere--with HER? Brown--"

The young gentleman came to himself with a start. He walked across towhere Miss Graham was standing, and once more took her hand. 

"My name is not Brown, " he said firmly. "It is Brooks; and this is theyoung lady I am to marry. "

He naturally expected his superior to be surprised. As a matter offact, he was the surprised party. Seth reached out, drew the bungalowhousekeeper toward him, and put his arm about her waist. Then hesmiled; and the smile was expressive of pride, triumph, and satisfactionabsolute. 

"ATKINS!" gasped Brooks. 

"My name ain't Atkins, " was the astonishing reply; "it's Bascom. Andthis, " indicating by a tightening of his arm the blushing person at hisside, "is the lady I married over five year ago. "

After the stories had been told, after both sides had told theirs andexplained and been exclaimed over and congratulated, after the very lastquestion had been asked and answered, Brown--or Brooks--asked one more. 

"But this other fellow, " he queried, "this brother-in-law--By George, it is perfectly marvelous, this whole business!--where is he? What hasbecome of him?"

Seth chuckled. "Bennie D. ?" he said. "Well, Bennie D. Is leavin'Eastboro on the noon train. I paid his fare and give him fifty dollarsto boot. He's goin' somewhere, but he ain't sartin where. If you askedme, I should say that, in the end, he'd most likely have to gowhere he's never been afore, so far's I ever heard--that's to work. Now--seein' as the important business has been talked over andsettled--maybe you'll tell me about the lights, and how you got alonglast night. "

But the lighthouse subject was destined to be postponed for a fewminutes. The person in whose care the Lights had been left during thepast twenty hours or so looked at the speaker, then at the other personspresent, and suddenly began to laugh. 

"What are you laughing at?" asked Miss Graham. "Why, Russell, what isit?"

Russell Agnew Brooks, alias "John Brown, " ex-substitute assistant atEastboro Twin-Lights, sank into a chair, shaking from head to heel. 

"It is hysterics, " cried Ruth, hastening to his side. "No wonder, poordear, considering what he has been through. Hush, Russell! don't, youfrighten me. What IS it?"

Her fiance waved a reassuring hand. "It--it's all right, " he gasped. "I was just laughing at . . . Oh, " pointing an unsteady finger at thelightkeeper, "ask him; he knows. "

"Ask him?" repeated the bewildered young lady. "Why, Mr. Atkins--Bascom, I mean--what. . . . "

And then Seth began to laugh. Leaning against the doorpost, he at firstchuckled and then roared. 

"Seth!" cried his wife. "Seth, you old idiot! Why, I never see two suchloons in my life! Seth, answer me! What are you two laughin' at?"

Seth Atkins Bascom wiped the tears from his eyes. "I cal'late, " hepanted, "I rather guess--Ho, ho!--I rather guess we're both laughin' atwoman-haters. "