The stars, like incandescent lights fed by a fast weakening dynamo, grew pale, faded, and, one by one, went out. The slate-colored sea, with its tumbling 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, a brilliant sapphire, trimmed with a silver white on the shoals and along the 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 spent the night just passed. Then he rose from his chair and extinguished the blaze in the great lantern beside him. Morning had come, the mists had rolled away, and the dots scattered along the horizon—schooners, tugs, and coal barges, for the most part—no longer needed the glare of Eastboro Twin-Lights to warn them against close proximity to the dangerous, shoal-bordered coast. Incidentally, it was no longer necessary for Mr. Atkins to remain on watch. He drew the curtains over the polished glass and brass of the lantern, yawned again, and descended the winding iron stairs to the door at the foot of the tower, opened it and emerged into the sandy yard.
Crossing this yard, before the small white house which the government provided as a dwelling place for its lightkeepers, he opened the door of the south tower, mounted the stairs there and repeated the extinguishing process with the other lantern. Before again descending to earth, however, he stepped out on the iron balcony surrounding the light chamber 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 breeze rippling the surfaces of the ground-swell. A few sails in sight, far out. Not a sound except the hiss and splash of the surf, which, because of a week of calms and light winds, was low even for that time of year—early June.
To the north stretched the shores of the back of the Cape. High clay bluffs, rain-washed and wrinkled, sloping sharply to the white sand of the beach a hundred feet below. Only one building, except those connected with the lighthouses, near at hand, this a small, gray-shingled bungalow about two hundred yards away, separated from the lights by the narrow stream called Clam Creek—Seth always spoke of it as the “Crick”—which, turning in behind the long surf-beaten sandspit known, for some forgotten reason, as “Black Man's Point,” continued to the salt-water pond which was named “The Cove.” A path led down from the lighthouses to a bend in the “Crick,” and there, on a small wharf, was a shanty 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 the cove.
A mile off, to the south, the line of bluffs was broken by another inlet, the entrance to Pounddug Slough. This poetically named channel twisted and wound tortuously inland through salt marshes and between mudbanks, widening at last to become Eastboro Back Harbor, a good-sized body of water, with the village of Eastboro at its upper end. In the old days, when Eastboro amounted to something as a fishing port, the mackerel fleet unloaded its catch at the wharves in the Back Harbor. Then Pounddug Slough was kept thoroughly dredged and buoyed. Now it was weed-grown and neglected. Only an occasional lobsterman's dory traversed its winding ways, which the storms and tides of each succeeding winter rendered more difficult to navigate. The abandoned fish houses along its shores were falling to pieces, and at intervals the stranded hulk of a fishing sloop or a little schooner, rotting in the sun, was a dismal reminder that Eastboro's ambitious young men no longer got their living alongshore. The town itself had gone to sleep, awakening only in the summer, when the few cottagers came and the Bay Side Hotel was opened for its short season.
Behind the lighthouse buildings, to the west—and in the direction of the village—were five miles of nothing in particular. A desolate wilderness of rolling sand-dunes, beach grass, huckleberry and bayberry bushes, cedar swamps, and small clumps of pitch-pines. Through this desert the three or four rutted, crooked sand roads, leading to and from the lights, turned and twisted. Along their borders dwelt no human being; but life was there, life in abundance. Ezra Payne, late assistant keeper at the Twin-Lights, was ready at all times to furnish evidence concerning the existence of this life.
“My godfreys domino!” Ezra had exclaimed, after returning from a drive to Eastboro village, “I give you my word, Seth, they dummed nigh et me alive. They covered the horse all up, so that he looked for all the world like a sheep, woolly. I don't mind moskeeters in moderation, but when 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, because every 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't get a square meal often enough to be anything but hide-racks filled with cussedness. Moskeeters! My godfreys domino!”
Ezra was no longer assistant lightkeeper. He and his superior had quarreled two days before. The quarrel was the culmination, on Ezra's part, of a gradually developing “grouch” brought on by the loneliness of his surroundings. After a night of duty he had marched into the house, packed his belongings in a battered canvas extension case, and announced his 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 bewilderment and sleepy astonishment. “To thunder with it, I say! I've had all the gov'ment jobs I want. Life-savin' service was bad enough, trampin' the condemned beach in a howlin' no'theaster, with the sand cuttin' furrers in your face, and the icicles on your mustache so heavy you got round-shouldered luggin' 'em. But when your tramp was over, you had somebody 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 my company good enough for you?”
“Company! A heap of company you are! When I'm awake you're asleep and snorin' 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 to retort, “lonesome ain't no name for this place. No company but green flies and them moskeeters, and nothin' to look at but salt water and sand and—and—dummed if I can think of anything else. Five miles from town and the only house in sight shut tight. When I come here you told me 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 in winter time, do you?”
“I don't know. If they're fools enough to come here ANY time, I wouldn't be responsible for 'em. There ain't so many moskeeters in winter. But just LOOK at this hole. Just put on your specs and LOOK at it! Not a man—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 the matter with you. You want to be up in the village, where you can go courtin'. You're too fur from Elsie Peters, that's where the shoe pinches. I've heard how you used to set out in her dad's backyard, with your arm round her waist, lookin' at each other, mushy as a couple of sassers of hasty-puddin'. Bah! I'll take care my next assistant ain't girl-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 in Methusalem's time had sense enough to heave you over. At least, that's what everybody cal'lates must be the reason. You pretend to be a woman-hater. All round this part of the Cape you've took pains to get up that kind of reputation; but—”
“There ain't no pretendin' about it. I've got brains enough to keep clear of petticoats. And when you get to be as old as I be and know as much as I do—though that ain't no ways likely, even if you live to be nine 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 the poorhouse hated ice cream—'cause there ain't none around. Why, I wouldn't trust you as fur as I could see you!”
This was the end of the dialogue, because Mr. Payne was obliged to break off his harangue and dodge the stove-lifter flung at him by the outraged lightkeeper. As the lifter was about to be followed by the teakettle, Ezra took to his heels, bolted from the house and began his long tramp to the village. When he reached the first clumps of bayberry bushes bordering the deeply rutted road, a joyful cloud of mosquitoes rose and settled 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 nights following Ezra's departure had been strenuous and provoking. Doing all the housework, preparation of meals included, tending both lights, rubbing brass work, sweeping and scouring, sleeping when he could and keeping awake when he must, nobody to talk to, nobody to help—the forty-eight hours of solitude had already convinced Mr. Atkins that the sooner a helper was provided the better. At times he even wished the disrespectful Payne back again, wished that he had soothed instead of irritated the departed one. Then he remembered certain fragments of their last conversation and wished the stove-lifter had been flung with better aim.
Now, standing on the gallery of the south tower, he was conscious of a desire for breakfast. Preparing that meal had been a part of his assistant's duties. Now he must prepare it himself, and he was hungry and sleepy. He mentally vowed that he would no longer delay notifying the authorities of the desertion, and would urge them to hurry in sending some one to fill the vacant place.
Grumbling aloud to himself, he moved around the circle of the gallery toward the door. His hand was on the latch, when, turning, he cast another glance over the rail, this time directly downward toward the beach below. And there he saw something which caused him to forget hunger and grievances of all kinds; something which, after one horrified look to make sure, led him to dart into the light chamber, spring at a reckless gait down the winding stair, out of the tower, rush to the edge of 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 beyond reach of the wash of the surf, lay a man, or the dead body of a man, stretched at full length.
Once before, during his years of service as keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights, had Seth seen such a sight as that which now caused him to make his dash for the shore. Once before, after the terrible storm of 1905, when the great steamer Bay Queen went down with all on board, the exact spot of her sinking unknown even to this day. Then the whole ocean side of the Cape, from Race Point to Orham, was strewn with ghastly relics. But the Bay Queen met her fate in the winter season, amid a gale such as even the oldest residents could not remember. Now it was early summer; 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 excuse for a wreck, anyway.
All this, in disjointed fragments, passed through the lightkeeper's mind as he descended the path in frantic bounds and plowed through the ankle-deep white sand of the beach. As he approached the recumbent figure he yelled a panted “Hi, there!” He did not expect the hail to be answered or even noticed. Therefore, he was pleasantly disappointed when the figure rolled over, raised itself on one elbow, looked at him in a dazed 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 gallop for a walk, he continued his progress toward the man, who, as if his momentary curiosity was satisfied, lay down again. He did not rise when the lightkeeper reached his side, but remained quiet, looking up from a pair of gray eyes and smiling slightly with lips that were blue. He was a stranger to Atkins, a young fellow, rather good looking, dressed in blue serge trousers, negligee shirt, blue socks, and without shoes or hat. His garments were soaked, and the salt water dripped from his shoulders to the sand. The lightkeeper stared at him, and he returned the stare.
“Gosh!” repeated Seth, after an instant of silence. “Jiminy crimps! I feel 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 was your 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 think of nothing to say.
“Good morning,” continued the young man, as if the meeting had been the most casual and ordinary possible; “I think you said a moment ago that you 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' there all soaked through? You scared me pretty nigh to death. I thought you was drowned, sure and sartin.”
“Did you? Well, to be honest, so did I, for a while. In fact, I'm not absolutely sure that I'm not, even yet. You'll excuse me if I lie down again, won't you? I never tried a seaweed pillow before, but it isn't so bad.”
He again stretched himself on the sand. Seth shook his head.
“Well, if this don't beat me!” he exclaimed. “You're the coolest critter that ever I—I—”
“I am cool,” admitted the young man, with a slight shiver. “This stretch of ocean here isn't exactly a Turkish bath. I've been swimming since—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 awoke to the realities of the situation.
“Good land of love!” he exclaimed. “What am I thinkin' of? Seein' you this way, and you talkin' so kind of every-day and funny drove my senses clean out, I guess. Get right up off that wet place this minute. Come up to 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't have risen unaided. His knees shook under him when he stood erect, and he leaned heavily on the lightkeeper's arm.
“Steady now,” counselled Atkins; “no hurry. Take it easy. If you've navigated water all alone for hours, I cal'late between us we can manage to make a five-minute cruise on dry land. . . . Even if the course we steer would make an eel lame tryin' to follow it,” he added, as the castaway staggered and reeled up the beach. “Now don't try to talk. Let your tongue rest and give your feet a chance.”
The climbing of the steep bluff was a struggle, but they accomplished it, and at length the stranger was seated in a chair in the kitchen.
“Now, the fust thing,” observed Seth, “is to get them wet clothes off you. Usually I'd have a good fire here, but that miserable Ezry has—that is, my assistant's left me, and I have to go it alone, as you might say. So we'll get you to bed and . . . No, you can't undress yourself, neither. Set still, and I'll have you peeled in a jiffy.”
His guest was making feeble efforts to remove his socks. Atkins pushed him back into the chair and stripped the blue and dripping rags from feet which were almost as blue from cold. The castaway attempted a weak resistance, but gave it up and said, with a whimsical smile:
“I'm mightily obliged to you. I never realized before that a valet was such 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 once myself—typhoid fever 'twas—and they say the things I called the doctor was somethin' scandalous. You ain't responsible. You're beat out, and your brain's weak, like the rest of you. Now hold on till I get you a nightgown.”
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 to a less conspicuous apartment? The door is open, and if any of your neighbors should happen by—any ladies, for instance, I—”
“Ladies!” Mr. Atkins regarded him frowningly. “In the fust place, there ain't a neighbor nigher'n four miles; and, in the next, I'd have you understand no women come to this house. If you knew me better, young feller, you'd know that. Set where you be.”
The nightshirt was one of the lightkeeper's own, and, although Seth was a 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 unfastened at the neck, answered the purpose well enough. The stranger was piloted to the bedroom, assisted into the depths of a feather bed, and covered with several layers of blankets and patchwork quilts.
“There!” observed Seth, contentedly, “now you go to sleep. If you get to sweatin', so much the better. 'Twill get some of that cold water out of you. So long!”
He departed, closing the door after him. Then he built a fire in the range, got breakfast, ate it, washed the dishes and continued his forenoon's work. Not a sound from the bedroom. Evidently the strange arrival had taken the advice concerning going to sleep. But all the time he was washing dishes, rubbing brass work or sweeping, Mr. Atkins's mind was busy with the puzzle which fate had handed him. Occasionally he chuckled, and often he shook his head. He could make nothing out of it. One thing only was certain—he had never before met a human being exactly 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 opened a 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. If you'll look on the chair by the sou'west window you'll find a rig-out of mine. I'm afraid 'twill fit you too quick—you're such an elephant—but I'll risk it if you will.”
Apparently the stranger was willing to risk it, for in a few moments he appeared, dressed in the Atkins Sunday suit of blue cloth, and with Seth'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 a spell?”
“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 was yesterday 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 last cent 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 in your 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 excuse familiarity on short acquaintance, those things you're cooking smell good to me.”
“Them's clam fritters, and, if YOU'LL excuse my sayin' so that shouldn't, they ARE good. Set down and fill up.”
The visitor ate nine of the fritters, a slice of dried-apple pie, and drank two cups of coffee. Seth, between intervals of frying and eating, watched him with tremendous curiosity and as much patience as he could muster. When the pie was finished he asked the first of the questions with 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 the rail and watching the waves. Then I was very dizzy all at once. The next thing 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 cause was 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 whole day I cal'late I'd be worse than dizzy. What did you do when you found yourself in the water?”
“Yelled at first, but no one heard me. Then I saw some lights off in this 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'm here and—by the way, where IS here?”
“This is Eastboro township—Eastboro, Cape Cod. Them lights out there are Eastboro Twin-Lights. I'm the keeper of 'em. My name's Atkins, Seth Atkins.”
“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 name was—”
“Did I?” The young man seemed startled, almost alarmed. “When?”
Seth was embarrassed, but not much. “Well,” he admitted, “I don't know's you 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 was hanged, 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 this is!”
“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't exaggeratin' none wuth mentionin'. I s'pose,” he added, after a moment, during which he stared intently at Mr. Brown, who smiled in polite acknowledgment of the stare; “I s'pose likely you couldn't possibly remember 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 my bedtime. As I told you, my assistant's left all of a sudden and I'm alone in charge of gov'ment property. I ought to turn in, but—” he hesitated.
John Brown also rose.
“Mr. Atkins,” he said, “my memory seems to be pretty bad, but I haven't forgotten everything. For instance,” his smile disappeared, and his tone became 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'm very grateful to you, and that I don't steal. If you care to believe that and, also, that, being neither a sneak or a thief, I sha'n't clear out with the spoons while you're asleep, you might—well, you might risk turning in.”
The lightkeeper did not answer immediately. The pair looked each other straight 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 I wish you'd call me. You'll find some spare clay pipes and tobacco on the mantelpiece by the clock. So long.”
He entered the bedroom and closed the door. Mr. Brown stepped over to the mantel and helped himself to a pipe.
At half past five the lightkeeper opened the bedroom door and peeped out. The kitchen was empty. There was no sign of Mr. Brown. It took Seth just four minutes to climb into the garments he had discarded and reach the open air. His guest was seated on the bench beside the house, one of the 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 six yet.”
Atkins grinned. “No,” he answered, “'tain't! not quite. But sence Ezry cleared 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 it respectfully, “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 I am. 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 he went away. It's 'Honest Friend.' 'TIS flavored up consider'ble. And you tried 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 lips disgustedly 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 no effect on the taste; I've tried it.”
“Maybe some supper might help. I'll wash the dinner dishes and start gettin' it. All there seems to be to this job of mine just now is washin' 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 the table.”
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, except that one on the door; and, for various reasons, I judged that wasn't a dish towel.”
“Good judgment. 'Tisn't. Go on.”
“So I hunted around, and in the closet in the parlor, or living room, or whatever you call it, I found a whole stack of things that looked like towels; 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 my job 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 a piller 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 was the first to recover.
“Well,” he observed, “I guess it's up to me. If you'll kindly put me next to a genuine cloth, or sponge, or whatever is the proper caper for dish-washing, I'll undertake to do them over again. And, for heaven's sake, lock up the pillow cases.”
Seth protested, declaring that the dishes need not be rewashed that very minute, and that when he got a chance he would do them himself. But the young man was firm, and, at last, the lightkeeper yielded.
“It's real kind of you,” he declared, “and bein' as I've consider'ble to do, I don't know but I'll let you. Here's a couple of dishcloths, and there's the towels. I'm goin' out to see to the lights, and I'll be back pretty soon and get supper.”
Later in the evening, after supper, the housework done, they sat again on 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 towers thrust their parallel lances of light afar into the darkness. The only sounds were the low wash of the surf and the hum of the eager mosquitoes. Brown was silent, alternately puffing at the pipe and slapping at the insects, which latter, apparently finding his skin easier to puncture than that of the tanned and leathery Atkins, were making the most of their opportunity.
Seth, whose curiosity had been checked but not smothered by his companion's evident desire to say nothing concerning himself, was busy thinking of various guileful schemes with which to entrap the castaway into the disclosure of his identity. Having prepared his bait, he proceeded to get over a line.
“Mr. Brown,” he said, “I ain't mentioned it to you afore, 'count of your needin' 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 be wantin' to get word to your folks. Now we can telephone to the Eastboro depot, where there's a telegraph, and the depot master'll send a dispatch to your people, lettin' 'em know you're all safe and sound. If you'll just give me the address and what you want to say, I'll 'tend to it myself. The depot master's a good friend of mine, and he'll risk sending 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 further trouble.”
“Trouble! 'Tain't no trouble to telephone. Land sakes, I do it four or five 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 telegraphing either. I didn't drown, and I'm very comfortable, thank you—or should be if it weren't for these mosquitoes.”
“Comf'table! Yes, you're comf'table, but how about your folks? Won't they learn, soon's that steamer gets into—into Portland—or—or—New York or Boston—or . . . Hey?”
“I didn't speak.”
Seth swallowed hard and continued. “Well, wherever she was bound,” he snapped. “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 and blew 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 such and 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 truth had ended suddenly in a blind alley. He pulled viciously at his chin whiskers. His companion shifted his position on the bench. Silence fell again, 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 any rate, I haven't gathered any moss, any financial moss. I'm broke. I haven'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 fell overboard 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 either side. 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 and everybody.”
“Five mile from Eastboro Center, sixteen from Denboro, and two from the nighest 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 shut up. Who owns it?”
“Bunga—which? Oh, that cottage over on t'other side the crick? That b'longs to a couple of paintin' fellers from up Boston way. Not house painters, you understand, but fellers that put in their time paintin' pictures of the water and the beach and the like of that. Seems a pretty silly job for grown-up men, but they're real pleasant and folksy. Don't put on no airs nor nothin.' They're most gen'rally here every June and July and August, but I understand they ain't comin' this year, so the cottage'll be shut up. I'll miss 'em, kind of. One of 'em's name is Graham 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 they complain 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. The lightkeeper bounced on the bench as if someone had kicked it violently from 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 the darkness at his companion's face. “Stop!” he ordered. “You asked me if I was—married?”
“Yes. Why shouldn't I?”
“Why shouldn't you? See here, young feller, you—you—what made you ask that?”
“What made me?”
“Stop sayin' my words after me. Are you a man or a poll-parrot? Can't you understand plain United States language? What made you? Or WHO made you? Who told you to ask me that question?”
He pounded the bench with his fist. The pair stared at each other for a moment; then Brown leaned back and began to whistle. Seth seized him by the shoulders.
“Quit that foolishness, d'you hear?” he snarled. “Quit it, and answer me!”
The answer was prefaced by a pitying shake of the head.
“It's the mosquitoes,” observed the young man, musingly. “They get through and puncture the brain after a time, I presume. I'm not surprised 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 perfectly simple, commonplace question sets a chap to pounding and screaming and offering violence, then—well, it's either insanity or an attempt at insult, 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 lightkeeper still 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 a doctor for the other trouble.”
“And I ain't crazy, neither. I beg your pardon for hollerin' and grabbin' hold of you.”
“Granted.”
“Thank ye. Now,” hesitatingly, “would you mind tellin' me why you asked me if I was married?”
“Not in the least. I asked merely because it occurred to me that you might be. Of course, I had seen nothing of your wife, but it was barely possible that she was away on a visit, or somewhere. There is no regulation forbidding lightkeepers marrying—at least, I never heard of any—and so I asked; that's all.”
Seth nodded. “I see,” he said, slowly; “yes, yes, I see. So you didn't have no special reason.”
“I did not. Of course, if I had realized that you were subject to—er—fits, I should have been more careful.”
“Hum! . . . Well, I—I beg your pardon again. I—I am kind of touchy on some p'ints. Didn't I tell you no women came here? Married! A wife! Do I look like a dum fool?”
“Not now.”
“Well, then! And I've apologized for bein' one a few minutes ago, ain't I.”
“Yes, you have. No grudge on my part, I assure you. Let's forget it and talk of something else.”
They did, but the dialogue was rather jerky. Brown was thinking, and Atkins seemed moody and disinclined to talk. After a time he announced that it was getting late and he cal'lated he would go up to the light room. “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 the other was, also, but I . . . There! there! be calm. Sit down again and listen. This question is nothing like that. It's about that assistant of yours, the chap who left a day or two before I drifted in. What were his duties? What did he have to do when he was here?”
“Wa-al,” drawled Seth with sarcasm, resuming his seat on the bench; “he was SUPPOSED to do consider'ble many things. Stand watch and watch with me, and scrub brass and clean up around, and sweep and wash dishes and—and—well, make himself gen'rally useful. Them was the duties he was 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 successor yet? Have you got any one to take his place?”
“No. Fact is, I'd ought to have telegraphed right off to the Board, but I ain't. I was so glad to see the last of him that I kept puttin' it off. 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's rules 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 on his 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 from me to toot my horn, Mr. Atkins, or to proclaim my merits from the housetops. But, speaking as one discerning person to another, when it comes to an A1, first chop lightkeeper's assistant, I ask: 'What's the matter with yours truly, John Brown?'”
Seth's reply was not in words. The hand holding his pipe fell limp upon his 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 echo answers, 'He's all right!' I am a candidate for the position of assistant 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 of your experience I agree to ripen rapidly. I can wash dishes—you've seen me. 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 example done for me on a blackboard. You're a rich man's son; you've been used to sassiety and city ways and good clothes. YOU wantin' to put in your days 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 the whole broadside of Cape Cod to land upon, why was I washed ashore just at this particular spot? Answer:—Because at this spot, at this time, Eastboro Twin-Lights needed an assistant keeper. I like the spot. It is beautiful. 'Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.' With your permission, I'll stay here. The leopard may or may not change his spots, but I sha'n't. I like this one and here I stay. Yes, I mean it. I stay—as your assistant. Come, what do you say? Is it a go?”
The lightkeeper rose once more. “I'm goin' on watch,” he said with decision. “You turn in. You'll feel better in the mornin'.”
He started towards the tower. But John Brown sprang from the bench and followed him.
“Not until you've answered my question,” he declared. “AM I to be your assistant?”
“No, course you ain't. It's dum foolishness. Besides, I ain't got the say; the government hires its own keepers.”
“But you can square the government. That will be easy. Why,” with a modest gesture, “look what the government is getting. It will jump at the chance. Atkins, you must say yes.”
“I sha'n't, neither. Let go of my arm. It's blame foolishness, I tell you. Why,” impatiently, “course it's foolishness! I don't know the first thing about you.”
“What of it? I don't know anything about you, either.”
Again the lightkeeper seemed unaccountably agitated. He stopped in his stride and whirled to face his companion.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded fiercely. Before the young man could reply, he turned again, strode to the door of the light, flung it open, and disappeared within. The door closed behind him with a thunderous bang.
John Brown gazed after him in bewilderment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and returned to the bench.
The surf at the foot of the bluff grumbled and chuckled wickedly, as if it knew all of poor humanity's secrets and found a cynic's enjoyment in the knowledge.
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