He found one, after a time, the relic of a ham, with a good deal of meat on it. Atkins, economical soul, would have protested in horror against the sinful waste, but his helper would cheerfully have sacrificed a whole hog to quiet the wails from the box in the yard. He pushed the ham bone between the slats, and Job received it greedily. The howls and whines ceased and were succeeded by gnawings and crunchings. Brown returned to the kitchen to inspect his neglected fire.
This time the fire was not out, but it burned slowly. The water in the wash boiler was only lukewarm. The big lobster in the net balanced on the chair clashed his claws wickedly as the substitute assistant approached. The door had been left open, and the room hummed with flies. Brown shut the door and, while waiting for the water to heat, separated a dozen sheets of the sticky fly paper and placed them in conspicuous places. He wondered as he did so what some of his former acquaintances would say if they could see him. He—HE—a cook, and a roustabout, a dishwasher and a scrubber of brass at Eastboro Twin-Lights! How long must he stay there? For months at least. He should be thankful that he was there; thankful that there was such a place, where no one came and where he could remain until he was forgotten. He was thankful, of course he was. But what a life to live!
He wondered what Atkins thought of him; how much the lightkeeper guessed concerning his identity and his story. He could not guess within miles of the truth, but he must indulge in some curious speculations. Then he fell to wondering about Seth himself. What was it that the light-keeper was hiding from the world? Odd that two people, each possessing a secret, should come together at that lonely spot. Where was it that Seth went almost every afternoon? Had these daily absences any connection with the great mystery?
He distributed the sheets of fly paper about the room, in places where he judged them likely to do the most good, and had the satisfaction of seeing a number of the tormenting insects caught immediately. Then he tested the water in the boiler. It was warmer, even hot, but not boiling.
He had almost forgotten the dog, but now was reminded by the animal itself, who, having apparently swallowed the bone whole, began once more to howl lugubriously. Brown decided to let him howl for the present, and, going into the living-room, picked up an old magazine and began listlessly to read.
The howls from the yard continued, swelled to a crescendo of shrieks and then suddenly ceased. A moment later there was a thump and a mighty scratching at the kitchen door. The substitute assistant dropped the magazine 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 doubts as to the cause of the racket at the door they were dispelled by a howl like a fog whistle. “Job” had escaped from durance vile and was seeking companionship.
Brown muttered an exclamation of impatience and, opening the door a very little way, peeped through the crack. The pup—he looked like a scrawny young lion—hailed his appearance with a series of wild yelps. His mouth opened like a Mammoth Cave in miniature, and a foot of red tongue flapped like a danger signal.
“Get out, you brute!” ordered Brown.
Job did not get out. Instead he yelped again and capered with the grace of a cow. His feet and legs seemed to have grown out of proportion to the rest of him; they were enormous. Down the length of his yellow back were three raw furrows which the nails of the box cover had scraped as he climbed from under them.
“Nice dog!” coaxed the lightkeeper's helper. “Nice doggie! Good old boy!”
The good old boy pranced joyfully and made a charge at the door. Brown slammed 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 the door which threatened to shatter the panels. Job's paws were armed with claws proportionate to their size.
This would never do. The paint on that door had been furnished by the government, and Atkins was very careful of it. Brown, within, pounded a protest and again commanded the dog to go and lie down. Job, without, thumped and scratched and howled louder than ever. He had decidedly the best of the duet, and the door was suffering every second. Brown picked up 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 was evident that Job knew a shovel when he saw it, had encountered other shovels in the course of his brief young life. His ears and tail drooped, and he backed away.
“Clear out!” repeated Brown, advancing threateningly. With each step of the advance, Job retreated a corresponding distance. When the assistant stopped, he stopped. Brown lowered the shovel and looked at him. The dog grovelled in the sand and whined dolefully.
“Humph!” grunted the young man; “I guess you're not as dangerous as you look. Stay where you are and keep still.”
He turned to enter the kitchen, turning again just in time to find the pup at his heels. He lifted the shovel, and Job jumped frantically out of reach, sat down in a clump of beach grass, lifted his nose to the sky and expressed his feelings in a howl of utter misery.
“Good—heavens!” observed John Brown fervently, and, shifting the shovel to his left hand, rubbed his forehead with his right. Job howled once more and gazed at him with sorrowful appeal. The situation was so ridiculous that the young man began to laugh. This merriment appeared to encourage the pup, who stopped howling and began to caper, throwing the loose 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. Stay where you are, and I won't shut the door.”
But this compromise was not satisfactory, because the moment the young man started to cross the threshold the dog started to follow. When Brown halted, he followed suit—and howled. Then the substitute assistant surrendered unconditionally.
“All right,” he said. “Come in, then, if you want to. Come in! but for goodness 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 certain that his victory was complete. He did not howl, however, and his late adversary was thankful for the omission.
Brown bethought himself of the water in the wash boiler and, removing the cover, tested it with his finger. It was steadily heating, but not yet at the boiling point. He pushed the boiler aside, lifted a lid of the 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 in the 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 had endeavored to find a hiding place under the table. In crawling beneath this 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. He reached aft to pull it loose with his teeth and had encountered a second sheet laid on a chair. This had stuck to his neck. Job was an apprehensive animal by nature and as the result of experience, and his nerves were easily unstrung. He forgot the shovel, forgot the human whom he had been fearfully trying to propitiate, forgot everything except the dreadful objects which clung to him and pulled his hair. He rolled from beneath the table, a shrieking, kicking, snapping cyclone. And that kitchen was no place for a cyclone.
He rolled and whirled for an instant, then scrambled to his feet and began running in widening circles. Brown tried to seize him as he passed, but he might as well have seized a railroad train. Another chair, also loaded with fly paper, upset, and Job added a third sheet to his collection. This one plastered itself across his nose and eyes. He ceased running forward and began to leap high in the air and backwards. The net containing the big lobster fell to the floor. Then John Brown fled to the open air, leaned against the side of the building and screamed with laughter.
Inside the kitchen the uproar was terrific. Howls, shrill yelps, thumps and crashes. Then came a crash louder than any preceding it, a splash of water across the sill, and from the doorway leaped, or flew, an object steaming and dripping, fluttering with fly paper, and with a giant lobster clamped firmly to its tail. The lobster was knocked off against the door post, but the rest of the exhibit kept on around the corner of the house, shrieking as it flew. Brown collapsed in the sand and laughed until his sides ached and he was too weak to laugh longer.
At last he got up and staggered after it. He was still laughing when he reached the back yard, but there he stopped laughing and uttered an exclamation of impatience and some alarm.
Of Job there was no sign, though from somewhere amid the dunes sounded yelps, screams and the breaking of twigs as the persecuted one fled blindly through the bayberry and beachplum bushes. But Brown was not anxious about the dog. What caused him to shout and then break into a run was the sight of Joshua, the old horse, galloping at top speed along the road to the south. Even his sedate and ancient calm had not been proof against the apparition which burst from the kitchen. In his fright he had broken his halter rope and managed—a miracle, considering his age—to leap the pasture fence and run.
That horse was the apple of Seth Atkins's eye. The lightkeeper believed him to be a wonder of strength and endurance, and never left the lights without cautioning his helper to keep an eye on Joshua, “'cause if anything happened to him I'd have to hunt a mighty long spell to find another that could tech him.” Brown accepted this trust with composure, feeling morally certain that the only thing likely to happen to Joshua was death from overeating or old age. And now something had happened—Joshua was running away.
There was but one course to take; Brown must leave the government's property in its own care and capture that horse. He had laughed until running seemed an impossibility, but run he must, and did, after a fashion. But Joshua was running, too, and he was frightened. He galloped like 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. Brown would not have gained at all, but for the fact that the horse, from long habit, kept to the roadway and never tried short cuts. His pursuer did, and, therefore, just as Joshua entered the grove on the bluff above Pounddug Slough, Brown caught up with him and made a grab at the end of the 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 outer edge of the grove was reached did the panting assistant get another opportunity 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 the high, sandy slope. Brown, from the tail of his eye, caught a glimpse of the winding channel of the Slough beneath him, of a small schooner heeled over on the mud flat at its margin, and of the figure of a man at work beside it.
“Whoa!” he ordered once more. “Whoa, Josh! stand still!”
Perhaps the horse would have stood still—he seemed about to do so—but from the distance, somewhere on the road he had just traversed, came a howl, long-drawn and terrifyingly familiar. Joshua heard it, jumped sidewise, 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 and rolling down the sandy slope. The halter flew from Brown's hands, he rolled and bumped and clutched at clumps of grass and bushes. Then he struck 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 dripping brush in the other, was standing beside him, blank astonishment written on his features.
“Well—by time!” said Seth again, and with even stronger emphasis.
The substitute assistant raised himself to his knees, rubbed his back with one hand, and then, turning, sat in the sand and returned his superior's astonished gaze with one of equal bewilderment.
“Hello!” he gasped. “Well, by George! it's you, isn't it! What are you doing here?”
The lightkeeper put down the pail of paint.
“What am I doin'?” he repeated. “What am I doin'—? Say!” His astonishment changed to suspicion and wrath. “Never you mind what I'm doin',” he went on. “That's my affairs. What are YOU doin' here? That's what 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 to remember. Sneakin' after me, wa'n't you? Spyin', to find out what I was up to, hey?”
He shook the wet paint brush angrily at his helper. Brown looked at him for 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 dicker if you was goin' to stay at Eastboro lighthouse? Didn't I tell you that?”
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 own business?”
“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 that suits 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. Through the thicket of beachplum bushes was thrust a yellow head, fringed with torn fragments of fly paper.
“What's that?” demanded the astonished lightkeeper.
Brown looked at the whining apparition in the bushes and smiled maliciously.
“That,” he observed, “is Job.”
“JOB?”
“Yes.” From somewhere in the grove came a thrashing of branches and a frightened neigh. “And that,” he continued, “is Joshua, I presume. If there are more Old Testament patriarchs in the vicinity, I don't know where they are, and I don't care. You may hunt for them yourself. I'm going 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 to follow, but a well-aimed pebble caused him to dodge back.
“Hold on!” roared the lightkeeper. “Maybe I made a mistake. Perhaps you wa'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. Seth stared after him. From the grove, where his halter had caught firmly in the 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 the bridle, trudged in at the lighthouse yard. Job, still ornamented with remnants of the fly paper, slunk at his heels. Seth stabled the horse and, after some manoeuvering, managed to decoy the dog down the slope to the boathouse, where he closed the door upon him and his whines. Then he climbed back to the kitchen.
The table was set for one, and in the wash boiler on the range the giant lobster was cooking. Of the substitute assistant keeper there was no sign, but, after searching, Seth found him in his room.
“Well?” observed Atkins, gruffly, “we might 's well have supper, hadn't we?”
Brown did not seem interested. “Your supper is ready, I think,” he answered. “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 a lonely meal, not of the lobster—he kept that for another occasion—but one made up of cold scraps from the pantry. He wandered uneasily about the premises, quieted Job's wails for the time by a gift of eatable odds and ends tossed into the boathouse, smoked, tried to read, and, when it grew dusk, lit the lamps in the towers. At last he walked to the closed door of his helper's room and rapped.
“Well?” was the ungracious response.
“It's me, Atkins,” he announced, hesitatingly. “I'd like to speak to you, if you don't mind.”
“On business?”
“Well, no—not exactly. Say, Brown, I guess likely I'd ought to beg your pardon again. I cal'late I've made another mistake. I jedge you wa'n't spyin' 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 I come in?”
The door was thrown open. Seth entered, looking sheepish, and sat down in the little cane-seated rocker.
“Say,” he began, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, “would you mind—now that I've begged your pardon and all—tellin' me what did happen while I was away. I imagine, judgin' by the looks of things in the kitchen, that there was—er—well, consider'ble doin', as the boys say.”
He grinned. Brown tried to be serious, but was obliged to smile in return.
“I'll tell you,” he said. “Of course you know where that—er—remarkable dog came from?”
“I can guess,” drily. “Henry G.'s present, ain't he? Humph! Well, I'd ought to have known that anything Henry would GIVE away was likely to be remarkable in all sorts of ways. All right! that's one Henry's got on me. Tomorrow afternoon me and Job take a trip back to Eastboro, and one of us stays there. It may be me, but I have my doubts. I agreed to take a DOG on trial, not a yeller-jaundiced cow with a church organ inside of it. Hear the critter whoopin' down there in the boathouse! And he's eat everything that's chewable on the reservation already. He's a famine on legs, 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 his experience as a lobster catcher. Seth smiled, then chuckled, and finally burst into roars of laughter, in which the narrator joined.
“Jiminy crimps!” exclaimed Seth, when the story was finished. “Oh, by jiminy crimps! that beats the Dutch, and everybody's been told what the Dutch beat. Ha, ha! ho, ho! Brown, I apologize all over again. I don't wonder you was put out when I accused you of spyin'. Wonder you hadn't riz up off that sand and butchered me where I stood. Cal'late that's what I'd have done in your place. Well, I hope there's no hard feelin's now.”
“No. Your apology, is accepted.”
“That's good. Er—er—say, you—you must have been sort of surprised to see 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 say you must have been surprised to see me paintin' the Daisy M. I've been tinkerin' on that old boat, off and on, ever since last fall. Bought her for eight dollars of the feller that owned her, and she was a hulk for sartin then. I've caulked her up and rigged her, after a fashion. Now she might float, if she had a chance. Every afternoon, pretty nigh, I've been 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 and stuff. I—”
“Excuse me, Atkins. I mind my own business, you know. I ask no questions, and you are under no obligation to tell me anything.”
“I know, I know.” The lightkeeper nodded solemnly. He clasped his knee with his hands and rocked back and forth in his chair. “I know,” he went on, an absent, wistful look in his eye; “but you must have wondered, just the same. I bought that craft because—well, because she reminded me 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, same as she used to be. And I was a good skipper, if I do say it. My crews jumped when I said the word, now I tell you. That's where I belong—on the deck of a vessel. I'm a man there—a man.”
He paused. Brown made no comment. Seth continued to rock and to talk; he seemed 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' her just for the fun of doin' it. She'll never float again. It would take a tide like a flood to get her off them flats. But when I'm aboard or putterin' around her, I'm happy—happier, I mean. It makes me forget I'm a good-for-nothin' derelict, stranded in an old woman's job of lightkeepin'. Ah, hum-a-day, young feller, you don't know what it is to have been somebody, and then, because you was a fool and did a fool thing, to be nothin'—nothin'! You don't know what that is.”
John Brown caught his breath. His fist descended upon the window ledge beside 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'.”
Seth was true to his promise concerning Job. The next afternoon that remarkable canine was decoyed, by the usual bone, into the box in which he 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 agonized protests against the journey serving as spurs to urge Joshua faster along the road to the village. When, about six o'clock, Seth reentered the 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 him back. I attended to that.”
“What did he say? Did he think you ungrateful for refusing to accept his present?”
Atkins laughed aloud. “He didn't say nothin',” he declared. “He didn't know it when I left Eastboro. I wa'n't such a fool as to cart that critter to the store, where all the gang 'round the store could holler and make fun. Not much! I drove way round the other way, up the back road, and unloaded him at Henry's house. I cal'lated to leave him with Aunt Olive—that's Henry's sister, keepin' house for him—but she'd gone out to sewin' circle, and there wa'n't nobody to home. The side door was unlocked, so I lugged that box into the settin' room and left it there. Pretty nigh broke my back; and that everlastin' Job hollered so I thought the whole town would hear him and come runnin' to stop the murderin' that they'd cal'late was bein' done. But there ain't no nigh neighbors, and those that are nighest ain't on speakin' terms with Henry; ruther have him murdered than not, I shouldn't wonder. So I left Job 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 Henry or his housekeeper.”
“Ho, ho! ain't it! I rather guess 'twill be Henry himself that's surprised fust. Aunt Olive never leaves sewin' circle till the last bit of supper's eat up—she's got some of her brother's stinginess in her make-up—so I cal'late Henry'll get home afore she does. I shouldn't wonder,” with an exuberant chuckle, “if that settin' room' was some stirred up when he sees it. The pup had loosened the box cover afore I left. 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 was consider'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 that settin' room—well, there was SOME damage done to our kitchen. No, I guess Henry G. and me are square. He won't make any fuss; he wants to keep our trade, you see.”
It was a true prophecy. The storekeeper made no trouble, and Job remained at Eastboro until a foray on a neighbor's chickens resulted in his removal from this vale of tears. Neither the lightkeeper nor his helper ever saw him again, and when Seth next visited the store and solicitously inquired concerning the pup's health, Henry G. merely looked foolish and changed the subject.
But the dog's short sojourn at the Twin-Lights had served to solve one mystery, that of Atkins's daily excursions to Pounddug Slough. He went there to work on the old schooner, the Daisy M. Seth made no more disclosures concerning his past life—that remained a secret—but he did suggest his helper's going to inspect the schooner. “Just walk across and 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', of course,” he added, gloomily; “but it keeps me from thinkin' too much. Go and see her, that's a good feller.”
So the young man did go. He climbed aboard the stranded craft—a forlorn picture she made, lying on her side in the mud—and was surprised to find how much had been manufactured “out of nothing.” Her seams, those which the sun had opened, were caulked neatly; her deck was clean and white; she was partially rigged, with new and old canvas and ropes; and to his landsman's eyes she looked almost fit for sea. But when he said as 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 at her starboard side, that's down in the mud, and I cal'late she'd leak like a skimmer. She's only got a fores'l and a jib, and the jib's only a little one that used to belong to a thirty-foot sloop. Her anchor's gone, and I wouldn't trust her main topmast to carry anything bigger'n a handkerchief, nor that in a breeze no more powerful than a canary bird's breath. And, as I told you, it would take a tide like a flood to float her. No, she's no good, and never will be; but,” with a sigh, “I get a little fun fussin' over her.”
“Er—by the way,” he added, a little later, “of course you won't mention to nobody what I told you about—about my bein' a fishin' skipper once. Not that anybody ever comes here for you to mention it to, but I wouldn't want . . . You see, nobody in Eastboro or anywheres on the Cape knows where I come from, and so . . . Oh, all right, all right. I know you ain't the kind to talk. Mind our own business, that's the motto you and me cruise under, hey?”
Yet, although the conversation in the substitute assistant's room was not again referred to by either, it had the effect of making the oddly assorted pair a bit closer in their companionship. The mutual trust was strengthened by the lightkeeper's half confidence and Brown's sympathetic reception of it. Each was lonely, each had moments when he felt he must express his hidden feelings to some one, and, though neither recognized the fact, it was certain that the time was coming when all mysteries would be mysteries no longer. And one day occurred a series of ridiculous happenings which, bidding fair at first to end in a quarrel the relationship between the two, instead revealed in both a kindred trait that removed the last barrier.
At a little before ten on this particular morning, Brown, busy in the kitchen, heard vigorous language outside. It was Atkins who was speaking, and the assistant wondered who on earth he could be talking to. A glance around the doorpost showed that he was, apparently, talking to himself—at least, there was no other human being to be seen. He held in his hand a battered pair of marine glasses and occasionally he peered through them. Each time he did so his soliloquy became more animated and profane.
“What's the matter?” demanded Brown, emerging from the house.
“Matter?” repeated Seth. “Matter enough! Here! take a squint through them 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. A man—and—”
“And two women; that's what I thought. Dum idiots comin' over to picnic and spend the day, sure's taxes. And they'll want to be showed round the lights 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 was conclusive.
“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's nerves.
“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, over and over, that I have no regular standing here. And, according to the government rules, those you've got posted in the kitchen, the lightkeeper is obliged to show visitors about. I wouldn't break the rules for the world. Good morning. Think I'll go down to the beach.”
He stalked away whistling. Atkins, his face flaming, roared after him a profane 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 top of the bluff.
“Mr. Brown! I say! Ahoy there, Mr. Brown! Come up here a minute, won't ye?”
Brown clambered up the path. A little man, with grey throat whiskers, and wearing an antiquated straw hat, the edge of the brim trimmed with black braid, was standing waiting for him.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brown,” stammered the little man, “but you be Mr. Brown, ain't you?”
“I am. Yes.”
“Well, I cal'lated you was. My name's Stover, Abijah Stover. I live over to Trumet. Me and my wife drove over for a sort of picnic like. We've got her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along. Sophi's a widow from Boston, and she ain't never seen a lighthouse afore. I know Seth Atkins slightly, and I was cal'latin' he'd show us around, but bein' as he's so sick—”
“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 laid up? Why, he—”
Brown did not wait to hear more. He strode to the house, with Mr. Stover at his heels. On his way he caught a glimpse of the buggy, the horse dozing between the shafts. On the seat of the buggy were two women, one plump 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 tell my wife nor Sophi about Seth's bein' sick. Better not say a word to them about 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. If there's a cat in the neighborhood that's ailin' she's always dosin' of it up and fixin' medicine for it, and the like of that. And Sophi's one of them 'New Thoughters' and don't believe anybody's got any right to be sick. The two of 'em ain't done nothin' but argue and row over diseases and imagination and medicines ever since Sophi got here. If they knew Seth was laid up, I honestly believe they'd drop picnic and everythin' and start fightin' over whether he was really sick or just thought he was. And I sort of figgered on havin' a quiet day off.”
Brown found the lightkeeper stretched on the bed in his room. He was dressed, with the exception of coat and boots, and when the young man entered 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's one 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, I guess.”
“But it's so sudden!”
“I know. They always come on that way. Now run along, like a good feller, and leave me to my suff'rin's. O-oh, dear!”
Much troubled, Brown turned to the door. As he was going out he happened to look back. The dresser stood against the wall beyond the bed, and in its mirror he caught a glimpse of the face of the sick man. On that face, 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 one afore. Atkins said that, bein' as he wasn't able to leave his bed, you'd show 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, a light has suddenly burst. “I see,” he mused, thoughtfully. “Yes, yes. I see.”
For a minute he stood still, evidently pondering. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he strode out of the house and walked briskly across to the buggy.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, removing the new cap which Seth had recently purchased for him in Eastboro. “Mr. Stover tells me you wish to be shown the lights.”
The plump woman answered. “Yes,” she said, briskly, “we do. Are you a new 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 he would.”
“I shall be happy,” concurred that young gentleman. “You must excuse me if I seem rather worried. Mr. Atkins, my chief—I believe you know him, Mrs. Stover—has been taken suddenly ill, and is, apparently, suffering much pain. The attack was very sudden, and I—”
“Sick?” The plump woman seemed actually to prick up her ears, like a sleepy cat at the sound of the dinner bell. “Is Seth sick? And you all alone with him here? Can't I do anything to help?”
“All he wants is to be left alone,” put in her husband anxiously. “He said 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 and alcohol. 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 and see him. Don't you s'pose I could help, Mr. Brown?”
Mr. Brown seemed pleased, but reluctant. “It's awfully good of you,” he said. “I couldn't think of troubling you when you've come so far on a pleasure excursion. But I am at my wit s end.”
“Don't say another word!” Mrs. Stover's bulky figure was already on the way 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 sick he is, and that he's goin' to die, and such stuff. What he needs is cheerful conversation and mental uplift. It's too bad! Well, you sha'n't have your own way with him, anyhow. Mr. Brown, where is he?”
“You two goin' to march right into his BEDROOM?” screamed the irate Abijah. The women answered not. They were already in the kitchen. Brown hastened 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 his bed 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 think you know her. And Mrs. Hains of Boston. These ladies have heard of your sickness, and, having had experience in such cases, have kindly offered to stay with you and help in any way they can. Mrs. Stover, I will leave him in your hands. Please call me if I can be of any assistance.”
Without waiting for further comment from the patient, whose face was a picture, he hastened to the kitchen, choking as he went. Mr. Stover met him at the outer door.
“Now you've done it!” wailed the little man. “NOW you've done it! Didn't I tell you? Oh, this'll be a hell of a picnic!”
He stalked away, righteous indignation overcoming him. Brown sat down in a rocking chair and shook with emotion. From the direction of the sick room came the sounds of three voices, each trying to outscream the other. The substitute assistant listened to this for a while, and, as he did so, a new thought struck him. He remembered a story he had read in a magazine 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 molasses jug, the soft-soap bucket, the oil can, the pepper shaker, and a few other utensils and their contents. Footsteps in the kitchen caused him to hurriedly reenter that apartment. Mrs. Stover was standing by the range, her face red.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown!” she exclaimed. “I wondered where you'd gone 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's better now, even as 'tis; but, when a person has to lay and hear over and over again that what ails 'em is nothin' but imagination, it ain't to be wondered at that they get mad. What he needs is some sort of soothin' medicine, and I only wish 'twan't so fur over to home. I've got just 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's an old family receipt, handed down from the Indians, I believe. I always have a bottle with me and . . . Still, I wouldn't prescribe, not knowing the disease.”
Mrs. Stover's eyes sparkled. Patent medicines were her hobby.
“Hum!” she said. “'Stomach Balm' sounds good. And he says his trouble is principally 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 he had so recently found there. Now, however, it was two thirds full of a black sticky mixture. Mrs. Stover removed the cork and took an investigating sniff.
“It smells powerful,” she said, hopefully.
“It is. Would you like to taste it?” handing her a tablespoon. He watched as she swallowed a spoonful.
“Ugh! oh!” she gasped; even her long suffering palate rebelled at THAT taste. “It—I should think that OUGHT to help him.”
“I should think so. It may be the very thing he needs. At any rate, it can'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 New Thoughter in creation says no. He needs medicine and needs it right away.”
“The dose,” said Mr. Brown, gravely, “is two tablespoonfuls every fifteen minutes. I do hope it will help him. Give him my sympathy—my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Stover, please.”
The plump lady disappeared in the direction of the sick room. The substitute assistant lingered and listened. He heard a shrill pow-wow of feminine voices. Evidently “New Thought” and the practice of medicine had once more clashed. The argument waxed and waned. Followed the click of a spoon against glass. And then came a gasp, a gurgle, a choking yell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro Twin-Lights rose the voice of Mr. Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the “Stomach Balm” and those who administered it.
John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner of the house, tiptoed past the bench by the bluff, where Mr. Stover sat gloomily meditating, and ran lightly down the path to the creek and the wharf. The boathouse at the end of the wharf offered a convenient refuge. Into the building he darted, closed the door behind him, and collapsed 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, one of a number procured on his most recent trip to the village. The Stovers and their guest had departed. Their buggy was out of sight beyond the dunes. A slight noise startled the lightkeeper, and he looked up. His helper was standing in the doorway, upon his face an expression of intense 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 up Washin'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 safe hands and well looked after, so I went away. I couldn't remain here and hear you suffer.”
“Hum! HEAR me suffer, hey? Much obliged, I'm sure. What have you been doin' there all this time? I hoped you was—that is, I begun to be afraid you was dead. Thought your sympathy for me had been too much for you, maybe.”
Brown mournfully shook his head. “It was—almost,” he said, solemnly. “I think I dropped asleep. I was quite overcome.”
“Hum! Better take a dose of that 'Stomach Balm,' hadn't you? That'll liven you up, I'll guarantee.”
“No, thank you. The sight of you, well and strong again, is all the medicine I need. We must keep the 'Balm' in case you have another attack. By the way, I notice the dinner dishes haven't been washed. I'll do them at once. I know you must be tired, after your illness—and the exertion 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 to the sink and the dish washing.
Seth was silent all the rest of the afternoon and during supper. But that 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 grudge against you on account of this mornin' and that 'Balm' and such. I ain't.”
“That's good. I'm glad to hear it.”
“Yes. After the fust dose of that stuff—for thunder sakes WHAT did you put in it?—I was about ready to murder you, but I've got over that. I don'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 them folks around.”
“Oh, I don't know. I had my reasons, such as they were. Why didn't you want to do it yourself?”
Seth crossed his legs and was silent for a moment or two. Then he spoke firmly 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 some obligations to me.”
His companion nodded. “I realize that,” he said.
“Yes, but maybe you don't realize the amount of the obligations. I'm riskin' my job keepin' you here. If it wa'n't for the superintendent bein' such a friend of mine, there'd have been a reg'lar assistant keeper app'inted long ago. The gov'ment don't pick up its lightkeepers same 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 plain understandin'. You've got to know just what your job is. I'm goin' to tell 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's somethin' else. Whenever men folks come here, I'll do my share of showin' the place off. But when women come—women, you understand—you've got to be guide. I'll forgive you to-day's doin's. I tried to play a joke on you, and you evened it up with a better one on me. That's all right. But, after this, showin' the lights to females is your 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 coat and pulled him back to the bench.
“Wait, Atkins,” he said. “I'm grateful to you for your kindness, I like you and I'd like to please you; but if what you say is final, then—as they used to say in some play or other—'I guess you'll have to hire another 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 you object 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 on the words, rose, walked away a few paces, returned, and sat down.
“John Brown,” he said, solemnly, “if you're jokin', the powers forgive you, for I won't. If you ain't, I—I . . . See here, do you remember what you asked me that night when you struck me for the assistant keeper'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 AM married. I've got a wife livin'.”
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