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'."