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 ****** 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.