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'.”