ON HIS BEAT.

Keeper Barney and his family of surfmen were at breakfast as Walter entered. They were seated about a table on which were two huge steaming dishes,—one of biscuit, and the other of fried potatoes. By each surfman’s plate, was a cup of hot coffee. A ready chorus of welcome went up from these modern knights of the sea. “How are ye, Walter?” sang out the keeper. “Hullo!” “Good mornin’!” “Come in! come in!” were the various styles of greeting; while Charlie Lawson, the cook, shouted, “You look thin as a shadder! Set down, and have something to fill you out!”

“I’m much obliged,” replied Walter. “I have been to breakfast, though.”

“That means,” explained the keeper, “that he was out last night practicin’ on a beat, and so took an early cup of coffee; but we will show him to–night what a real beat is.”

“That’s so!” said Tom Walker. “Them fancy beats don’t amount to nothin’, beside the real article.”

Walter felt at home at once, and declared that he guessed he would try “Cook Charlie’s biscuit.”

“Biscuit! Try them fried taters too. One of ’em would keep you a–goin’ a hull day,” declared the cook.

“You look as if they had done a good work for you,” said Woodbury Elliott to the cook. Something had fatted up “Cook Charlie” as he was generally called. But what business has a cook to be lean? The presiding genius of the kitchen, certainly ought to give in his own body proof of his skill. A lean cook is an inconsistency; while in a fat cook there is a fitness. And then what right has a cook to be cross? A good dinner begets a good temper; and the cook ought to be sweet–natured always. A lean, cross cook, is an inconsistency. Cook Charlie, was of the kind that harmonizes with the cheerful, comforting nature of the kitchen stove. All the surfmen were at the breakfast table excepting Silas Fay, whose place Walter intended to temporarily fill. There was the sandy haired keeper, and there was Tom Walker, with his big bushy beard,—a shaggy kind of an animal. Next to Tom, sat Woodbury Elliott, his blue eyes flashing out occasional glances of welcome toward Walter. If Cook Charlie was fat, “Slim” Tarleton was lean; and his first name was bestowed upon him on account of this peculiarity. He was Capt. Barney’s bony neighbor on the left. Next to Slim, came two brothers, Seavey, and Nathan Lowd. They were quiet, inoffensive young men, whose peculiarity was a grin on every possible occasion, excepting a funeral. They were twins, resembling one another closely; but showed this difference, that Nathan grinned more than Seavey. There was one more at the table,—Joe Cardridge, a black–haired, black–eyed man, on whose face was a cynical expression, as if he was continually out of humor with the world, and wished to show it by a sneer. Nobody liked his discontented, jealous disposition, and it was the keeper’s purpose to get rid of him at the first opportunity. He was an excellent boatman, and this merit had secured him the position of surfman. It was true indeed of all the crew; their knowledge of boating, gained in many trips after cod and pollock, halibut and haddock, constituted their special fitness for the life saving service. They were strong, hardy, muscular fellows, and Slim Tarleton—bony, but tough—was no exception.

After breakfast, the keeper led Walter upstairs.

“I want to tell you where you will bunk, Walter, and I guess you had better take Silas’ bed. Here it is.”

“Who sleeps next?”

“Woodbury Elliott there, and Tom Walker on this side. Each man of the crew is numbered, and you will take Silas’ number, six. You are Surfman Six.”

“That’s good. Now, I’ve been round over the station, and know it pretty well. Could you just give me an insight into the boat–room, more of an idea of it?”

“Sartin. Let’s come down now.”

From the kitchen or living–room, on the first floor, one passed directly into the large boat–room; and that immediately proclaimed the nature of the building, and also the work of its occupants. In the center, was the surf–boat, twenty–six feet long. At the stern and bows, were air–chambers.

“That long steering–oar is twenty–two feet long, isn’t it? Somebody said so.”

“Yes. Walter. It gives me a tremendous purchase when I set in the starn to steer.”

“Of course you have six oars, and then there are two spare ones.”

“Jest so.”

Each oar was stamped, “U. S. L. S. S.,” whose translation is United States Life Saving Service. On each seat was a cork jacket, consisting of two rows of cork blocks secured to a belt of canvas. This was worn about the body under the arms.

“That means,” said Walter, “all ready for use, any moment.”

“Yes, we may be wanted any hour, and we can’t go out, service–time, unless we put those jackets on.”

“So Tom Walker told me. Let me see—Oh, there’s the axe Tom said you kept in the boat; and there’s a hatchet, and you have got ‘Uncle Sam’s’ mark on them.”

“Yes. There’s a rudder too, which we can use in smooth water. This is a surf–boat, but there are in the service some life–boat stations. On the Lakes, and Pacific coast, you find ’em. Life–boats are better for a shore that is bold, where the water runs deep.”

Along the right hand wall of the boat–room, extended a miscellaneous collection of apparatus. There was a mortar for shooting a line to a wreck, the ball used being a twenty–four pound round shot. There were shovels and a Merriman rubber suit. Wound ingeniously and carefully on pins, were long coils of shot–line, that could be slipped off any moment, and sent whizzing and flying behind an iron ball. There were also long coils of rope, to be used in completing the connection between a wreck and the shore. Of the three sizes, the largest, a four–inch cable, was employed with the life–car, and a three–inch cable with the breeches buoy.

“There it is!” exclaimed Walter enthusiastically, as he crossed to the left of the surf–boat and looked up at the life–car. This was suspended from the ceiling. It resembled a boat, but it was covered. In the center of the cover or roof, was an opening. At each end of the car, were air–chambers.

“Woodbury Elliott says four small persons, or three large ones, can get in there.”

“Yes, we calc’late to stow that number away.”

“And that opening is the manhole.”

“Yes, and when you are in, you can fasten the cover from the inside, and be tight as a fly inside a drum.”

“I used to wonder how they could breathe, till I found out there were little air–holes in the top.”

“Sartin.”

“And this is the cart,” said Walter, nodding toward a stout hand–cart.

“Yes, and you see she is all packed for sarvice any moment.”

Here the keeper laid his broad, hard hand on the apparatus in the cart. There was the breeches buoy, consisting of a large cork ring, from which drooped very stout, but very short legs, or “breeches.” A Lyle gun, lighter than a mortar, and used for shooting a line to a wreck, projected its nozzle from the heap in the cart.

“There is the cartridge–box,” said Walter. “And I suppose of course the cartridges are there.”

“Yes, all ready, and two dozen primers are in there.”

“Pickaxe and shovel, and tackle and fall,” murmured Walter.

Yes, these were carried by the cart, and Walter saw little tally–boards, inscribed with directions to a shipwrecked crew, for the proper fastening of ropes to the vessel.

“Could I look into the closet where the Coston signals and rockets are?” inquired Walter.

“Round this way,” replied the keeper, who was pleased to notice that Walter knew so much about the apparatus at the station. He threw open a door, and a drawer also. In this closet, were various pyrotechnic treasures, serviceable with their brilliantly flashing fires for the work of the surfmen.

The store of curiosities in the boat–room had not been exhausted yet. Near the door of the living–room, was a row of shots that were adapted to the Lyle gun, one end to rest on the powder, and in the other end was a shank with an eye to which the line was fastened. On the left side of the room, was a four–wheeled carriage for the hauling of the boat. Hanging from the walls were ropes and oil suits. There was also another closet of supplies. There were patrol lanterns, colored signal lanterns, speaking trumpets, twenty–four pound shot for the mortars; and what serviceable piece of apparatus was not there?

“Glad to see you know so much about this ’ere room, Walter,” said the keeper.

“Oh, yes, I’ve found out what I could,” replied “Surfman Six.”

During any visit at the station, Walter had gone about with two observant eyes, and a tongue that was not ashamed to ask questions. What he learned, he packed away for use in his retentive memory.

“You remember your beat when your father let you go one night with Tom Walker?” said the keeper.

“Oh, yes.”

“All right. At the same time this evening, I’ll get you ready, and you can patrol that same side of the station.”

At eight o’clock, Walter stood before the keeper like a knight that some king was equipping and sending out for special service.

“I am all ready,” said the young surfman, his bright, hazel eyes flashing like two of “Uncle Sam’s” patrol lanterns on a dark night. He wore a cap that Aunt Lydia had lined with soft, warm flannel for this particular duty. His feet were encased in rough, but strong boots; and his clothes, though rough like the boots, were thick, with extra linings, furnished by the same feminine skill as that which lined his cap. He had buttoned up his stout fishing–jacket and now awaited the keeper’s orders.

“There,” said the keeper. “Here is your time–detector, and here’s your Coston signal. You know where the key to the detector is kept, I guess I’ve given you directions enough ’bout lettin’ off your Coston signal ef you see a vessel too near shore, or ef you want to signal to a craft in any trouble. Wall, good luck!”

Out into the quiet, cool November night, Walter promptly stepped. He halted one moment at the outside door. There was a moon somewhere in the sky, and somewhere behind the station; and it threw its light on that part of the shore and the sea which Walter fronted.

“How low the tide runs!” thought Walter. Beyond that rocky rim against which the surf daily fretted, turning over and over like a wheel trying to grind out of the way an obstacle, now stretched the uncovered sands. He could easily mark off with his eye the dry sand, and then the wet sand glistening in the moonlight. Then came the surf, a tumble of silver. Beyond were dark, swelling, threatening folds, forever coming up out of the sea as if to drown the earth; and yet forever breaking down into white surf that rolled away in an impotent wrath. Beyond all, was an untroubled surface of light and peace; this in turn ending in a dark, hazy belt that encircled the horizon. There were two lighthouses whose red fires flashed through this belt of haze, and jeweled it. Above, were the stars, soft and peaceful.

“I will walk down on the sands,” thought the young patrol, and his light was soon flashing above the floor of wet, glistening sand. With keen eyes, he searched the surface of the sea for some sign of danger; but the sea was innocent of all disturbance save the tumbling, roaring surf at his feet. He saw a light up the beach that shifted its place—a kind of firebug crawling away; but he knew it was only the lantern of the other patrolman as he slowly walked his beat. What a sense of responsibility came down on Walter’s shoulders! It seemed as if he would be held accountable for any disaster to the world’s shipping on his side of the station; while Slim Tarleton must look out for all harm that threatened navigation on his, the westerly side of the globe. After a while, this sense of responsibility lightened. He was not accountable for all the disasters on this, the easterly side of the globe, but only on the ocean between Walter Plympton, surfman, and Old England. This stretch of jurisdiction gradually narrowed. It became only the ocean that he could see. This, though, was so quiet, lamb–like, lustrous, that it dulled all sense of alarm; and Walter began to think of something else, as he plodded along. There were the stars. How quiet it was up in their sphere!

“There’s Orion!” he exclaimed, tracing the outlines of that celestial hunter, whose acquaintance he had made in the academy.

“Where’s the Great Bear?” he said. And there it was; its fires mild as dove’s eyes, that night. Then he hunted up the North Star, the Pleiades, and other worthies. Having finished his astronomy, and as no vessel out at sea sent up any rockets, and no vessel near the shore needed his warning lantern, since the moon hung out a better one, he began to watch the shadows of rocky bluffs, thrown down on the sands. These were huge masses of blackness projected across the shining sands, into which ran little rivulets of gold, where the water, left in pools, tried to make its way down to the sea again. These golden streams, though, could not wash away the great, ebony shadows.

“There’s the Crescent!” exclaimed Walter. He could make out its dark ledges, and he located also the probable neighborhood of the Chair. He plodded along in his uneventful walk. He reached the houses at the end of his beat, and turned aside to hunt up the particular building where he might expect to find the key of his detector.

“When I patrolled this beat that night with Tom Walker, I had no idea I would ever be coming after that key to–night. Ah, there she is now!” he exclaimed.

The key was in its accustomed place. Walter seized it, thrust it into the hole in the detector, turned it, and proudly made his first record as a surfman. Then he retraced his way to the sands, still glistening in the moonlight, and slowly trudged back to the station. When at the close of his long watch, he wearily passed upstairs, and dropped into his warm bed, he went readily to sleep, but not into oblivion. He was busily dreaming, dreaming that he was a knight, and King Barney was dressing him in armor. Then he thought that armed with shield and spear and sword, he went out upon the beach to fight the perils of the sea. These took the form of a monster wriggling out of the surf; and as in the old Grecian fable, Perseus was moved to rescue the maiden Andromeda from a sea–horror, so he was striving to save May Elliott, bound like Andromeda to the rocks on the shore. The battle was a long one and it did not come off till toward morning. He was suddenly aroused by—was it an angry stroke from a claw of the sea–dragon? It seemed so to Walter; and looking up in a shivering horror, expecting to see the most diabolical face ever invented, wasn’t he delighted to see—Tom Walker’s shaggy head:

“Oh—h—Tom! That you! Well, if I ain’t glad to see you!”

Tom roared.

“Well, if I don’t call that a cordial greetin’! Ha—ha! Folks are apt to feel t’other way, when waked up. Glad to see me! Ha—ha! Well, I’m glad to see you. Come, breakfast’s ready. Cook Charlie’s taters will soon be cold as the heart of a mermaid, if you ever dream of sich things.”

Walter did not say whether he had been dreaming of such a character.