The Woman-Haters Part 28

"I don't know. . . . There, there!" impatiently, "don't ask any more questions. I didn't say you had been wading, and I didn't suppose you really had. I was only joking. What IS the matter with you?"

"Nothin' . . . nothin'. So you was just jokin', hey? Ha, ha! Yes, yes, wadin' up in a lighthouse would be a pretty good joke. I--I didn't see it at first, you know. Ha, ha! I thought you must be off your head.

Thought you'd been swimmin' too much or somethin'. So long, I'm goin' to bed."

But now it was the helper's turn to start and stammer.

"Wait!" he cried. "What--what did you say about my--er--swimming, was it?"

"Oh, nothin', nothin'. I was just jokin', same as you was about the wadin'. Ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha!"

Both laughed with great heartiness. The door shut between them, and each stared doubtfully at his side of it for several moments before turning away.

That forenoon was a dismal one for John Brown. His troublesome conscience, stirred by Seth's reference to swimming, was again in full working order. He tried to stifle its reproaches, tried to give his entire attention to his labors about the lights and in the kitchen, but the consciousness of guilt was too strong. He felt mean and traitorous, a Benedict Arnold on a small scale. He had certainly treated Atkins shabbily; Atkins, the man who trusted him and believed in him, whom he had loftily reproved for "spying" and then betrayed. Yet, in a way his treason, so far, had been unavoidable. He had promised--had even OFFERED to teach the Graham girl the "side stroke." He had not meant to make such an offer or promise, but Fate had tricked him into it, and he could not, as a gentleman, back out altogether. He had been compelled to give her one lesson. But he need not give her another. He need not meet her again. He would not. He would keep the agreement with Seth and forget the tenants of the bungalow altogether. Good old Atkins! Good old Seth, the woman-hater! How true he was to his creed, the creed which he, Brown, had so lately professed. It was a good creed, too. Women were at the bottom of all the world's troubles. They deserved to be hated. He would never, never--

"Well, by George!" he exclaimed aloud.

He was looking once more at the lightkeeper's big leather boots. One of them was lying on its side, and the upturned sole and heel were thickly coated with blue clay. He crossed the room, picked up the boots and examined them. Each was smeared with the clay. He put them down again, shook his head, wandered over to the rocking-chair and sat down.

Seth had cleaned and greased those boots before he went to bed the day before; Brown had seen him doing it. He had put them on after supper, just before going on watch; the subst.i.tute a.s.sistant had seen him do that, also. Therefore, the clay must have been acquired sometime during the evening or night just past. And certainly there was no clay at the "top of the lighthouse," or anywhere in the neighborhood except at one spot--the salt marsh at the inner end of the cove. Seth must have visited that marsh in the nighttime. But why? And, if he had done so, why did he not mention the fact? And, now that the helper thought of it, why had he been so agitated at the casual remark concerning wading? What was he up to? Now that the Daisy M. and story of the wife were no longer secrets, what had Seth Atkins to conceal?

Brown thought and guessed and surmised, but guesses and surmises were fruitless. He finished his dishwashing and began another of the loathed housekeeping tasks, that of rummaging the pantry and seeing what eatables were available for his luncheon and the evening meal.

He spread the various odds and ends on the kitchen table, preparatory to taking account of stock. A part of a slab of bacon, a salt codfish, some cold clam fritters, a few mola.s.ses cookies, and half a loaf of bread. He had gotten thus far in the inventory when a shadow darkened the doorway.

He turned and saw Mrs. Bascom, the bungalow housekeeper.

"Good mornin'," said Mrs. Bascom.

Brown answered coldly. Why on earth was it always his luck to be present when these female nuisances made their appearance? And why couldn't they let him alone, just as he had determined to let them alone--in the future? Of course he was glad that the caller was not Miss Graham, but this one was bad enough.

"Morning," he grunted, and took another dish, this one containing a section of dry and ancient cake, Seth's manufacture, from the pantry.

"What you doin'? Gettin' breakfast this time of day?" asked the housekeeper, entering the kitchen. She had a small bowl in her hand.

"No," replied Brown.

"Dinner, then? Pretty early for that, ain't it?"

"I am not getting either breakfast or dinner--or supper, madam," replied the helper, with emphasis. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, I don't know but there is. I come over hopin' you might. How's the stings?"

"The what?"

"The wasp bites."

"They're all, right, thank you."

"You're welcome, I'm sure. Did you put the cold mud on 'em, same as I told you to?"

"No. . . . What was it you wanted?"

Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat. The rocker was at the opposite side of the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr.

Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of the conventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and had forgotten to take with him. The lady picked up the garment, looked at it, and sat down in the chair.

"Your boss is to bed, I s'pose likely?" she asked.

"You mean Mr. Atkins? I suppose likely he is."

"Um. I judged he was by"--with a glance at the garment which she still held--"the looks of things. What in the world ARE you doin'--cleanin'

house?"

The young man sighed wearily. "Yes," he said with forced resignation, "something of that sort."

"Seein' what there was to eat, I guess."

"You guess right. You said you had an errand, I think."

"Did I? Well, I come to see if I couldn't . . . What's that stuff?

Cake?"

She rose, picked up a slice of the dry cake, broke it between her fingers, smelled of it, and replaced it on the plate.

"'Tis cake, ain't it?" she observed; "or it was, sometime or other. Who made it? You?"

"No."

"Oh, your boss, Mr.--er--Atkins, hey?"

"Yes. Considering that there are only two of us here, and I didn't make it, it would seem pretty certain that he must have."

"Yes, I guess that's right; unless 'twas some that washed ash.o.r.e from Noah's Ark, and it's too dry for that. What on earth are these?" picking up one of the mola.s.ses cookies; "stove lids?"

Brown grinned, in spite of his annoyance.

"Those are supposed to be cookies," he admitted.

"Are they? Yes, yes. Mr. Atkins responsible for them?"

"No--o. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins's directions and orders. I'm rather proud of those cookies, myself."

"You'd ought to be. There, there!" with a smile, "I guess you think I'm pretty free with my criticism and remarks, don't you? You must excuse me. Housekeepin'--'specially the cookin' part--is my hobby, as you might say, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with the job. I mustn't set around and keep you from your work. You might want to make some more cookies, or somethin'."

The subst.i.tute a.s.sistant laughed aloud. "I wasn't thinking of it," he said; "but I shall be glad to make the attempt if it would afford you amus.e.m.e.nt."

Mrs. Bascom laughed, too. "I guess you're better natured than I thought you was," she observed. "It might amuse me some, I will admit, but I ain't got the time. I came to borrow some b.u.t.ter, if you've got any to spare. Down here we're as far from supplies as the feller that run the Ark I was mentionin', old Noah himself."