The Woman-Haters Part 7

"I know. Neither have I. Let the dead past be its own undertaker, so far as we are concerned. I'm honest, Atkins, and tolerably straight. I believe you are; I really do. But we don't care to talk about ourselves, that's all. And, fortunately, kind Providence has brought us together in a place where there's no one else TO talk. I like you, I credit you with good taste; therefore, you must like me."

"Hey? Ho, ho!" Seth laughed, in spite of himself. "Young man," he observed, "you ain't cultivated your modesty under gla.s.s, have you?"

Brown smiled. "Joking aside," he said, "I don't see why I shouldn't, in time, make an ideal a.s.sistant lightkeeper. Give me a trial, at any rate.

I need an employer; you need a helper. Here we both are. Come; it is a bargain, isn't it? Any bra.s.s to be scrubbed--boss?"

Of course, had Eastboro Twin-Lights been an important station, the possibility of John Brown's remaining there would have been nonexistent.

If it had been winter, or even early spring or fall, a regular a.s.sistant would have been appointed at once, and the castaway given his walking papers. If Seth Atkins had not been Seth Atkins, particular friend of the district superintendent, matters might have been different. But the Eastboro lights were unimportant, merely a half-way mark between Orham on the one hand and the powerful Seaboard Heights beacon on the other.

It was the beginning of summer, when wrecks almost never occurred. And the superintendent liked Seth, and Seth liked him. So, although Mr.

Atkins still scoffed at his guest's becoming a permanent fixture at the lights, and merely consented, after more parley, to see if he couldn't arrange for him to "hang around and help a spell until somebody else was sent," the conversation with the superintendent over the long distance 'phone resulted more favorably for Brown than that nonchalant young gentleman had a reasonable right to expect.

"The Lord knows who I can send you now, Atkins!" said the superintendent. "I can't think of a man anywhere that can be spared. If you can get on for a day or two longer, I'll try to get a helper down!

but where he's coming from I don't see."

Then Seth sprung the news that he had a "sort of helper" already. "He's a likely young chap enough," admitted the lightkeeper, whispering the words into the transmitter, in order that the "likely young chap" might not hear; "but he's purty green yet. He wants the reg'lar job and, give me time enough, I cal'late I can break him in. Yes, I'm pretty sure I can. And it's the off season, so there really ain't no danger. In a month he'd be doin' fust-rate."

"Who is he? Where did he come from?" asked the superintendent.

"Name's Brown. He come from--from off here a ways," was the strictly truthful answer. "He used to be on a steamboat."

"All right. If you'll take a share of the responsibility, I'll take the rest. And, as soon as I can, I'll send you a regular man."

"I can't pay you no steady wages," Seth explained to his new helper.

"Salaries come from the gov'ment, and, until they say so, I ain't got no right to do it. And I can't let you monkey with the lights, except to clean up around and such. If you want to stay a spell, until an a.s.sistant's app'inted, I'll undertake to be responsible for your keep.

And if you need some new shoes or stockin's or a cap, or the like of that, I'll see you get 'em. Further'n that I can't go yet. It's a pretty poor job for a fellow like you, and if I was you I wouldn't take it."

"Oh, yes, you would," replied Brown, with conviction. "If you were I, you would take it with bells on. Others may yearn for the strenuous life, but not your humble servant. As for me, I stay here and 'clean up around.'"

And stay he did, performing the cleaning up and other duties with unexpected success and zeal. Atkins, for the first day or two, watched him intently, being still a trifle suspicious and fearful of his "subst.i.tute a.s.sistant." But as time pa.s.sed and the latter asked no more questions, seemed not in the least curious concerning his superior, and remained the same cool, easy-going, cheerful individual whom Seth had found asleep on the beach, the lightkeeper's suspicions were ended. It was true that Brown was as mysterious and secretive as ever concerning his own past, but that had been a part of their bargain. Atkins, who prided himself on being a judge of human nature, decided that his helper was a young gentleman in trouble, but that the trouble, whatever it might be, involved nothing criminal or dishonest. That he was a gentleman, he was sure--his bearing and manner proved that; but he was a gentleman who did not "put on airs." Not that there was any reason why he should put on airs, but, so far as that was concerned, there was no apparent reason for the monumental conceit and condescension of some of the inflated city boarders in the village. Brown was not like those people at all.

Seth had taken a fancy to him at their first meeting. Now his liking steadily increased. Companionship in a lonely spot like Eastboro Twin-Lights is a test of a man's temper. Brown stood the test well. If he made mistakes in the work--and he did make some ridiculous ones--he cheerfully undid them when they were pointed out to him. He was, for the most part, good-natured and willing to talk, though there were periods when he seemed depressed and wandered off by himself along the beach or sat by the edge of the bluff, staring out to sea. The lightkeeper made no comment on this trait in his character. It helped to confirm his own judgment concerning the young fellow's trouble. People in trouble were subject to fits of the "blues," and during these fits they liked to be alone. Seth knew this from his own experience. There were times when he, too, sought solitude.

He trusted his helper more and more. He did not, of course, permit him to take the night watch in the lights, but he did trust him to the extent of leaving him alone for a whole afternoon while he drove the old horse, attached to the antique "open wagon"--both steed and vehicle a part of the government property--over to Eastboro to purchase tobacco and newspapers at the store. On his return he found everything as it should be, and this test led him to make others, each of which was successful in proving John Brown faithful over a few things and, therefore, in time, to be intrusted with many and more important ones.

Brown, on his part, liked Seth. He had professed to like him during the conversation at the breakfast table which resulted in his remaining at the lights, but then he was not entirely serious. He was, of course, grateful for the kindness shown him by the odd longsh.o.r.eman and enjoyed the latter's society and droll remarks as he would have enjoyed anything out of the ordinary and quaintly amusing. But now he really liked the man. Seth Atkins was a countryman, and a marked contrast to any individual Brown had ever met, but he was far from being a fool. He possessed a fund of dry common sense, and his comments on people and happenings in the world--a knowledge of which he derived from the newspapers and magazines obtained on his trips to Eastboro--were a constant delight. And, more than all, he respected his companion's desire to remain a mystery. Brown decided that Atkins was, as he had jokingly called him, a man with a past. What that past might be, he did not know or try to learn. "Mind your own business," Seth had declared to be the motto of Eastboro Twin-Lights, and that motto suited both parties to the agreement.

The lightkeeper stood watch in the tower at night. During most of the day he slept; but, after the first week was over, and his trust in his helper became more firm, he developed the habit of rising at two in the afternoon, eating a breakfast--or dinner, or whatever the meal might be called--and wandering off along the crooked road leading south and in the direction of Pounddug Slough. The road, little used and gra.s.s grown, twisted and turned amid the dunes until it disappeared in a distant grove of scrub oaks and pitch pines. Each afternoon--except on Sundays and on the occasions of his excursions to the village--Atkins would rise from the table, saunter to the door to look at the weather, and then, without excuse or explanation, start slowly down the road. For the first hundred yards he sauntered, then the saunter became a brisk walk, and when he reached the edge of the grove he was hurrying almost at a dog trot. Sometimes he carried a burden with him, a brown paper parcel brought from Eastboro, a hammer, a saw, or a coil of rope. Once he descended to the boathouse at the foot of the bluff by the inlet and emerged bearing a big bundle of canvas, apparently an old sail; this he arranged, with some difficulty, on his shoulder and stumbled up the slope, past the corner of the house and away toward the grove. Brown watched him wonderingly. Where was he going, and why? What was the mysterious destination of all these tools and old junk? Where did Seth spend his afternoons and why, when he returned, did his hands and clothes smell of tar? The subst.i.tute a.s.sistant was puzzled, but he asked no questions. And Seth volunteered no solution of the puzzle.

Yet the solution came, and in an unexpected way. Seth drove to the village one afternoon and returned with literature, smoking materials and an announcement. The latter he made during supper.

"I tried to buy that fly paper we wanted today," he observed, as a preliminary. "Couldn't get none. All out."

"But will have some in very shortly, I presume," suggested the a.s.sistant, who knew the idiosyncrasies of country stores.

"Oh, yes, sartin! Expectin' it every minute. That store's got a consider'ble sight more expectations in it than it has anything else.

They're always six months ahead of the season or behind it in that store. When it's so cold that the snow birds get chilblains they'll have the shelves chuck full of fly paper. Now, when it's hotter than a kittle of pepper tea, the bulk of their stock is ice picks and mittens. Bah!

However, they're goin' to send the fly paper over when it comes, along with the dog."

"The dog?" repeated Brown in amazement.

"Yup. That's what I was goin' to tell you--about the dog. I ordered a dog today. Didn't pay nothin' for him, you understand. Henry G., the storekeeper, gave him to me. The boy'll fetch him down when he fetches the fly paper."

"A dog? We're--you're going to keep a dog--here?"

"Sure thing. Why not? Got room enough to keep a whole zoological menagerie if we wanted to, ain't we? Besides, a dog'll be handy to have around. Bill Foster, the life saver, told me that somebody busted into the station henhouse one night a week ago and got away with four of their likeliest pullets. He cal'lates 'twas tramps or boys. We don't keep hens, but there's some stuff in that boathouse I wouldn't want stole, and, bein' as there's no lock on the door, a dog would be a sort of protection, as you might say."

"But thieves would never come way down here."

"Why not? 'Tain't any further away from the rest of creation than the life savin' station, is it? Anyhow, Henry G. give the dog to me free for nothin', and that's a miracle of itself. You'd say so, too, if you knew Henry. I was so surprised that I said I'd take it right off; felt 'twould be flyin' in the face of Providence not to. A miracle--jumpin'

Judas! I never knew Henry to give anybody anything afore--unless 'twas the smallpox, and then 'twan't a genuine case, nothin' but varioloid."

"But what kind of a dog is it?"

"I don't know. Henry used to own the mother of it, and she was one quarter mastiff and the rest a.s.sorted varieties. This one he's givin'

me ain't a whole dog, you see; just a half-grown pup. The varioloid all over again--hey? Ho, ho! I didn't really take him for sartin, you understand; just on trial. If we like him, we'll keep him, that's all."

The third afternoon following this announcement, Brown was alone in the kitchen, and busy. Seth had departed on one of his mysterious excursions, carrying a coil of rope, a pulley and a gallon can of paint.

Before leaving the house he had given his helper some instructions concerning supper.

"Might's well have a lobster tonight," he said. "Ever cook a lobster, did you?"

No, Mr. Brown had never cooked a lobster.

"Well, it's simple enough. All you've got to do is bile him. Bile him in hot water till he's done."

"I see." The subst.i.tute a.s.sistant was not enthusiastic. Cooking he did not love.

"Humph!" he grunted. "I imagined if he was boiled at all, it was be in hot water, not cold."

Atkins chuckled. "I mean you want to have the water bilin' hot when you put him in," he explained. "Wait till she biles up good and then souse him; see?"

"I guess so. How do you know when he's done?"

"Oh--er--I can't tell you. You'll have to trust to your instinct, I cal'late. When he looks done, he IS done, most gen'rally speakin'."

"Dear me! how clear you make it. Would you mind hintin' as to how he looks when he's done?"

"Why--why, DONE, of course."

"Yes, of course. How stupid of me! He is done when he looks done, and when he looks done he is done. Any child could follow those directions.

HOW is he done--brown?"

"No. Brown! the idea! Red, of course. He's green when you put him in the kittle, and when you take him out, he's red. That's one way you can tell."

"Yes, that will help some. All right, I'll boil him till he's red, you needn't worry about that."

"Oh, I sha'n't worry. So long. I'll be back about six or so. Put him in when the water's good and hot, and you'll come out all right."