This was a shot in the bull's-eye. Mr. Ellis owed a number of bills, had owed them for a long time, and Mr. Goodspeed's was by no means the smallest. The loafers exchanged winks, and the blacksmith's manner became more conciliatory.

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it for you, Seth," he pleaded. "I'm always willin' to do your work. You're the one that's been complainin'."

"Ugh! Well, I'm likely to complain some more, but the complaint's one thing, and the need's another. I'm like Joel Knowles—he said when he couldn't get whisky he worried along best he could with bay rum. I need a blacksmith, and if I can't get a real one I'll put up with an imitation. Will you shoe this horse for me?"

"Course I'll shoe him. But I can't do it this minute. I've got this consarned machine," waving a hand toward the automobile, "out of door here and all to pieces. And it's goin' to rain. Just let me put enough of it together so's I can shove it into the shop out of the wet, and then I'll tackle your job. You leave your horse and team here and go do your other errands. He'll be ready when you come back."

So on this basis the deal was finally made. Seth was reluctant to trust the precious Joshua out of his sight, but, after some parley, he agreed to do so. The traces were unfastened, and the animal was led into the shop, the carriage was backed under a shed, and the lightkeeper went away promising to be back in an hour. As soon as he had gone, Ellis dived again into the vitals of the auto.

The argument with the blacksmith had one satisfactory result so far as Seth was concerned. In a measure it afforded a temporary vent for his feelings. He was moderately agreeable during his brief stay at the grocery store, and when his orders were given and he found the hour not half over, he strolled out to walk about the village. And then, alone once more, all his misery and heartache returned. He strode along, his head down, scarcely speaking to acquaintances whom he met, until he reached the railway station, where he sat down on the baggage truck to mentally review, over and over again, the scene with Emeline and the dreadful collapse of his newborn hopes and plans.

As he sat there, the door of the station opened and a man emerged, a man evidently not a native of Eastboro. He was dressed in a rather loud, but somewhat shabby, suit of summer plaid, his straw hat was set a trifle over one ear, and he was smoking the stump of a not too fragrant cigar. Altogether he looked like a sporting character under a temporary financial cloud, but the cloud did not dim his self-satisfaction nor shadow his magnificent complaisance. He regarded the section of Eastboro before him with condescending scorn, and then, catching sight of the doleful figure on the baggage truck, strolled over and addressed it.

"I say, my friend," he observed briskly, "have you a match concealed about your person? If so, I—"

He stopped short, for Mr. Atkins, after one languid glance in his direction, had sprung from the truck and was gazing at him as if he was some apparition, some figure in a nightmare, instead of his blase self. And he, as he looked at the lightkeeper's astounded countenance, dropped the cigar stump from his fingers and stepped backward in alarmed consternation.

"You—you—YOU?" gasped Seth.

"YOU!" repeated the stranger.

"You!" cried Seth again; not a brilliant nor original observation, but, under the circumstances, excusable, for the nonchalant person in the plaid suit was Emeline Bascom's brother-in-law, the genius, the "inventor," the one person whom he hated—and feared—more than anyone else in the world—Bennie D. himself.

There was a considerable interval during which neither of the pair spoke. Seth, open-mouthed and horror-stricken, was incapable of speech, and the inventor's astonishment seemed to be coupled with a certain nervousness, almost as if he feared a physical assault. However, as the lightkeeper made no move, and his fists remained open, the nervousness disappeared, and Bennie D. characteristically took command of the situation.

"Hum!" he observed musingly. "Hum! May I ask what you are doing here?"

"Huh—hey?" was Seth's incoherent reply.

"I ask what you are doing here? Have you followed me?"

"Fol-follered you? No."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

"Yes, I be." Seth did not ask what Bennie D. was doing there. Already that question was settled in his mind. The brother-in-law had found out that Emeline was living next door to the man she married, that her summer engagement was over, and he had come to take her away.

"Well?" queried the inventor sharply, "if you haven't followed me, what are you doing here? What do you mean by being here?"

"I belong here," desperately. "I work here."

"You do? And may I ask what particular being is fortunate enough to employ you?"

"I'm keeper down to the lighthouses, if you want to know. But I cal'late you know it already."

Bennie D.'s coolness was not proof against this. He started.

"The lighthouses?" he repeated. "The—what is it they call them?—the Twin-Lights?"

"Yes. You know it; what's the use of askin' fool questions?"

The inventor had not known it—until that moment, and he took time to consider before making another remark. His sister-in-law was employed as housekeeper at some bungalow or other situated in close proximity to the Twin-Lights; that he had discovered since his arrival on the morning train. Prior to that he had known only that she was in Eastboro for the summer. Before that he had not been particularly interested in her location. Since the day, two years past, when, having decided that he had used her and her rapidly depleting supply of cash as long as was safe or convenient, he had unceremoniously left her and gone to New York to live upon money supplied by a credulous city gentleman, whom his smooth tongue had interested in his "inventions," he had not taken the trouble even to write to Emeline. But within the present month the New Yorker's credulity and his "loans" had ceased to be material assets. Then Bennie D., face to face with the need of funds, remembered his sister and the promise given his dead brother that he should be provided with a home as long as she had one.

He journeyed to Cape Ann and found, to his dismay, that she was no longer there. After some skillful detective work, he learned of the Eastboro engagement and wrote the letter—a piteous, appealing letter, full of brotherly love and homesickness—which, held back by the storm, reached Mrs. Bascom only that morning. In it he stated that he was on his way to her and was counting the minutes until they should be together once more. And he had, as soon after his arrival in the village as possible, 'phoned to the Lights and spoken with her. Her tone, as she answered, was, he thought, alarmingly cold. It had made him apprehensive, and he wondered if his influence over her was on the wane. But now—now he understood. Her husband—her husband, of all people—had been living next door to her all summer. No doubt she knew he was there when she took the place. Perhaps they had met by mutual agreement. Why, this was appalling! It might mean anything. And yet Seth did not look triumphant or even happy. Bennie D. resolved to show no signs of perturbation or doubt, but first to find out, if he could, the truth, and then to act accordingly.

"Mr. Bascom—" he began. The lightkeeper, greatly alarmed, interrupted him.

"Hush!" he whispered. "Don't say that. That ain't my name—down here."

"Indeed? What is your name?"

"Down here they call me Seth Atkins."

Bennie D. looked puzzled. Then his expression changed. He was relieved. When he 'phoned to the Lights—using the depot 'phone—the station agent had seemed to consider his calling a woman over the lighthouse wire great fun. The lightkeeper, so the agent said, was named Atkins, and was a savage woman-hater. He would not see a woman, much less speak to one; it was a standing joke in the neighborhood, Seth's hatred of females. That seemed to prove that Emeline and her husband were not reconciled and living together, at least. Possibly their being neighbors was merely a coincidence. If so, he might not have come too late. When he next addressed his companion it was in a different tone and without the "Mister."

"Bascom—or—er—Atkins," he said sharply, "I hoped—I sincerely hoped that you and I might not meet during my short stay here; but, as we have met, I think it best that we should understand each other. Suppose we walk over to that clump of trees on the other side of the track. We shall be alone there, and I can say what is necessary. I don't wish—even when I remember your behavior toward my sister—to humiliate you in the town where you may be trying to lead a better life. Come."

He led the way, and Seth, yielding as of old to this man's almost hypnotic command over him and still bewildered by the unexpected meeting, followed like a whipped dog. Under the shelter of the trees they paused.

"Now then," said Bennie D., "perhaps you'll tell me what you mean by decoying my sister down here in my absence, when I was not present to protect her. What do you mean by it?"

Seth stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Decoyin' her?" he repeated. "I never decoyed her. I've been here ever since I left—left you and her that night. I never asked her to come. I didn't know she was comin'. And she didn't know I was here until—until a month or so ago. I—"

Bennie D. held up a hand. He was delighted by this piece of news, but he did not show it.

"That will do," he said. "I understand all that. But since then—since then? What do you mean by trying to influence her as you have? Answer me!"

The lightkeeper rubbed his forehead.

"I ain't tried to influence her," he declared. "She and me have scarcely seen each other. Nobody knows that we was married, not even Miss Graham nor the young feller that's—that's my helper at the lights. You must know that. She must have wrote you. What are you talkin' about?"

She had not written; he had received no letters from her during the two years, but again the wily "genius" was equal to the occasion. He looked wise and nodded.

"Of course," he said importantly. "Of course. Certainly."

He hesitated, not knowing exactly what his next move should be. And Seth, having had time to collect, in a measure, his scattered wits, began to do some thinking on his own account.

"Say," he said suddenly, "if you knew all this aforehand, what are you askin' these questions for?"

"That," Bennie D.'s gesture was one of lofty disdain, "is my business."

"I want to know! Well, then, maybe I've got some business of my own. Who made my business your business? Hey?"

"The welfare of my sister—"

"Never you mind your sister. You're talkin' with me now. And you ain't got me penned up in a house, neither. By jiminy crimps!" His anger boiled over, and, to the inventor's eyes, he began to look alarmingly alive. "By jiminy crimps!" repeated Seth, "I've been prayin' all these years to meet you somewheres alone, and now I've a good mind to—to—"

His big fist closed. Bennie D. stepped backward out of reach.

"Bascom—" he cried, "don't—"

"Don't you call me that!"

"Bascom—" The inventor was thoroughly frightened, and his voice rose almost to a shout.

The lightkeeper's wrath vanished at the sound of the name. If any native of Eastboro, if the depot master on the other side of the track, should hear him addressed as "Bascom," the fat would be in the fire for good and all. The secret he had so jealously guarded would be out, and all the miserable story would, sooner or later, be known.

"Don't call me Bascom," he begged. "Er—please don't."

Bennie D.'s courage returned. Yet he realized that if a trump card was to be played it must be then. This man was dangerous, and, somehow or other, his guns must be spiked. A brilliant idea occurred to him. Exactly how much of the truth Seth knew he was not sure, but he took the risk.

"Very well then—Atkins," he said contemptuously. "I am not used to aliases—not having dealt with persons finding it necessary to employ them—and I forget. But before this disagreeable interview is ended I wish you to understand thoroughly why I am here. I am here to protect my sister and to remove her from your persecution. I am here to assist her in procuring a divorce."

"A divorce! A DIVORCE! Good heavens above!"

"Yes, sir," triumphantly, "a divorce from the man she was trapped into marrying and who deserted her. You did desert her, you can't deny that. So long as she remains your wife, even in name, she is liable to persecution from you. She understands this. She and I are to see a lawyer at once. That is why I am here."

Seth was completely overwhelmed. A divorce! A case for the papers to print, and all of Ostable county to read!

"I—I—I—" he stammered, and then added weakly, "I don't believe it. She wouldn't . . . There ain't no lawyer here."

"Then we shall seek the one nearest here. Emeline understands. I 'phoned her this morning."

"Was it YOU that 'phoned?"

"It was. Now—er—Atkins, I am disposed to be as considerate of your welfare as possible. I know that any publicity in this matter might prejudice you in the eyes of your—of the government officials. I shall not seek publicity, solely on your account. The divorce will be obtained privately, provided—PROVIDED you remain out of sight and do not interfere. I warn you, therefore, not to make trouble or to attempt to see my sister again. If you do—well, if you do, the consequences will be unpleasant for you. Do you understand?"

Seth understood, or thought he did. He groaned and leaned heavily against a tree trunk.

"You understand, do you?" repeated Bennie D. "I see that you do. Very good then. I have nothing more to say. I advise that you remain—er—in seclusion for the next few days. Good-by."

He gave a farewell glance at the crushed figure leaning against the tree. Then he turned on his heel and walked off.

Seth remained where he was for perhaps ten minutes, not moving a muscle. Then he seemed to awaken, looked anxiously in the direction of the depot to make sure that no one was watching, pulled his cap over his eyes, jammed his hands into his pockets, and started to walk across the fields. He had no fixed destination in mind, had no idea where he was going except that he must go somewhere, that he could not keep still.

He stumbled along, through briers and bushes, paying no attention to obstacles such as fences or stone walls until he ran into them, when he climbed over and went blindly on. A mile from Eastboro, and he was alone in a grove of scrub pines. Here he stopped short, struck his hands together, and groaned aloud:

"I don't believe it! I don't believe it!"

For he was beginning not to believe it. At first he had not thought of doubting Bennie D.'s statement concerning the divorce. Now, as his thoughts became clearer, his doubts grew. His wife had not mentioned the subject in their morning interview. Possibly she would not have done so in any event, but, as the memory of her behavior and speech became clearer in his mind, it seemed to him that she could not have kept such a secret. She had been kinder, had seemed to him more—yes, almost—why, when he asked her to be his again, to give him another chance, she had hesitated. She had not said no at once, she hesitated. If she was about to divorce him, would she have acted in such a way? It hardly seemed possible.

Then came the letter and the telephone message. It was after these that she had said no with decision. Perhaps . . . was it possible that she had known of her brother-in-law's coming only then? Now that he thought of it, she had not gone away at once after the talk over the 'phone. She had waited a moment as if for him to speak. He, staggered and paralyzed by the sight of his enemy's name in that letter, had not spoken and then she . . . He did not believe she was seeking a divorce! It was all another of Bennie D.'s lies!

But suppose she was seeking it. Or suppose—for he knew the persuasive power of that glib tongue only too well—suppose her brother-in-law should persuade her to do it. Should he sit still—in seclusion, as his late adviser had counseled—and let this irrevocable and final move be made? After a divorce—Seth's idea of divorces were vague and Puritanical—there would be no hope. He and Emeline could never come together after that. And he must give her up and all his hopes of happiness, all that he had dreamed of late, would be but dreams, never realities. No! he could not give them up. He would not. Publicity, scandal, everything, he could face, but he would not give his wife up without a fight. What should he do?

For a long time he paced up and down beneath the pines trying to plan, to come to some decision. All that he could think of was to return to the Lights, to go openly to the bungalow, see Emeline and make one last appeal. Bennie D. might be there, but if he was—well, by jiminy crimps, let him look out, that's all!

He had reached this point in his meditations when the wind, which had been steadily increasing and tossing the pinetops warningly, suddenly became a squall which brought with it a flurry of rain. He started and looked up. The sky was dark, it was late in the afternoon, and the storm he had prophesied had arrived.

Half an hour later he ran, panting and wet, into the blacksmith's shop. The automobile was standing in the middle of the floor, and Mr. Ellis was standing beside it, perspiring and troubled.

"Where's Joshua?" demanded Seth.

"Hey?" inquired the blacksmith absently.

"Where's my horse? Is he ready?"

Benijah wiped his forehead.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed. "By . . . gosh!"

"What are you b'goshin' about?"

"Seth—I don't know what you'll say to me—but—but I declare I forgot all about your horse."

"You FORGOT about him?"

"Yes. You see that thing?" pointing pathetically at the auto. "Well, sir, that pesky thing's breakin' my heart—to say nothin' of my back. I got it apart all right, no trouble about that. And by good rights I've got it together again, leastways it looks so. Yet, by time," in distracted agitation, "there's a half bucket of bolts and nuts and odds and ends that ain't in it yet—left over, you might say. And I can't find any place to put one of 'em. Do you wonder I forget trifles?"

Trifles! the shoeing of Joshua a trifle! The lightkeeper had been suffering for an opportunity to blow off steam, and the opportunity was here. Benijah withered under the blast.

"S-sh-sh! sh-sh!" he pleaded. "Land sakes, Seth Atkins, stop it! I don't blame you for bein' mad, but you nor nobody else sha'n't talk to me that way. I'll fix your horse in five minutes. Yes, sir, in five minutes. Shut up now, or I won't do it at all!"

He rushed over to the stall in the rear of the shop, woke Joshua from the sweet slumber of old age, and led him to the halter beside the forge. The lightkeeper, being out of breath, had nothing further to say at the moment.

"What's the matter with all you lighthouse folks?" asked Benijah, anxious to change the subject. "What's possessed the whole lot of you to come to the village at one time? Whoa, boy, stand still!"

"The whole lot of us?" repeated Seth. "What do you mean?"

"Mean I've seen two of you at least this afternoon. That Bascom woman, housekeeper at the Graham bungalow she is, went past here twice. Fust time she was in one of Snow's livery buggies, Snow's boy drivin' her. Then, about an hour ago, she went by again, but the boy'd gone, and there was another feller pilotin' the team—a stranger, nobody I ever see afore."

Seth's red face turned pale. "What?" he cried. "Em—Mrs. Bascom ridin' with a stranger! What sort of a stranger?"

"Oh, a feller somewheres between twenty and fifty. Smooth-faced critter with a checked suit and a straw hat. . . . What on earth's the matter with you now?"

For the lightkeeper was shaking from head to foot.

"Did—did—which way was they goin'? Back to the Lights or—or where?"

"No, didn't seem to be goin' to the Lights at all. They went on the other road. Seemed to be headin' for Denboro if they kept on as they started. . . . Seth Atkins, have you turned loony?"

Seth did not answer. With a leap he landed at Joshua's head, unhooked the halter, and ran out of the shop leading the horse. The astonished blacksmith followed as far as the door. Seth was backing the animal into his wagon, which stood beneath the shed. He fastened the traces with trembling fingers.

"What in the world has struck you?" shouted Ellis. "Ain't you goin' to have that shoe fixed? He can't travel that way. Seth! Seth Atkins! . . . By time, he IS crazy!"

Seth did not deny the charge. Climbing into the wagon, he took up the reins.

"Are you sure and sartin' 'twas the Denboro road they took?" he demanded.

"Who took? That feller and the Bascom woman? Course I am, but . . . Well, I swan!"

For the lightkeeper waited to hear no more. He struck the unsuspecting Joshua with the end of the reins and, with a jump, the old horse started forward. Another moment, and the lighthouse wagon was splashing and rattling through the pouring rain along the road leading to Denboro.



CHAPTER XV

THE VOYAGE OF THE DAISY M.

Denboro is many long miles from Eastboro, and the road, even in the best of weather, is not a good one. It winds and twists and climbs and descends through woods and over hills. There are stretches of marshy hollows where the yellow clay needs but a little moistening to become a paste which sticks to wheels and hoofs and makes traveling, even behind a young and spirited horse, a disheartening progress.

Joshua was neither young nor spirited. And the weather could not have been much worse. The three days' storm had soaked everything, and the clay-bottomed puddles were near kin to quicksands. As the lighthouse wagon descended the long slope at the southern end of the village and began the circle of the inner extremity of Eastboro Back Harbor, Seth realized that his journey was to be a hard one. The rain, driven by the northeast wind, came off the water in blinding gusts, and the waves in the harbor were tipped with white. Also, although the tide was almost at its lowest, streaks of seaweed across the road showed where it had reached that forenoon, and prophesied even a greater flood that night. He turned his head and gazed up the harbor to where it narrowed and became Pounddug Slough. In the Slough, near its ocean extremity, his old schooner, the Daisy M., lay stranded. He had not visited her for a week, and he wondered if the "spell of weather" had injured her to any extent. This speculation, however, was but momentary. The Daisy M. must look out for herself. His business was to reach Judge Gould's, in Denboro, before Mrs. Bascom and Bennie D. could arrange with that prominent citizen and legal light for the threatened divorce.

That they had started for Judge Gould's he did not doubt for a moment. "I shall seek the nearest lawyer," Bennie D. had said. And the judge was the nearest. They must be going there, or why should they take that road? Neither did he doubt now that their object was to secure the divorce. How divorces were secured, or how long it took to get one, Seth did not know. His sole knowledge on that subject was derived from the newspapers and comic weeklies, and he remembered reading of places in the West where lawyers with the necessary blanks in their pockets met applicants at the arrival of one train and sent them away, rejoicing and free, on the next.

"You jump right off the cars and then Turn round and jump right on again."

This fragment of a song, sung at a "moving-picture" show in the town hall, and resung many times thereafter by Ezra Payne, John Brown's predecessor as assistant keeper at the lights, recurred to him as he urged the weary Joshua onward. So far as Seth knew, the Reno custom might be universal. At any rate, he must get to Judge Gould's before Emeline and her brother-in-law left there. What he should do when he arrived and found them there was immaterial; he must get there, that was all.

Eastboro Back Harbor was left behind, and the long stretch of woods beyond was entered. Joshua, his hoofs swollen by the sticky clay to yellow cannon balls, plodded on, but, in spite of commands and pleadings—the lightkeeper possessed no whip and would not have used one if he had—he went slower and slower. He was walking now, and limping sadly on the foot where the loose shoe hung by its bent and broken nails.

Five miles, six, seven, and the limp was worse than ever. Seth, whose conscience smote him, got out of the carriage into the rain and mud and attempted repairs, using a stone as a hammer. This seemed to help matters some, but it was almost dark when the granite block marking the township line was passed, and the windows in the houses were alight when he pulled up at the judge's door.

The judge himself answered the knock, or series of knocks. He seemed much surprised to find the keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights standing on his front step.

"Why, hello, Atkins!" he cried. "What in the world are you doing over here? a night like this!"

"Has—has Mrs. Bascom been here? Is she here now?" panted Seth anxiously.

"Mrs. Bascom? Who is Mrs. Bascom?"

"She—she's a friend of mine. She and—and a relation of hers was comin' over here to see you on business. Ain't they here? Ain't they been here?"

"No. No one has been here this afternoon. I've been in since one o'clock, and not a soul has called, on business or otherwise."

The lightkeeper could scarcely believe it.

"You're sure?" he demanded.

"Certainly. If they came before one my wife would have told me, I think. I'll ask her."

"No, no," hastily. "You needn't. If they ain't been since one they ain't been. But I don't understand. . . . There's no other lawyer nigh here, is there?"

"No; none nearer than Bayport."

"My land! My LAND! Then—then I'm out of soundin's somehow. They never came for it, after all."

"Came for what?"

"Nothin', nothin', I guess," with a sickly smile. "I've made some sort of mistake, though I don't know how. Benije must have . . . I'll break that feller's neck; I will!"

The lawyer began to share the blacksmith's opinion that his caller had gone crazy.

"Come in, Atkins," he urged. "Come in out of the wet. What IS the matter? What are you doing here at this time of night so far from the Lights? Is it anything serious? Come in and tell me about it."

But Seth, instead of accepting the invitation, stared at him aghast. Then, turning about, he leaped down the steps, ran to the wagon and climbed in.

"Giddap!" he shouted. Poor, tired Joshua lifted his clay-daubed hoofs.

"You're not going back?" cried Gould. "Hold on, Atkins! Wait!"

But Seth did not wait. Already he had turned his horse's head toward Eastboro, and was driving off. The lawyer stood still, amazedly looking after him. Then he went into the house and spent the next quarter of an hour trying to call the Twin-Lights by telephone. As the northeast wind had finished what the northwest one had begun and the wire was down, his attempt was unsuccessful. He gave it up after a time and sat down to discuss the astonishing affair with his wife. He was worried.

But his worriment was as nothing compared to Seth's. The lawyer's reference to the Lights had driven even matrimonial troubles from the Atkins mind. The lights! the Twin-Lights! It was long past the time for them to be lit, and there was no one to light them but Brown, a green hand. Were they lit at all? If not, heaven knew what might happen or had happened already.

He had thought of this before, of course, had vaguely realized that he was betraying his trust, but then he had not cared. The Lights, his position as keeper, everything, were side issues compared with the one thing to be done, the getting to Denboro. He had reached Denboro and found his journey all a mistake; his wife and Bennie D. had not, apparently, visited that village; perhaps had not even started for it. Therefore, in a measure relieved, he thought of other things. He was many miles from his post of duty, and now his sole idea was to get back to it.

At ten o'clock Mrs. Hepsibah Deacon, a widow living in a little house in the woods on the top of the hill on the Denboro side of Eastboro Back Harbor, with no neighbors for a mile in either direction, was awakened by shouts under her bedroom window. Opening that window she thrust forth her head.

"Who is it?" she demanded quaveringly. "What's the matter? Is anything afire?"

From the blackness of the rain and fog emerged a vague shape.

"It's me, Mrs. Deacon; Seth Atkins, down to the Lights, you know. I've left my horse and carriage in your barn. Josh—he's the horse—is gone lame and played himself out. He can't walk another step. I've unharnessed him and left him in the stall. He'll be all right. I've given him some water and hay. Just let him stay there, if it ain't too much trouble, and I'll send for him to-morrer and pay for his keep. It's all right, ain't it? Much obliged. Good night."

Before the frightened widow could ask a question or utter a word he was gone, ploughing down the hill in the direction of the Back Harbor. When he reached the foot of that hill where the road should have been, he found that it had disappeared. The tide had risen and covered it.

It was pitch-dark, the rain was less heavy, and clouds of fog were drifting in before the wind. Seth waded on for a short distance, but soon realized that wading would be an impossibility. Then, as in despair, he was about ready to give up the attempt, a dark object came into view beside him. It was a dory belonging to one of the lobstermen, which, at the end of its long anchor rope, had swung inshore until it floated almost over the road. Seth seized it in time to prevent collision with his knees. The thole pins were in place, and the oars laid lengthwise on its thwarts. As his hands touched the gunwale a new idea came to him.

He had intended walking the rest of the way to Eastboro, routing out the liveryman and hiring a horse and buggy with which to reach the Lights. Now he believed chance had offered him an easier and more direct method of travel. He could row up the Harbor and Slough, land close to where the Daisy M. lay, and walk the rest of the way in a very short time. He climbed into the dory, pulled up the anchor, and seated himself at the oars.

The bottom of the boat was two inches deep with rain water, and the thwart was dripping and cold. Seth, being already about as wet as he could be, did not mind this, but pulled with long strokes out into the harbor. The vague black shadows of the land disappeared, and in a minute he was, so far as his eyes could tell him, afloat on a shoreless sea. He had no compass, but this did not trouble him. The wind, he knew, was blowing directly from the direction he wished to go, and he kept the dory's bow in the teeth of it. He rowed on and on. The waves, out here in the deep water, were of good size, and the spray flew as he splashed into them. He knew that he was likely to get off the course, but the Back Harbor was, except for its upper entrance, landlocked, and he could not go far astray, no matter where he might hit the shore.

The fog clouds, driven by the squalls, drifted by and passed. At rare intervals the sky was almost clear. After he had rowed for half an hour and was beginning to think he must be traveling in circles, one of these clear intervals came and, far off to the left and ahead, he saw something which caused him to utter an exclamation of joy. Two fiery eyes shone through the dark. The fog shut them in again almost immediately, but that one glance was sufficient to show that all was well at the post he had deserted. The fiery eyes were the lanterns in the Twin-Lights towers. John Brown had been equal to the emergency, and the lamps were lighted.

Seth's anxiety was relieved, but that one glimpse made him even more eager for home. He rowed on for a short time, and then began edging in toward the invisible left-hand shore. Judging by the length of time he had been rowing, he must be close to the mouth of the Slough, where, winding through the salt marshes, it emerged into the Back Harbor.

He crept in nearer and nearer, but no shore came in sight. The fog was now so thick that he could see not more than ten feet from the boat, but if he was in the mouth of the Slough he should have grounded on the marsh bank long before. The reason that he did not, a reason which did not occur to him at the time, was that the marshes were four feet under water. Owing to the tremendous tide Pounddug Slough was now merely a continuation of the Harbor and almost as wide.

The lightkeeper began to think that he must have miscalculated his distance. He could not have rowed as far as he thought. Therefore, he again turned the dory's nose into the teeth of the wind and pulled steadily on. At intervals he stopped and listened. All he heard was the moan of distant foghorns and the whistling of the gusts in trees somewhere at his left. There were pine groves scattered all along the bluffs on the Eastboro side, so this did not help him much except to prove that the shore was not far away. He pulled harder on the right oar. Then he stopped once more to listen.

Another blast howled through the distant trees and swept down upon him. Then, borne on the wind, he heard from somewhere ahead, and alarmingly near at hand, other sounds, voices, calls for help.

"Ahoy!" he shouted. "Ahoy there! Who is it? Where are you?"

"Help!" came the calls again—and nearer. "Help!"

"Look out!" roared Seth, peering excitedly over his shoulder into the dark. "Where are you? Look out or you'll be afoul of . . . Jumpin' Judas!"

For out of the fog loomed a bulky shape driving down upon him. He pulled frantically at the oars, but it was too late. A mast rocked against the sky, a stubby bowsprit shot over the dory, and the little boat, struck broadside on, heeled to the water's edge. Seth, springing frantically upward, seized the bowsprit and clung to it. The dory, pushed aside and half full of water, disappeared. From the deck behind the bowsprit two voices, a man's voice and a woman's, screamed wildly.

Seth did not scream. Clinging to the reeling bowsprit, he swung up on it, edged his way to the vessel's bows and stepped upon the deck.

"For thunder sakes!" he roared angrily, "what kind of navigation's this? Where's your lights, you lubbers? What d'you mean by—Where are you anyhow? And—and what schooner's this?"

For the deck, as much as he could see of it in the dark, looked astonishingly familiar. As he stumbled aft it became more familiar still. The ropes, a combination of new and old, the new boards in the deck planking, the general arrangement of things, as familiar to him as the arrangement of furniture in the kitchen of the Lights! It could not be . . . but it was! The little schooner was his own, his hobby, his afternoon workshop—the Daisy M. herself. The Daisy M., which he had last seen stranded and, as he supposed, hard and fast aground! The Daisy M. afloat, after all these years!

From the stern by the cabin hatch a man came reeling toward him, holding to the rail for support with one hand and brandishing the other.

"Help!" cried the man wildly. "Who is it? Help us! we're drowning! We're . . . Can't you put us ashore. Please put us . . . Good Lord!"

Seth made no answer. How could he? The man was Bennie D.

And then another figure followed the first, and a woman's voice spoke pleadingly.

"Have you got a boat?" it cried. "We're adrift on this dreadful thing and . . . why, SETH!"

The woman was Emeline Bascom.

"Why, SETH!" she said again. Then the sounds of the wind and waves and the creaking and cracking of the old schooner alone broke the silence.

But Bennie D., even under the shock of such a surprise as this, did not remain silent long. His precious self was in danger.

"You put us ashore!" he shouted. "You put us ashore right off, do you hear? Don't stand there like a fool! Do something. Do you want us to drown? DO something!"

Seth came to life. His first speech was sharp and businesslike.

"Emeline," he said, "there's a lantern hanging up in the cabin. Go light it and fetch it to me. Hurry!"

"It's upset," was the frightened answer. "Bennie found it when we first came aboard. When we—when this awful boat started, it upset and went out."

"Never mind. Probably there's ile enough left for a spell. Go fetch it. There's matches in a box on the wall just underneath where 'twas hangin'. Don't stop to talk! Move!"

Mrs. Bascom moved. Seth turned to the "inventor."

"Come for'ard with me," he ordered. "Here! this way! for'ard! FOR'ARD!"

He seized his companion by the arm and pulled him toward the bow. The frightened genius held back.

"What in time is the matter with you?" snarled the lightkeeper. "Are your feet asleep? Come!"

Bennie D. came, under compulsion. Seth half led, half dragged him to the bow, and, bending down, uncoiled a rope and put it in his hands.

"Them's the jib halliards," he explained. "Haul on 'em quick and hard as you can. If we can h'ist the jib we can get some steerage way on her, maybe. Haul! haul till you can't haul no more. Then hang on till I come back and make fast."

He rushed back to the wheel. The tiller ropes were new, and he could trust them, fortunately. From the cabin hatchway emerged Mrs. Bascom bearing the lighted lantern.

"Good!" snapped Seth. "Now we can see what we're doin' and, if we show a glim, maybe we won't run down no more dories. You go for'ard and—No, you take this wheel and hold it just as 'tis. JUST as 'tis; understand? I'll be back in a jiffy. What in thunder's the matter with that foolhead at the jib?"

He seized the lantern and rushed to the bow. Bennie D. had dropped the halliard and was leaning over the rail screaming for help.

Seth hoisted the jib himself, made it fast, and then turned his attention to the mutinous hand.

"Shut up!" he bellowed, catching him by the arm. "Who do you cal'late's goin' to hear you? Shut up! You come with me. I want you to pump. The old craft would do well enough if she was tight, but she's more'n likely takin' water like a sieve. You come and pump."

But Bennie had no notion of pumping. With a jerk he tore loose from the lightkeeper's grasp and ran to the stern, where he continued his howls for help.

Seth was at his heels.

"Stop that, I tell you," he commanded angrily. "It don't do no good. If you don't want to go to the bottom you'll work that pump. Don't be such a clown."

The frantic genius paid no attention. His sister-in-law left the wheel and put her hand on his shoulder. "Please, Bennie," she pleaded. "Please do as he says. He knows, and—"

Bennie D. pushed her backward with savage force. "Mind your own business," he yelled with an oath. "'Twas your foolishness got me into this." Then, leaning over the rail, he called shrilly, "He—lp! I'm drowning! Help!"

Mrs. Bascom staggered back against the wheel, which Seth had seized the instant she deserted it. "Oh!" she said, "you hurt me."

Her husband freed an arm and put it about her. "Are you much hurt, Emeline?" he asked sharply.

"No—o. No, Seth. I—I guess I ain't really hurt at all."

"Good! Then you take this wheel and hold her just so. That's it. AND DON'T YOU DROP IT AGAIN. I'll attend to this feller."

His wiry fingers locked themselves in Bennie D.'s shirt collar.

"I ordered you to pump," said Seth. "Now then, you come and pump!"

"Let go!" screamed his captive. "Take your hands off me, or—"

The back of his head striking the deck put a period in the middle of his sentence. The next moment he was being dragged by the collar to the little hand pump amidships.

"Pump!" roared the lightkeeper. "Pump! or I'll break your everlastin' neck. Lively now!"

The dazed genius rose to his knees. "What—" he stammered. "Where—"

"Right there in front of you. Lively, you lubber!"

A well-directed kick helped to facilitate liveliness.

"What shall I do?" wailed Bennie D., fumbling the pump brake. "How does it go?"

"Up and down—so." Seth jerked his victim's head up and down, by way of illustration. "Now, then," he continued, "you pump till I say quit, or I'll—I swan to man I'll make a spare tops'l out of your hide!"

He left the inventor working as he had not worked in the memory of man, and strode back to the wheel. Mrs. Bascom was clinging to the spokes for dear life.

"I—I ain't dropped it, Seth," she declared. "Truly I ain't."

"All right. You can drop it now. I'll take it myself. You set down and rest."

He took the wheel and she collapsed, breathless, against the rail. After a time she ventured to ask a question.

"Seth!" she said, "how do you know which way to steer?"

"I don't," was the reply. "All I'm tryin' to do is keep her afore it. If this no'theast wind would hold, we'd be all right, but it's dyin' fast. And the tide must be at flood, if not startin' to go out. With no wind, and no anchor, and the kind of ebb tide there'll be pretty soon—well, if we don't drift out to sea we'll be lucky. . . . Pump! pump! you son of a roustabout. If I hear you stoppin' for a second I'll come for'ard and murder you."

Bennie D., who had ventured to rest for a moment, bent his aching back to the task. Was this man-slaughtering tyrant his mild-mannered, meek brother-in-law, the creature whom he had brow-beaten so often and managed so effectively? He could not understand—but he pumped.

Perhaps Seth did not understand, either; perhaps he did not try to. Yet the explanation was simple and natural. The sea, the emergency, the danger, his own deck beneath his feet—these were like old times, here was a situation he knew how to handle. He forgot that he was a lightkeeper absent from duty, forgot that one of his passengers was the wife he had run away from, and the other his bugbear, the dreaded and formidable Bennie D. He forgot all this and was again the able seaman, the Tartar skipper who, in former days, made his crews fear, respect, and swear by him.

And he reveled in his authority. Once Mrs. Bascom rose to peer over the rail.

"Emeline," he snapped, "didn't I tell you to set down and set still? Must I give orders twice? SET DOWN!"

Emeline "set."

The wind died to fitful gusts. The schooner barely moved. The fog was as thick as ever. Still Seth did not lose courage. When the housekeeper ventured to murmur that she was certain they would drown, he reassured her.

"Keep your pennant mast-high, Emeline," he said cheerfully. "We ain't out at sea, that's sure and sartin. And, until we get in the breakers, we're safe enough. The old gal leaks some; she ain't as dry as a Good-Templar prayer meetin', but she's afloat. And when I'm afloat I ain't afraid, and you needn't be."

Some time after that he asked a question in his turn.

"Emeline," he said, "what in the world are you doin' here, on my schooner?"

"Your schooner, Seth? Yours? Is this dreadful—is this boat yours?"

"Yup. She's mine. I bought her just for fun a long spell ago, and I've been fussin' with her ever since. But I did it FOR fun; I never s'posed she'd take a cruise—like this. And what are you and—him—doin' on her?"

Mrs. Bascom hesitated. "It was all an accident, Seth," she explained. "This has been an awful night—and day. Bennie and I was out ridin' together, and we took the wrong road. We got lost, and the rain was awful. We got out of the buggy to stand under some trees where 'twas drier. The horse got scared at some limbs fallin' and run off. Then it was most dark, and we got down to the shore and saw this boat. There wa'n't any water round her then. Bennie, he climbed aboard and said the cabin was dry, so we went into it to wait for the storm to let up. But it kept gettin' worse. When we came out of the cabin it was all fog like this and water everywhere. Bennie was afraid to wade, for we couldn't see the shore, so we went back into the cabin again. And then, all at once, there was a bump that knocked us both sprawlin'. The lantern went out, and when we come on deck we were afloat. It was terrible. And then—and then you came, Seth, and saved our lives."

"Humph! Maybe they ain't saved yet. . . . Emeline, where was you drivin' to?"

"Why, we was drivin' home, or thought we was."

"Home?"

"Yes, home—back to the bungalow."

"You was?"

"Yes."

A pause. Then: "Emeline, there's no use your tellin' me what ain't so. I know more than you think I do, maybe. If you was drivin' home why did you take the Denboro road?"

"The Denboro road? Why, we only went on that a ways. Then we turned off on what we thought was the road to the Lights. But it wa'n't; it must have been the other, the one that goes along by the edge of the Back Harbor and the Slough, the one that's hardly ever used. Seth," indignantly, "what do you mean by sayin' that I told you what wa'n't so? Do you think I lie?"

"No. No more than you thought I lied about that Christy critter."

"Seth, I was always sorry for that. I knew you didn't lie. At least I ought to have known you didn't. I—"

"Wait. What did you take the Denboro road at all for?"

"Why—why—Well, Seth, I'll tell you. Bennie wanted to talk to me. He had come on purpose to see me, and he wanted me to do somethin' that—that . . . Anyhow, he'd come to see me. I didn't know he was comin'. I hadn't heard from him for two years. That letter I got this—yesterday mornin' was from him, and it most knocked me over."

"You hadn't HEARD from him? Ain't he been writin' you right along?"

"No. The fact is he left me two years ago without even sayin' good-by, and—and I thought he had gone for good. But he hadn't," with a sigh, "he hadn't. And he wanted to talk with me. That's why he took the other road—so's he'd have more time to talk, I s'pose."

"Humph! Emeline, answer me true: Wa'n't you goin' to Denboro to get—to get a divorce from me?"

"A divorce? A divorce from YOU? Seth Bascom, I never heard such—"

She rose from her seat against the rail.

"Set down," ordered her husband sharply. "You set down and keep down."

She stared, gasped, and resumed her seat. Seth gazed straight ahead into the blackness. He swallowed once or twice, and his hands tightened on the spokes of the wheel.

"That—that feller there," nodding grimly toward the groaning figure at the pumps, "told me himself that him and you had agreed to get a divorce from me—to get it right off. He give me to understand that you expected him, 'twas all settled and that was why he'd come to Eastboro. That's what he told me this afternoon on the depot platform."

Mrs. Bascom again sprang up.

"Set down!" commanded Seth.

"I won't."

"Yes, you will. Set down." And she did.

"Seth," she cried, "did he—did Bennie tell you that? Did he? Why, I never heard such a—I never! Seth, it ain't true, not a word of it. Did you think I'd get a divorce? Me? A self-respectin' woman? And from you?"

"You turned me adrift."

"I didn't. You turned yourself adrift. I was in trouble, bound by a promise I give my dyin' husband, to give his brother a home while I had one. I didn't want to do it; I didn't want him with us—there, where we'd been so happy. But I couldn't say anything. I couldn't turn him out. And you wouldn't, you—"

She was interrupted. From beneath the Daisy M.'s keel came a long, scraping noise. The little schooner shook, and then lay still. The waves, no longer large, slapped her sides.

Mrs. Bascom, startled, uttered a little scream. Bennie D., knocked to his knees, roared in fright. Seth alone was calm. Nothing, at that moment, could alarm or even surprise him.

"Humph!" he observed, "we're aground somewheres. And in the Harbor. We're safe and sound now, I cal'late. Emeline, go below where it's dry and stay there. Don't talk—go. As for you," leaving the wheel and striding toward the weary inventor, "you can stop pumpin'—unless," with a grim smile, "you like it too well to quit—and set down right where you be. Right where you be, I said! Don't you move till I say the word. WHEN I say it, jump!"

He went forward, lowered the jib, and coiled the halliards. Then, lantern in hand, he seated himself in the bows. After a time he filled his pipe, lit it by the aid of the lantern, and smoked. There was silence aboard the Daisy M.

The wind died away altogether. The fog gradually disappeared. From somewhere not far away a church clock struck the hour. Seth heard it and smiled. Turning his head he saw in the distance the Twin-Lights burning steadily. He smiled again.

Gradually, slowly, the morning came. The last remnant of low-hanging mist drifted away. Before the bows of the stranded schooner appeared a flat shore with a road, still partially covered by the receding tide, along its border. Fish houses and anchored dories became visible. Behind them were hills, and over them roofs and trees and steeples.

A step sounded behind the watcher in the bows. Mrs. Bascom was at his elbow.

"Why, Seth!" she cried, "why, Seth! it's Eastboro, ain't it? We're close to Eastboro."

Seth nodded. "It's Eastboro," he said. "I cal'lated we must be there or thereabouts. With that no'theast breeze to help us we couldn't do much else but fetch up at the inner end of the Back Harbor."

She laid her hand timidly on his arm.

"Seth," she whispered, "what should we have done without you? You saved our lives."

He swung about and faced her. "Emeline," he said, "we've both been awful fools. I've been the biggest one, I guess. But I've learned my lesson—I've swore off—I told you I'd prove I was a man. Do you think I've been one tonight?"

"Seth!"

"Well, do you? Or," with a gesture toward the "genius" who was beginning to take an interest in his surroundings, "do you like that kind better?"

"Seth," reproachfully, "I never liked him better. If you had—"

She was interrupted by her brother-in-law, who came swaggering toward them. With the sight of land and safety, Bennie D.'s courage returned; also, his old assurance.

"Humph!" he observed. "Well, sister, we are safe, I really believe. In spite of," with a glare at the lightkeeper, "this person's insane recklessness and brutality. Now I will take you ashore and out of his presence."

Seth rose to his feet.

"Didn't I tell you," he demanded, "not to move till I said the word? Emeline, stay right here."

Bennie D. stared at the speaker; then at his sister-in-law.

"Sister," he cried, in growing alarm, "sister, come! come! we're going ashore, I tell you. What are you waiting for?"

Seth put his arm about the lady.

"She is goin' ashore," he said. "But she's goin' with me, and she's goin' to stay with me. Ain't you, Emeline?"

The lady looked up into his face and then down again. "If you want me, Seth," she said.

Bennie D. sprang forward. "Emeline," he shrieked, "what do you mean? Are you going to leave me? Have you forgotten—"

"She ain't forgot nothin'," broke in Seth. "But YOU'RE forgettin' what I told you. Will you go aft there and set down, or shall I make you?"

"But—but, Emeline—sister—have you forgotten your promise to your dying husband? To my brother? You promised to give me a home as long as you owned one."

Then Seth played his trump.

"She don't own any home," he declared triumphantly. "She sold her house, and she ain't got any home—except the one I'm goin' to give her. And if you ever dare to show your head inside of THAT, I'll—I'll heave you over both lights. If you think I'm foolin', just try and see. Now then, Emeline."

And, with his wife in his arms, Seth Atkins—Seth Atkins Bascom—CAPTAIN Seth Atkins Bascom—swung over the rail and waded to land.



CHAPTER XVI

THE EBB TIDE

"John Brown," his long night's vigil over, extinguished the lights in the two towers, descended the iron stairs, and walked across the yard into the kitchen. His first move, after entering the house, was to ring the telephone bell and endeavor to call Eastboro. He was anxious concerning Atkins. Seth had not returned, and the substitute assistant was certain that some accident must have befallen him. The storm had been severe, but it would take more than weather to keep the lightkeeper from his post; if he was all right he would have managed to return somehow.

Brown rang the bell time and time again, but got no response. The storm had wrecked the wires, that was certain, and that means of communication was cut off. He kindled the fire in the range and tried to forget his anxiety by preparing breakfast. When it was prepared he waited a while and then sat down to a lonely meal. But he had no appetite, and, after dallying with the food on his plate, gave it up and went outside to look about him.

The first thing he looked at was the road from the village. No sign of life in that direction as far as he could see. Then he looked at the bungalow. Early as it was, a thread of blue smoke was ascending from the chimney. Did that mean that the housekeeper had returned? Or had Ruth Graham been alone all through the miserable night? Under ordinary circumstances he would have gone over and asked if all was well. He would have done that, even if Seth were at home—he was past the point where the lightkeeper or their compact could have prevented him—but he could not muster courage to go now. She must have found the note he had tucked under the door, and he was afraid to hear her answer. If it should be no, then—well, then he did not care what became of him.

He watched the bungalow for a time, hoping that she might come out—that he might at least see her—but the door did not open. Auguring all sorts of dismal things from this, he moped gloomily back to the kitchen. He was tired and had not slept for thirty hours, but he felt no desire for bed. He could not go to bed anyway until Atkins returned—and he did not want to.

He sat down in a chair and idly picked up one of a pile of newspapers lying in the corner. They were the New York and Boston papers which the grocery boy had brought over from Eastboro, with the mail, the previous day. Seth had not even looked at them, and Brown, who seldom or never read newspapers, found that he could not do so now. He tossed them on the table and once more went out of doors. After another glance at the bungalow, he walked to the edge of the bluff and looked over.

He was astonished to see how far the tide had risen in the night. The line of seaweed and drift marking its highest point was well up the bank. Now the ebb was foaming past the end of the wharf. He looked for the lobster car, which should have been floating at its moorings, but could not see it. Either it was under the wharf or it had been swept away and was gone. And one of the dories was gone, too. No, there it was, across the cove, high and dry on the beach. If so much damage was visible from where he stood, it was probable that a closer examination might show even more. He reentered the kitchen, took the boathouse key from its nail—the key to Seth's wonderful purchase, the spring lock which was to keep out thieves and had so far been of no use except as a trouble-maker—and started for the wharf. As he passed the table he picked up the bundle of newspapers and took them with him. The boathouse was the repository for rubbish, old papers and magazines included, and these might as well be added to the heap. Atkins had not read this particular lot, but the substitute assistant did not think of this.

The lobster car was not under the wharf. The ropes which had moored it were broken, and the car was gone. Splinters and dents in the piles showed where it had banged and thumped in the grasp of the tide before breaking loose. And, lying flat on the wharf and peering under it, it seemed to him that the piles themselves were a trifle aslant; that the whole wharf had settled down on the outer side.

He rose and was about to go further out for another examination, when his foot struck the pile of papers he had brought with him. He picked them up, and, unlocking the boathouse door—it stuck and required considerable effort to open it—entered the building, tossed the papers on the floor, and turned to go out. Before he could do so the door swung shut with a bang and a click.

At first he did not realize what the click meant. Not until he tried to open it did he understand. The settling of the wharf had thrown the door and its frame out of the perpendicular. That was why it stuck and opened with such reluctance. When he opened it, he had, so to speak, pushed it uphill. Its own weight had swung it back, and the spring lock—in which he had left the key—had worked exactly as the circular of directions declared it would do. He was a prisoner in that boathouse.

Even then he did not fully grasp the situation. He uttered an exclamation of impatience and tugged at the door; but it was heavy, jammed tight in its frame, and the lock was new and strong. He might as well have tried to pull up the wharf.

After a minute of fruitless effort he gave up the attempt on the door and moved about the little building, seeking other avenues of escape. The only window was a narrow affair, high up at the back, hung on hinges and fastened with a hook and staple. He climbed up on the fish nets and empty boxes, got the window open, and thrust his head and one shoulder through the opening. That, however, was as far as he could go. A dwarf might have squeezed through that window, but not an ex-varsity athlete like Russell Brooks or a husky longshoreman like "John Brown." It was at the back, facing the mouth of the creek and the sea, and afforded a beautiful marine view, but that was all. He dropped back on the fish nets and audibly expressed his opinion of the lock and the man who had bought it.

Then he tried the door again, again gave it up, and sat down on the fish nets to think. Thinking was unsatisfactory and provoking. He gave that up, also, and, seeing a knothole in one of the boards in the landward side of his jail, knelt and applied his eye to the aperture. His only hope of freedom, apparently, lay in the arrival home of the lightkeeper. If Seth had arrived he could shout through that knothole and possibly be heard.

The knothole, however, commanded a view, not of the lighthouse buildings, but of the cove and the bungalow. The bungalow! Ruth Graham! Suddenly, and with a shock, flashed to his mind the thought that his imprisonment, if at all prolonged, was likely to be, not a joke, but the most serious catastrophe of his life.

For Ruth Graham was going to leave the bungalow and Eastboro that very day. He had begged to see her once more, and this day was his last chance. He had written her, pleading to see her and receive his answer. If he did not see her, if Seth did not return before long and he remained where he was, a prisoner and invisible, the last chance was gone. Ruth would believe he had repented of his declaration as embodied in the fateful note, and had fled from her. She had intimated that he was a coward in not seeing his fiancee and telling her the truth. She did not like his writing that other girl and running away. Now she would believe the cowardice was inherent, because he had written her, also—and had run away. Horrible!

Through the knothole he sent a yell for rescue. Another and another. They were unheard—at least, no one emerged from the bungalow. He sprang to his feet and made another circle of the interior of the boathouse. Then he sank down upon the heap of nets and again tried to think. He must get out. He must—somehow!

The morning sunshine streamed through the little window and fell directly upon the pile of newspapers he had brought from the kitchen and thrown on the floor. His glance chanced to rest for an instant upon the topmost paper of the pile. It was a New York journal which devotes two of its inside pages to happenings in society. When he threw it down it had unfolded so that one of these pages lay uppermost. Absently, scarcely realizing that he was doing so, the substitute assistant read as follows:

"Engagement in High Life Announced. Another American Girl to Wed a Nobleman. Miss Ann Gardner Davidson to become the Baroness Hardacre."

With a shout he fell upon his knees, seized the paper and read on:

"Another contemplated matrimonial alliance between one of New York's fairest daughters and a scion of the English nobility was made public yesterday. Miss Ann Gardner Davidson, of this city, the breaking of whose engagement to Russell Agnew Brooks, son of George Agnew Brooks, the wealthy cotton broker, was the sensation of the early spring, is to marry Herbert Ainsworth-Ainsworth, Baron Hardacre, of Hardacre Towers, Surrey on Kent, England. It was said that the young lady broke off her former engagement with Young Brooks because of—"

The prisoner in the boathouse read no further. Ruth Graham had said to him the day before that, in her opinion, he had treated Ann Davidson unfairly. He should have gone to her and told her of his quarrel with his father. Although he did not care for Ann, she might care for him. Might care enough to wait and . . . Wait? Why, she cared so little that, within a few months, she was ready to marry another man. And, if he owed her any debt of honor, no matter how farfetched and fantastic, it was canceled now. He was absolutely free. And he had been right all the time. He could prove it. He would show Ruth Graham that paper and . . .

His jaw set tight, and he rose from the heap of fish nets with the folded paper clinched like a club in his hand. He was going to get out of that boathouse if he had to butt a hole through its boards with his head.

Once more he climbed to the window and made an attempt to squeeze through. It was futile, of course, but this time it seemed to him that the sill and the plank to which it was attached gave a little. He put the paper between his teeth, seized the sill with both hands, braced his feet against a beam below, and jerked with all his strength. Once—twice—three times! It was giving! It was pulling loose! He landed on his back upon the nets, sill and a foot of boarding in his hands. In exactly five seconds, the folded newspaper jammed in his trousers pocket, he swung through the opening and dropped to the narrow space between the building and the end of the wharf.

The space was a bare six inches wide. As he struck, his ankle turned under him, he staggered, tried wildly to regain his balance, and fell. As he fell he caught a glimpse of a blue-clad figure at the top of the bluff before the bungalow. Then he went under with a splash, and the eager tide had him in its grasp.

When he came to the surface and shook the water from his eyes, he was already some distance from the wharf. This, an indication of the force of the tide, should have caused him to realize his danger instantly. But it did not. His mind was intent upon the accomplishment of one thing, namely, the proving to Ruth Graham, by means of the item in the paper, that he was no longer under any possible obligation to the Davidson girl. Therefore, his sole feeling, as he came sputtering to the top of the water, was disgust at his own clumsiness. It was when he tried to turn and swim back to the wharf that he grasped the situation as it was. He could not swim against that tide.

There was no time to consider what was best to do. The breakers were only five hundred yards off, and if he wished to live he must keep out of their clutches. He began to swim diagonally across the current, putting all his strength into each stroke. But for every foot of progress toward the calmer water he was borne a yard toward the breakers.

The tide bubbled and gurgled about him. Miniature whirlpools tugged at his legs, pulling him under. He fought nobly, setting his teeth and swearing inwardly that he would make it, he would not give up, he would not drown. But the edge of the tide rip was a long way off, and he was growing tired already. Another whirlpool sucked him down, and when he rose he shouted for help. It was an instinctive, unreasoning appeal, almost sure to be useless, for who could hear him?—but he shouted, nevertheless.

And the shout was answered. From somewhere behind him—a long, long distance, so it seemed to him—came the clear call in a woman's voice.

"All right! I'm coming. Keep on, just as you are."

He kept on, or tried to. He swam—and swam—and swam. He went under, rose, went under again, fought his way up, and kept on swimming. Through the gurgle and hiss of the water, sounding dully above the humming in his ears and the roar of the blood in his tired brain, came the clear voice again:

"Steady now! Just as you are! one more stroke! Now one more! Quick! Quick! Now! Can you get aboard?"

The wet, red side of a dory's bow pushed past his laboring shoulder. A hand clutched his shirt collar. He reached up and grasped the boat's gunwale, hung on with all his weight, threw one leg over the edge, and tumbled into the dory's bottom.

"Thanks," he panted, his eyes shut. "That—was—about the closest call I—ever had. Hey? Why! RUTH!"

She was panting, also, but she was not looking at him. She was rowing with all her might, and gazing fearfully over her shoulder. "Are you strong enough to help me row?" she asked breathlessly. "We must head her away from here, out of this tide. And I'm afraid that I can't do it alone."

He raised his head and looked over the rail. The breakers were alarmingly close. He scrambled to the thwart, pushed her aside and seized the oars. She resisted.

"Only one," she gasped. "I can manage the other."

So, each with an oar, they fought the tide, and won—but by the narrowest of margins. The dory edged into stiller and shoaler water, crept out of the eddying channel over the flat where the depth was but a scant four feet, turned almost by inches, and, at last, slid up on the sandy beach below the bungalow. The girl sat bowed over the handle of her oar, her breast heaving. She said nothing. Her companion likewise said nothing. Staggering, he stepped over the side, walked a few feet up the beach, and then tumbled in an unconscious heap on the sand.

He was not unconscious long, being a healthy and robust young fellow. His first thought, upon opening his eyes, was that he must close them again as quickly as possible because he wanted the dream to continue. To lie with one's head in the lap of an angel, while that angel strokes your forehead and cries over you and begs you for her sake not to die, is too precious a delusion to lose. But the opening of one's eyes is a mistake under such circumstances, and he had made it. The angel's next remark was entirely unromantic and practical.

"Are you better?" she asked. "You're all right now, aren't you?"

Her patient's reply was also a question, and irrelevant.

"DO you care?" he asked faintly.

"Are you better?" she asked in return.

"Did you get my note? The note I put under the door?"

"Answer me. Are you all right again?"

"You answer ME. Did you get my note?"

"Yes. . . . Don't try to get up. You're not strong enough yet. You must wait here while I go and get you some—"

"Don't go!" He almost shouted it. "If—if you do I'll—I'll—I think I'm going to faint again."

"Oh, no, you're not. And I must go and get you some brandy or something. Stay just where you are."

"Ruth Graham, if you go away now, I'll go with you, if I have to crawl. Maybe I can't walk, but I swear I'll crawl after you on my hands and knees unless you answer my question. DO you care enough for me to wait?"

She looked out at the little bay, at the narrow, wicked tide race, at the breakers beyond. Then she looked down again at him.

"Yes," she said. . . . "OH, are you going to faint again? Don't! Please don't!"

Russell Agnew Brooks, the late "John Brown," opened his eyes. "I am not going to faint," he observed. "I was merely trying to realize that I was fully conscious."

Some time after this—hours and minutes do not count in paradise—he remembered the item in the paper.

"By George!" he exclaimed, "I had something to show you. I'm afraid I've lost it. Oh, no I here it is."

He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump that had been the New York newspaper. The page containing the sensational announcement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable. Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur. However, he told her about it, and she agreed that his judgment of the character of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct.

"You were very wise," she said sagely.

"Not so wise as I've become since," he asserted with decision. Then he added, with a rather rueful smile, "I'm afraid, dear, people won't say as much for you, when they know."

"I'm satisfied."

"You may have to wait all those years—and years—you spoke of."

"I will."

But she did not have to. For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdom beside her sat up and pointed to the wet newspaper lying on the sand at her feet.

"Has my happiness affected my wits?" he demanded. "Or does salt water bring on delusions? Aren't those my initials?"

He was pointing to a paragraph in the "Personals" column of the New York paper. This, being on one of the inner pages, had remained comparatively dry and could be read. The particular "Personal" to which he pointed was this:

"R. A. B." Wherever you are. This is to certify that I hereby acknowledge that you have been absolutely correct in the A. D. matter; witness news elsewhere. I was a fool, and I apologize publicly. Incidentally I need a head like yours in my business. Come back. Partnership awaiting you. Come back; and marry anybody or nobody as you see fit.

"FATHER."



CHAPTER XVII

WOMAN-HATERS

"But what," asked Ruth, as they entered the bungalow together, "has happened to Mr. Atkins, do you think? You say he went away yesterday noon and you haven't seen him or even heard from him since. I should think he would be afraid to leave the lights for so long a time. Has he ever done it before?"

"No. And I'm certain he would not have done it this time of his own accord. If he could have gotten back last night he would, storm or no storm."

"But last night was pretty bad. And," quite seriously, "of course he knew that you were here, and so everything would be all right."

"Oh, certainly," with sarcasm, "he would know that, of course. So long as I am on deck, why come back at all? I'm afraid Atkins doesn't share your faith in my transcendent ability, dear."

"Well," Miss Graham tossed her head, "I imagine he knew he could trust you to attend to his old lighthouses."

"Perhaps. If so, his faith has developed wonderfully. He never has trusted me even to light the lanterns. No, I'm afraid something has happened—some accident. If the telephone was in working order I could soon find out. As it is, I can only wait and try not to worry. By the way, is your housekeeper—Mrs. What's-her-name—all serene after her wet afternoon? When did she return?"

"She hasn't returned. I expected her last evening—she said she would be back before dark—but she didn't come. That didn't trouble me; the storm was so severe that I suppose she stayed in the village overnight."

"So you were alone all through the gale. I wondered if you were; I was tremendously anxious about you. And you weren't afraid? Did you sleep?"

"Not much. You see," she smiled oddly, "I received a letter before I retired, and it was such an important—and surprising—communication that I couldn't go to sleep at once."

"A letter? A letter last night? Who—What? You don't mean my letter? The one I put under your door? You didn't get THAT last night!"

"Oh, yes, I did."

"But how? The bungalow was as dark as a tomb. There wasn't a light anywhere. I made sure of that before I came over."

"I know. I put the light out, but I was sitting by the window in the dark, looking out at the storm. Then I saw some one coming up the hill, and it was you."

"Then you saw me push it under the door?"

"Yes. What made you stay on the step so long after you had pushed it under?"

"Me? . . . Oh," hastily, "I wanted to make sure it was—er—under. And you found it and read it—then?"

"Of course. I couldn't imagine what it could be, and I was curious, naturally."

"Ruth!"

"I was."

"Nonsense! You knew what it must be. Surely you did. Now, truly, didn't you? Didn't you, dear?"

"Why should I? . . . Oh, your sleeve is wet. You're soaking wet from head to foot."

"Well, I presume that was to be expected. This water out here is remarkably damp, you know, and I was in it for some time. I should have been in it yet if it hadn't been for you."

"Don't!" with a shudder, "don't speak of it. When I saw you fall into that tide I . . . But there! you mustn't stay here another moment. Go home and put on dry things. Go at once!"

"Dry things be hanged! I'm going to stay right here—and look at you."

"You're not. Besides, I am wet, too. And I haven't had my breakfast."

"Haven't you? Neither have I." He forgot that he had attempted to have one. "But I don't care," he added recklessly. Then, with a flash of inspiration, "Why can't we breakfast together? Invite me, please."

"No, I shall not. At least, not until you go back and change your clothes."

"To hear is to obey. 'I go, but I return,' as the fellow in the play observes. I'll be back in just fifteen minutes."

He was back in twelve, and, as to make the long detour about the marshes would, he felt then, be a wicked waste of time and the marshes themselves were covered with puddles left by the tide, his "dry things" were far from dry when he arrived. But she did not notice, and he was too happy to care, so it was all right. They got breakfast together, and if the coffee had boiled too long and the eggs not long enough, that was all right, also.

They sat at opposite sides of the little table, and he needed frequent reminding that eating was supposed to be the business on hand. They talked of his father and of Ann Davidson—whom Ruth declared was to be pitied—of the wonderful coincidence that that particular paper, the one containing the "Personal" and the "Engagement in High Life" item, should have been on top of the pile in the boathouse, and—of other things. Occasionally the talk lapsed, and the substitute assistant merely looked, looked and smiled vacuously. When this happened Miss Graham smiled, also, and blushed. Neither of them thought of looking out of the window.

If they had not been so preoccupied, if they had looked out of that window, they would have seen a horse and buggy approaching over the dunes. Seth and Mrs. Bascom were on the buggy seat, and the lightkeeper was driving with one hand. The equipage had been hired at the Eastboro livery stable. Joshua was undergoing repairs and enjoying a much-needed rest at the blacksmith shop in the village.

As they drew near the lights, Seth sighed contentedly.

"Well, Emeline," he observed, "here we be, safe and sound. Home again! Yes, sir, by jiminy crimps, HOME! And you ain't goin' to Boston to-day, neither."

Mrs. Bascom, the practical, moved toward the edge of the seat.

"Take your arm away, Seth," she cautioned. "They'll see you."

"Who'll see me? What do I care who sees me? Ain't a man got a right to put his arm around his own wife, I'd like to know?"

"Humph! Well, all right. I can stand it if you can. Only I cal'late your young Brown man is in for somethin' of a shock, that's all. HE don't know that I'm your wife."

Seth removed his arm. His expression changed.

"That's so," he admitted. "He will be set back three or four rows, won't he?"

"I shouldn't wonder. He'll think your woman-hate has had a relapse, I guess."

The lightkeeper looked troubled; then he nodded grimly.

"His ain't what you'd call a desp'rate case," he declared. "Judgin' by what I've seen in the cove for the last month, he's gettin' better of it fast. I ain't no worse than he is, by time! . . . Wonder where he is! This place looks deader'n the doleful tombs."

He hitched the horse to the back fence and assisted his wife to alight from the buggy. They entered the kitchen. No one was there, and Seth's hurried search of the other rooms resulted in finding them untenanted likewise.

"Maybe he's out in one of the lights," he said, "wait here, Emeline, and I'll go see."

But she would not wait. "I'm goin' right over to the bungalow," she said. "I'm worried about Miss Ruth. She was alone all last night, and I sha'n't rest easy till I know nothin's happened to her. You can come when you find your young man. You and me have got somethin' to tell 'em, and we might as well get the tellin' done as soon as possible. Nothin's ever gained by putting off a mean job. Unless, of course," she added, looking at him out of the corners of her eyes, "you want to back out, Seth. It ain't too late even now, you know."

He stared at her. "Back out!" he repeated; "back out! Emeline Bascom, what are you talkin' about? You go to that bungalow and go in a hurry. Don't stop to talk! go! Who's runnin' this craft? Who's the man in this family—you or me?"

She laughed. "You seem to be, Seth," she answered, "just now."

"I am. I've been a consider'ble spell learnin' how to be, but I've learned. You trot right along."

Brown was in neither of the light towers, and Seth began to be worried about him. He descended to the yard and stood there, wondering what on earth could have happened. Then, looking across the cove, he became aware that his wife was standing on the edge of the bluff, making signals with both hands.

He opened his mouth to shout a question, but she frantically signaled for silence. Then she beckoned. He ran down the path at full speed. She met him at the other side of the cove.

"Come here!" she whispered. "Don't say a word, but just come—and look."

He followed her, crept close to the bungalow window and peeped in. His helper, "John Brown," and Miss Ruth Graham were seated at the table. Also the substitute assistant was leaning across that table with the young lady's hand in his; the pair were entirely oblivious of anything in the world except each other.

A few moments later a thunderous knock shook the bungalow door. The knock was not answered immediately; therefore, Seth opened the door himself. Miss Graham and the lightkeeper's helper were standing some distance apart; they gazed speechlessly at the couple who now entered the room.

"Well," observed Seth, with sarcasm, "anybody got anything to say? You," turning to the young man, "seems to me you ought to say SOMETHIN'. Considerin' a little agreement you and me had, I should imagine I was entitled to some triflin' explanation. What are you doin' over here—with HER? Brown—"

The young gentleman came to himself with a start. He walked across to where Miss Graham was standing, and once more took her hand.

"My name is not Brown," he said firmly. "It is Brooks; and this is the young lady I am to marry."

He naturally expected his superior to be surprised. As a matter of fact, he was the surprised party. Seth reached out, drew the bungalow housekeeper toward him, and put his arm about her waist. Then he smiled; and the smile was expressive of pride, triumph, and satisfaction absolute.

"ATKINS!" gasped Brooks.

"My name ain't Atkins," was the astonishing reply; "it's Bascom. And this," indicating by a tightening of his arm the blushing person at his side, "is the lady I married over five year ago."

After the stories had been told, after both sides had told theirs and explained and been exclaimed over and congratulated, after the very last question had been asked and answered, Brown—or Brooks—asked one more.

"But this other fellow," he queried, "this brother-in-law—By George, it is perfectly marvelous, this whole business!—where is he? What has become of him?"

Seth chuckled. "Bennie D.?" he said. "Well, Bennie D. is leavin' Eastboro on the noon train. I paid his fare and give him fifty dollars to boot. He's goin' somewhere, but he ain't sartin where. If you asked me, I should say that, in the end, he'd most likely have to go where he's never been afore, so far's I ever heard—that's to work. Now—seein' as the important business has been talked over and settled—maybe you'll tell me about the lights, and how you got along last night."

But the lighthouse subject was destined to be postponed for a few minutes. The person in whose care the Lights had been left during the past twenty hours or so looked at the speaker, then at the other persons present, and suddenly began to laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Miss Graham. "Why, Russell, what is it?"

Russell Agnew Brooks, alias "John Brown," ex-substitute assistant at Eastboro Twin-Lights, sank into a chair, shaking from head to heel.

"It is hysterics," cried Ruth, hastening to his side. "No wonder, poor dear, considering what he has been through. Hush, Russell! don't, you frighten me. What IS it?"

Her fiance waved a reassuring hand. "It—it's all right," he gasped. "I was just laughing at . . . Oh," pointing an unsteady finger at the lightkeeper, "ask him; he knows."

"Ask him?" repeated the bewildered young lady. "Why, Mr. Atkins—Bascom, I mean—what. . . ."

And then Seth began to laugh. Leaning against the doorpost, he at first chuckled and then roared.

"Seth!" cried his wife. "Seth, you old idiot! Why, I never see two such loons in my life! Seth, answer me! What are you two laughin' at?"

Seth Atkins Bascom wiped the tears from his eyes. "I cal'late," he panted, "I rather guess—Ho, ho!—I rather guess we're both laughin' at woman-haters."

THE END