"A fog last night, wasn't there?" inquired Brown. Breakfast was over, and Seth was preparing for his day's sleep.
"Yes, some consider'ble," was the gruff answer; then, more sharply, "How'd you know? 'Twas all gone this mornin'."
"Oh, I guessed, that's all."
"Humph! Guessed, hey? You wa'n't up in the night, was you?"
"No. Slept like a top all through."
"Humph! . . . Well, that's good; sleep's a good thing. Cal'late I'll turn in and get a little myself."
He moved toward the living room. At the door he paused and asked another question.
"How'd you--er--guess there was fog last night?" he inquired.
"Oh, that was easy; everything--grass and bushes--were so wet this morning. Those boots of yours, for example," pointing to the pair the lightkeeper had just taken off, "they look as if you had worn them wading."
His back was toward his superior as he spoke, therefore he did not see the start which the latter gave at this innocent observation, nor the horrified glare at the soaked boots. But he could not help noticing the change in Seth's voice.
"Wa--wadin'?" repeated Atkins faintly. "What's that you say?"
"I said the boots were as wet as if you had been wading. Why?"
"Wha--what made you say a fool thing like that? How could I go wadin' on top of a lighthouse?"
"I don't know. . . . There, there!" impatiently, "don't ask any more questions. I didn't say you had been wading, and I didn't suppose you really had. I was only joking. What IS the matter with you?"
"Nothin' . . . nothin'. So you was just jokin', hey? Ha, ha! Yes, yes, wadin' up in a lighthouse would be a pretty good joke. I--I didn't see it at first, you know. Ha, ha! I thought you must be off your head. Thought you'd been swimmin' too much or somethin'.
So long, I'm goin' to bed."
But now it was the helper's turn to start and stammer.
"Wait!" he cried. "What--what did you say about my--er--swimming, was it?"
"Oh, nothin', nothin'. I was just jokin', same as you was about the wadin'. Ha, ha!"
"Ha, ha!"
Both laughed with great heartiness. The door shut between them, and each stared doubtfully at his side of it for several moments before turning away.
That forenoon was a dismal one for John Brown. His troublesome conscience, stirred by Seth's reference to swimming, was again in full working order. He tried to stifle its reproaches, tried to give his entire attention to his labors about the lights and in the kitchen, but the consciousness of guilt was too strong. He felt mean and traitorous, a Benedict Arnold on a small scale. He had certainly treated Atkins shabbily; Atkins, the man who trusted him and believed in him, whom he had loftily reproved for "spying" and then betrayed. Yet, in a way his treason, so far, had been unavoidable. He had promised--had even OFFERED to teach the Graham girl the "side stroke." He had not meant to make such an offer or promise, but Fate had tricked him into it, and he could not, as a gentleman, back out altogether. He had been compelled to give her one lesson. But he need not give her another. He need not meet her again. He would not. He would keep the agreement with Seth and forget the tenants of the bungalow altogether. Good old Atkins!
Good old Seth, the woman-hater! How true he was to his creed, the creed which he, Brown, had so lately professed. It was a good creed, too. Women were at the bottom of all the world's troubles.
They deserved to be hated. He would never, never--"Well, by George!" he exclaimed aloud.
He was looking once more at the lightkeeper's big leather boots.
One of them was lying on its side, and the upturned sole and heel were thickly coated with blue clay. He crossed the room, picked up the boots and examined them. Each was smeared with the clay. He put them down again, shook his head, wandered over to the rocking- chair and sat down.
Seth had cleaned and greased those boots before he went to bed the day before; Brown had seen him doing it. He had put them on after supper, just before going on watch; the substitute assistant had seen him do that, also. Therefore, the clay must have been acquired sometime during the evening or night just past. And certainly there was no clay at the "top of the lighthouse," or anywhere in the neighborhood except at one spot--the salt marsh at the inner end of the cove. Seth must have visited that marsh in the nighttime. But why? And, if he had done so, why did he not mention the fact? And, now that the helper thought of it, why had he been so agitated at the casual remark concerning wading? What was he up to? Now that the Daisy M. and story of the wife were no longer secrets, what had Seth Atkins to conceal?
Brown thought and guessed and surmised, but guesses and surmises were fruitless. He finished his dishwashing and began another of the loathed housekeeping tasks, that of rummaging the pantry and seeing what eatables were available for his luncheon and the evening meal.
He spread the various odds and ends on the kitchen table, preparatory to taking account of stock. A part of a slab of bacon, a salt codfish, some cold clam fritters, a few molasses cookies, and half a loaf of bread. He had gotten thus far in the inventory when a shadow darkened the doorway. He turned and saw Mrs. Bascom, the bungalow housekeeper.
"Good mornin'," said Mrs. Bascom.
Brown answered coldly. Why on earth was it always his luck to be present when these female nuisances made their appearance? And why couldn't they let him alone, just as he had determined to let them alone--in the future? Of course he was glad that the caller was not Miss Graham, but this one was bad enough.
"Morning," he grunted, and took another dish, this one containing a section of dry and ancient cake, Seth's manufacture, from the pantry.
"What you doin'? Gettin' breakfast this time of day?" asked the housekeeper, entering the kitchen. She had a small bowl in her hand.
"No," replied Brown.
"Dinner, then? Pretty early for that, ain't it?"
"I am not getting either breakfast or dinner--or supper, madam," replied the helper, with emphasis. "Is there anything I can do for you?"