THE OLD SAILOR
One day, when Sig Bailey, the coast guard, was sitting outside the
life-saving station, making a little boat from a piece of wood, he saw a
shadow in front of him--a shadow cast on the beach by the bright October
sun. The life guard looked up and saw, standing before him, a ragged man
on whose face grew scraggily whiskers--not a good, proper beard, but
whiskers as though the man ought to have shaved but had been too
lazy--or else had not had a chance. If the guard had known, this was the
same man Ruddy had smelled and rumbled at.
"Mornin' mate!" growled the ragged man, as he rubbed his rough, scraggy,
stubby chin. "Can you give me somethin' to eat?"
Sig looked at the man closely and then answered slowly:
"Well, I guess maybe I can ask the captain to. He's boss here. I'm only
one of the crew."
"Regular ship rules you have around here; eh?" asked the man.
"Something like that--yes," answered Sig. "In winter we all live here at
the station, and the captain is in charge. In the summer I live inland,
and come on duty at night. But the full crew is here now and--well, I'll
see if I can get you anything. Sit down."
The ragged man sat down on the bench outside the coast guard station,
while Sig went to find the captain.
Besides the house in which the captain, his wife and the crew lived at
the Belemere life-saving station, there was another building in which
was stored the motor life-boat, and other things, by means of which
passengers and crews were taken off vessels that might go ashore on the
beach.
Some of the crew were working about the boat now--painting her and
others were looking over the ropes and the bomb-gun by which a line is
shot out to a vessel when it is too rough to use the boat. The captain
was in the cottage writing out some reports he had to send to
Washington.
"There's a man outside who wants something to eat," said Sig to Captain
White.
"What sort of a man is he?"
"Looks like a tramp, but I guess he's been a sailor to judge by his
walk."
"Oh, well, we can't turn anyone away hungry; eh, Mother?" he asked his
wife, who was busy in the kitchen.
"I can give him a plate of beef stew," she answered.
"Guess that would just about fit in his locker," spoke Sig, with a grin.
"I'll take it out to him."
And presently the wanderer was gratefully eating the hot bowl of stew as
he sat on the bench beside Sig, who had again started work on making the
boat. Sig was going to give the boat to Rick when it was finished.
"Live around here?" asked the life guard of the tramp.
"No. Just drifted in. I've had hard luck ever since I lost my dog."
"Lost your dog!" exclaimed Sig, and a queer feeling came into his
heart. "What kind of a dog did you have?"
"He was sort of reddish--a setter I guess he was. Got washed overboard
one night just about off this coast I reckon. We were wrecked ourselves
right after that, and I haven't had any luck since. I figger I lost my
luck when I lost my dog. Wish I could get him back!"
Sig looked sharply at the ragged man. Could he be after Ruddy?