V.

_THE LIGHTHOUSE._

"You say this is your last Sunday at Shipton. Sorry! We shall miss you

in the class," said Dave's new Sunday-school acquaintance, Mr. Tolman.

"Thank you, sir," replied Dave; "but as this is only my second Sunday in

your class, you won't miss me much."

"Oh yes, we shall. See here, David. There is going to be some company

at my house to-morrow night. Bring your sister round to tea."

Dave and Annie were at Mr. Tolman's the evening of the next day; and who

was it Dave saw trying to shrink into one corner? A stout, fat man,

altogether too big for the corner.

"He looks natural," thought Dave.

At this point the man saw Dave. He had been looking very lonely, but

his face now brightened as if he had suddenly seen an old and valued

acquaintance.

"Think you don't remember me!" he said, advancing toward Dave, and

extending a large brown hand shaped something like a flounder. Dave

thought at once of a lighthouse, a sand-bar, and an old schooner halting

on the bar.

"Oh, the light-keeper, Mr. Tolman!" cried Dave. "You here?"

"It is my uncle from Black Rocks," said the younger Mr. Tolman, stepping

up to this party of two. "Uncle Toby doesn't get off very often from

the light, and we thought he ought to have a little vacation, and come

and see his relatives."

"My nephew James is very good," said Mr. Toby Tolman. "The last time I

saw you," he added, addressing Dave, "I put you on board that tug-boat."

Dave dropped his head.

"Oh, you needn't be ashamed of that affair. I didn't think at the time

you could be the cause of the mischief, and I've been told since who it

was that was to blame for it."

Dave raised his head.

"Fact is I've been a-thinking of you. Want a job, young man?"

"Me, sir? I expect to go home to-morrow."

"Got to return for anything special?"

"Well, my visit is out."

"Nothing special to call you home?"

"Oh, I help father, and go to school when there is one."

"Well," said the old light-keeper, fixing his eyes on the boy, "how

should you like to help to keep a lighthouse for three weeks?"

"Me?" said Dave eagerly.

"Yes, you. You know I have an assistant, Timothy Waters. He wants to

be off on a vacation for three weeks, and I must have somebody to take

his place. I want somebody who can work in there, sort of spry and

handy. Now, I think you would do. How should you like it?"

"When do you want to know?"

"The last of this week."

"I will go home to-morrow and talk it over with the folks, and I can get

you an answer by day after to-morrow."

"Yes, that will do."

Dave went home, obtained the consent of his parents, and the boat that

brought Timothy Waters to Shipton to begin his vacation took back to the

lighthouse Dave Fletcher and his trunk. It was the light-keeper, Mr.

Toby Tolman, who brought the former assistant to Shipton, and then

accompanied Dave to Black Rocks. It was a mild summer day. The wind

seemed too lazy to blow, and the sea too lazy to roll. There were faint

little puffs of air at intervals, and along the bar and the shore the

low surf turned slowly over as if weary. The light-tower and its red

annex the fog-signal tower rose up out of one sea of blue into another

of gold, and then above this sea of sunshine rolled another of blue

again, where the white-sailed clouds seemed to be all becalmed. It was

low tide, and the light-keeper's dory brushed against the exposed masses

of the ledge, weed-matted and brown, on which the lighthouse rested.

"This looks like home to me," said the keeper, when they had climbed the

ladder and gained the door in the fog-signal tower. When they entered

the light-tower the keeper detained Dave and said, "I want to tell you

something about my home here on the rocks. There, this tower is about

seventy feet high. It is built as strong as they can make stone

masonry. This is the first room. We keep various stores here. Do you

see this?"

Mr. Tolman with his foot tapped a round iron cover in the floor and then

raised it.

"Down here is the tank where we keep our fresh water."

The iron cover went down with a dull slam; and then he pointed out

various stores in the room--vegetables, wood, coal, and a quantity of

hand-grenades (glass flasks filled with a chemical, to be used in

putting out fires).

"How thick are the walls here, Mr. Tolman?"

"Four feet here of stone, solid; and then there is an inner wall of

brick, foot and a half thick. Now we will go up into the kitchen. You

saw those hand-grenades of ours. Precious little here that will burn.

You see the stairways from room to room are of iron, and then every

floor has an iron deck covered with hard pine. Ah, my fire is still

in!"

Yes, the kitchen stove had guarded well its fire, and the heat of the

room was tempered by a mild, cool draught of air that came through an

opened window from the flashing sea without. Besides a softly-cushioned

rocking-chair near the stove, there were three chairs ranged near a

small dining-room table, and their language was, "You will find a

welcome here." Clock, looking-glass, cupboard, lamp-shelf, and other

conveniences were in the room.

"Let's take a peep at the next room," said the keeper.

Again they climbed an iron staircase, and reached a bedroom. Besides a

single bed, there were a clothes-closet, three green chairs, a green

stand, a gilt-framed looking-glass, and on the wall several pictures of

sea-life. The floor was covered with oil-cloth, and directly before the

bed was a rag mat that had a very domestic look.

"There--this is my room; and now we will go up into the assistant's,

your quarters. We will bring up your trunk directly," said the keeper.

This room was furnished like the keeper's, only it had two chairs, and

before the bed was a strip of woollen carpet.

"I can put my trunk anywhere, I suppose, Mr. Tolman?"

"Anywhere you please."

"Mother gave me a few pictures, too, that she said I could stick up, to

make it look homelike."

"Just what I like to have you do. Now for the watch-room."

This was at the head of another iron stairway, and held a small table, a

library-case, a green chest, two chairs, and a closet for the keeping of

curtains that might be used in the lantern, and other useful apparatus.

"This room is where we can sit and watch the lantern," explained the

keeper.

"And what is this?" asked Dave, pointing at a weight that hung down from

the ceiling.

"That weight? It is a part of the machinery that turns round the lens

in the lantern. Now, let us go up into the lantern."

The lantern was a circular room. The walls were of iron, up to the

height of three feet, and cased with wood, and then there was a

succession of big panes of the clearest glass, making a broad window

that extended about all the lantern. In the centre was a lens of "the

fourth order," shaped like a cone, and consisting of very strong

magnifying prisms of glass. Within this lens was a kerosene-lamp.

"There!" said Mr. Tolman; "all this tower of stone, all the arrangements

of the place, all the serving of the keeper and his assistant, all the

doing by day and the watching by night, is just to keep that little lamp

a-going. Put out the lamp at night, and you might just as well send the

keepers home and tear down the lighthouse."

"It is not so big a lamp as I supposed."

"No; that is a small lamp for so big a light as folks outside see. It

is this lens that does the work of magnifying."

"Can I step outside, sir? I wanted to when we were down here that

night, but we did not have so good a chance for looking about."

"Oh yes."

Outside of the lantern was a "deck," about six feet broad, and

compassing the lantern. It was a shelf of stone covered with iron.

"Good view here," said the keeper.

"Yes; nothing to hide the prospect," replied Dave. "There is Shipton up

beyond the harbour, and there is the sea in the other direction."

Only sea, sea, sea, to north, south, east--one wide, restless play of

blue water.

"The wind must blow up here sometimes, Mr. Tolman."

"Blow! That is a mild word for it; and in winter it is cold. It is no

warm job when we have to scrape the snow and ice off the lantern. Folks

outside must see, and it is our place to let them see."

When the keeper and Dave returned to the kitchen, preparations for

dinner were started, and then Mr. Tolman said, "We have a few minutes to

spare, and I guess we will take up our boat."

"Take it up?"

"Well, if it should promise to be a quiet day I could moor it near the

light; but, of course, in rough weather, when everything is tumbling

round the rocks, I had better have it h'isted into a safe place. I'll

show you."

"Isn't it going to be quiet?" asked Dave eagerly. "I'd like to see a

storm out here."

"Better see it than feel it, I tell ye. I don't know but that it will

be fair," said the keeper, at the door of the fog-signal tower, looking

out upon the water, while a light breeze gently lifted and dropped the

thin gray locks on his brow. "May be fair, but still--still--I don't

know. A bit hazy in the no'th-east."

"Oh, if it would storm!" said Dave enthusiastically.

The keeper smiled at his eagerness, and said: "I think you'll have your

wish before you get through; and it's a tough place out here in a storm,

the wind howling round the light, the big breakers thundering and

smashing along the bar, the spray flying up to the lantern, or, if there

is a fog, the old fog-horn screeching dismally. What do you think of

it? That don't suit you, does it?"

"Oh, splendidly!"

"Well, we will get the boat up. You see we have 'tackle and falls'

right here at the door, rigged overhead, you see, and we can get up

'most anything. If you will go down and make the boat fast, we will then

raise her."

Dave descended, attached the boat at her stern and bows to the suspended

tackle, and returned to the keeper's side. Then they pulled on the

ropes. The boat came readily up, and hung opposite the door of the

fog-signal tower.

"Now we are all right," declared Dave. "This is a fortress where we

have a boat, and can go off if we wish, but no enemy can get to us."

All this increased the keeper's pleasure in witnessing the eagerness of

Dave. At dinner the keeper rehearsed his duties, and added,--

"May not seem as if there was much to be done, but to keep everything in

good condition it takes some time, and then there may be fogs--oh my!"

This made Dave, of course, none the less anxious to hear the big

breakers booming against the lighthouse, and as an accompaniment the

fog-horn moaning hoarsely. The keeper gave Dave his course of duties

during the day; and while they despatched dinner he told Dave also about

a heavy storm just "ten years ago that very day." And this only fired

up Dave's anxiety to see what the keeper termed "a howler."

"Don't you feel lonely here sometimes, sir?"

"Well, we get used to almost everything. I am only lonely when my

assistant is away; and if I am occupied, then loneliness don't bother me

much. I am generally pretty busy. By sunrise my light must be out in

the lantern. I must make a trip upstairs for that, any way. Then there

is breakfast. People's appetites are apt to be pretty good out here,

and sometimes it is no small job just to do the cooking. I believe in

living well--in having plenty to eat, and in having a variety. After

breakfast, first thing, Timothy and I have prayers--same as folks do at

home, you know. Then we look after the lantern. That takes time--to

trim the lamp, keep the lens clean, and see that the windows of the

lantern are polished bright. Then in the forenoon I do my

baking--bread, cake, and so on. Well, if the fog should set in, that

would upset other arrangements, and we must watch the fog-signal. Oh,

there is a lot to be done! Noon comes before one knows it. In the

afternoon I like to get a little time to read; but then it may be foggy,

or one must go to town, or perhaps the town may come to us. I have a

good many visitors in summer-time. That makes a pleasant change."

"How do you manage at night?"

"We relieve one another. One is on watch till twelve, and the other

takes his turn till sunrise. I will make it as easy for you as I can,

and--"

"Oh, I can stand it."

"Well, we will see. But speaking about daytime, one must make up then

for the sleep he loses at night. So you see the hours are filled up. I

read in the night considerable. I am going to propose one thing. You

will find some valuable books up in the library-case in the watch-room.

I want you to select one and read it. I have been astonished to see how

much I could read by keeping at it sort of steady, as we say; giving

myself a stint perhaps every day, and sticking to it. Hadn't you better

try it?"

"I think I will."

Dave noticed that the light-keeper was very particular to have prayers

each morning directly after breakfast, and then at some other time

during the day he would be likely to be bending over his Bible. It was

an impressive sight. The ocean might be rolling the heavy breakers

across the bar as if driving heavy, white-headed battering-rams toward

the land. Against the tower itself the ponderous billows would throw

themselves, and sweep in a crashing torrent between the light and

fog-signal towers. Within, in the sheltered kitchen, the light-keeper

would sit at his table bending over his Bible, his countenance at rest

as the shadow of God's great protecting promises fell over him.