CRAB PROVES TO BE OF THE HARDSHELL VARIETY
They came to the lighthouse. There was only a tiny, whitewashed cottage
at the foot of the tall shaft. It seemed a long way to the brass-trimmed
and glistening lantern at the top. Ruth wondered how the gaunt old woman
who came to the door to welcome them could ever climb those many, many
stairs to the narrow gallery at the top of the shaft. She certainly could
not suffer as Aunt Alvirah did with _her_ back and bones.
Sokennet Light was just a steady, bright light, sending its gleam
far seaward. There was no mechanism for turning, such as marks the
revolving lights in so many lighthouses. The simplicity of everything
about Sokennet Light was what probably led the department officials to
allow Mother Purling to remain after her husband died in harness.
"Jack Crab has done his cleaning and gone about his business," said
Mother Purling, to the girls. "Ye may all climb up to the lantern if
ye wish; but touch nothing."
Beside the shaft of the light was a huge fog bell. That was rung by
clockwork. Mother Purling showed Ruth and her companions how it worked
before the girls started up the stairs. Mercy remained in the little
house with the good old woman, for she never could have hobbled up those
spiral stairs.
"It's too bad about that girl," said Nita, brusquely, to Ruth. "Has
she always been lame?"
Ruth warmed toward the runaway immediately when she found that Nita was
touched by Mercy Curtis' affliction. She told Nita how the lame girl
had once been much worse off than she was now, and all about her being
operated on by the great physician.
"She's so much better off now than she was!" cried Ruth. "And so much
happier!"
"But she's a great nuisance to have along," snapped Mary Cox,
immediately behind them. "She had better stayed at home, I should
think."
Ruth flushed angrily, but before she could speak, Nita said, looking
coolly at The Fox:
"You're a might snappy, snarly sort of a girl; ain't you? And you
think you are dreadfully smart. But somebody told you that. It ain't
so. I've seen a whole lot smarter than you. You wouldn't last long
among the boys where _I_ come from."
"Thank you!" replied Mary, her head in the air. "I wouldn't care to
be liked by the boys. It isn't ladylike to think of the boys all the
time----"
"These are grown men, I mean," said Nita, coolly. "The punchers that
work for--well, just cow punchers. You call them cowboys. They know
what's good and fine, jest as well as Eastern folks. And a girl that
talks like you do about a cripple wouldn't go far with them."
"I suppose your friend, the half-Indian, is a critic of deportment,"
said The Fox, with a laugh.
"Well, Jib wouldn't say anything mean about a cripple," said Nita,
in her slow way, and The Fox seemed to have no reply.
But this little by-play drew Ruth Fielding closer to the queer girl who
had selected her "hifaluting" name because it was the name of a girl
in a paper-covered novel.
Nita had lived out of doors, that was plain. Ruth believed, from what
the runaway had said, that she came from the plains of the great West.
She had lived on a ranch. Perhaps her folks owned a ranch, and they might
even now be searching the land over for their daughter. The thought made
the girl from the Red Mill very serious, and she determined to try and
gain Nita's confidence and influence her, if she could, to tell the
truth about herself and to go back to her home. She knew that she could
get Mr. Cameron to advance Nita's fare to the West, if the girl would
return.
But up on the gallery in front of the shining lantern of the lighthouse
there was no chance to talk seriously to the runaway. Heavy had to sit
down when she reached this place, and she declared that she puffed
like a steam engine. Then, when she had recovered her breath, she pointed
out the places of interest to be seen from the tower--the smoke of
Westhampton to the north; Fuller's Island, with its white sands and
gleaming green lawns and clumps of wind-blown trees; the long strip of
winding coast southward, like a ribbon laid down for the sea to wash,
and far, far to the east, over the tumbling waves, still boisterous with
the swell of last night's storm, the white riding sail of the lightship
on No Man's Shoal.
They came down after an hour, wind-blown, the taste of salt on their
lips, and delighted with the view. They found the ugly, hairy man sitting
on the doorstep, listening with a scowl and a grin to Mercy's sharp
speeches.
"I don't know what brought you back here to the light, Jack Crab, at
this time of day," said Mother Purling. "You ain't wanted."
"I likes to see comp'ny, too, _I_ do," growled the man.
"Well, these girls ain't your company," returned the old woman. "Now!
get up and be off. Get out of the way."
Crab rose, surlily enough, but his sharp eyes sought Nita. He looked her
all over, as though she were some strange object that he had never seen
before.
"So you air the gal they brought ashore off the lumber schooner last
night?" he asked her.
"Yes, I am," she returned, flatly.
"You ain't got no folks around here; hev ye?" he continued.
"No, I haven't."
"What's your name?"
"Puddin' Tame!" retorted Mercy, breaking in, in her shrill way. "And
she lives in the lane, and her number's cucumber! There now! do you know
all you want to know, Hardshell?"
Crab growled something under his breath and went off in a hangdog way.
"That's a bad man," said Mercy, with confidence. "And he's much
interested in you, Miss Nita Anonymous. Do you know why?"
"I'm sure I don't," replied Nita, laughing quite as sharply as
before, but helping the lame girl to the buckboard with kindliness.
"You look out for him, then," said Mercy, warningly. "He's a
hardshell crab, all right. And either he thinks he knows you, or he's
got something in his mind that don't mean good to you."
But only Ruth heard this. The others were bidding Mother Purling good-bye.