THE PICNIC
Seth was true to his promise concerning Job. The next afternoon that
remarkable canine was decoyed, by the usual bone, into the box in which
he had arrived. Being in, the cover was securely renailed above him.
Brown and the light-keeper lifted the box into the back part of the
“open wagon,” and Atkins drove triumphantly away, the pup's agonized
protests against the journey serving as spurs to urge Joshua faster
along the road to the village. When, about six o'clock, Seth reentered
the yard, he was grinning broadly.
“Well,” inquired Brown, “did he take him back willingly?”
“Who? Henry G.? I don't know about the willin' part, but he'll take him
back. I attended to that.”
“What did he say? Did he think you ungrateful for refusing to accept his
present?”
Atkins laughed aloud. “He didn't say nothin',” he declared. “He didn't
know it when I left Eastboro. I wa'n't such a fool as to cart that
critter to the store, where all the gang 'round the store could holler
and make fun. Not much! I drove way round the other way, up the back
road, and unloaded him at Henry's house. I cal'lated to leave him with
Aunt Olive--that's Henry's sister, keepin' house for him--but she'd gone
out to sewin' circle, and there wa'n't nobody to home. The side door was
unlocked, so I lugged that box into the settin' room and left it there.
Pretty nigh broke my back; and that everlastin' Job hollered so I
thought the whole town would hear him and come runnin' to stop the
murderin' that they'd cal'late was bein' done. But there ain't no nigh
neighbors, and those that are nighest ain't on speakin' terms with
Henry; ruther have him murdered than not, I shouldn't wonder. So I left
Job in his box in the settin' room and cleared out.”
The substitute assistant smiled delightedly.
“Good enough!” he exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise for friend Henry
or his housekeeper.”
“Ho, ho! ain't it! I rather guess 'twill be Henry himself that's
surprised fust. Aunt Olive never leaves sewin' circle till the last bit
of supper's eat up--she's got some of her brother's stinginess in her
make-up--so I cal'late Henry'll get home afore she does. I shouldn't
wonder,” with an exuberant chuckle, “if that settin' room' was some
stirred up when he sees it. The pup had loosened the box cover afore I
left. Ho, ho!”
“But won't he send the dog back here again?”
“No, he won't. I left a note for him on the table. There was
consider'ble ginger in every line of it. No, Job won't be sent here,
no matter what becomes of him. And if anything SHOULD be broke in that
settin' room--well, there was SOME damage done to our kitchen. No, I
guess Henry G. and me are square. He won't make any fuss; he wants to
keep our trade, you see.”
It was a true prophecy. The storekeeper made no trouble, and Job
remained at Eastboro until a foray on a neighbor's chickens resulted
in his removal from this vale of tears. Neither the lightkeeper nor
his helper ever saw him again, and when Seth next visited the store
and solicitously inquired concerning the pup's health, Henry G. merely
looked foolish and changed the subject.
But the dog's short sojourn at the Twin-Lights had served to solve one
mystery, that of Atkins's daily excursions to Pounddug Slough. He
went there to work on the old schooner, the Daisy M. Seth made no more
disclosures concerning his past life--that remained a secret--but he did
suggest his helper's going to inspect the schooner. “Just walk across
and look her over,” he said. “I'd like to know what you think of her.
See if I ain't makin' a pretty good job out of nothin'. FOR nothin', of
course,” he added, gloomily; “but it keeps me from thinkin' too much. Go
and see her, that's a good feller.”
So the young man did go. He climbed aboard the stranded craft--a forlorn
picture she made, lying on her side in the mud--and was surprised to
find how much had been manufactured “out of nothing.” Her seams, those
which the sun had opened, were caulked neatly; her deck was clean and
white; she was partially rigged, with new and old canvas and ropes; and
to his landsman's eyes she looked almost fit for sea. But when he said
as much to Seth, the latter laughed scornfully.
“Fit for nothin',” scoffed the lightkeeper. “I could make her fit,
maybe, if I wanted to spend money enough, but I don't. I can't get at
her starboard side, that's down in the mud, and I cal'late she'd leak
like a skimmer. She's only got a fores'l and a jib, and the jib's only
a little one that used to belong to a thirty-foot sloop. Her anchor's
gone, and I wouldn't trust her main topmast to carry anything bigger'n a
handkerchief, nor that in a breeze no more powerful than a canary bird's
breath. And, as I told you, it would take a tide like a flood to float
her. No, she's no good, and never will be; but,” with a sigh, “I get a
little fun fussin' over her.”
“Er--by the way,” he added, a little later, “of course you won't mention
to nobody what I told you about--about my bein' a fishin' skipper
once. Not that anybody ever comes here for you to mention it to, but I
wouldn't want . . . You see, nobody in Eastboro or anywheres on the Cape
knows where I come from, and so . . . Oh, all right, all right. I know
you ain't the kind to talk. Mind our own business, that's the motto you
and me cruise under, hey?”
Yet, although the conversation in the substitute assistant's room was
not again referred to by either, it had the effect of making the oddly
assorted pair a bit closer in their companionship. The mutual trust
was strengthened by the lightkeeper's half confidence and Brown's
sympathetic reception of it. Each was lonely, each had moments when
he felt he must express his hidden feelings to some one, and, though
neither recognized the fact, it was certain that the time was coming
when all mysteries would be mysteries no longer. And one day occurred a
series of ridiculous happenings which, bidding fair at first to end in
a quarrel the relationship between the two, instead revealed in both a
kindred trait that removed the last barrier.
At a little before ten on this particular morning, Brown, busy in
the kitchen, heard vigorous language outside. It was Atkins who was
speaking, and the assistant wondered who on earth he could be talking
to. A glance around the doorpost showed that he was, apparently, talking
to himself--at least, there was no other human being to be seen. He held
in his hand a battered pair of marine glasses and occasionally he peered
through them. Each time he did so his soliloquy became more animated and
profane.
“What's the matter?” demanded Brown, emerging from the house.
“Matter?” repeated Seth. “Matter enough! Here! take a squint through
them glasses and tell me who's in that buggy comin' yonder?”
The buggy, a black dot far down the sandy road leading from the village,
was rocking and dipping over the dunes. The assistant took the glasses,
adjusted them, and looked as directed.
“Why!” he said slowly, “there are three people in that buggy. A
man--and--”
“And two women; that's what I thought. Dum idiots comin' over to picnic
and spend the day, sure's taxes. And they'll want to be showed round the
lights and everywheres, and they'll ask more'n forty million questions.
Consarn the luck!”
Brown looked troubled. He had no desire to meet strangers.
“How do you know they're coming here?” he asked. The answer was
conclusive.
“Because,” snarled Seth, “as I should think you'd know by this time,
there ain't no other place round here they COULD come to.”
A moment later, he added, “Well, you'll have to show 'em round.”
“I will?”
“Sartin. That's part of the assistant keeper's job.”
He chuckled as he said it. That chuckle grated on the young man's
nerves.
“I'm not the assistant,” he declared cheerfully.
“You ain't? What are you then?”
“Oh, just a helper. I don't get any wages. You've told me yourself, over
and over, that I have no regular standing here. And, according to
the government rules, those you've got posted in the kitchen, the
lightkeeper is obliged to show visitors about. I wouldn't break the
rules for the world. Good morning. Think I'll go down to the beach.”
He stalked away whistling. Atkins, his face flaming, roared after him a
profane opinion concerning his actions. Then he went into the kitchen,
slamming the door with a bang.
Some twenty minutes later the helper heard his name shouted from the top
of the bluff.
“Mr. Brown! I say! Ahoy there, Mr. Brown! Come up here a minute, won't
ye?”
Brown clambered up the path. A little man, with grey throat whiskers,
and wearing an antiquated straw hat, the edge of the brim trimmed with
black braid, was standing waiting for him.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brown,” stammered the little man, “but you be
Mr. Brown, ain't you?”
“I am. Yes.”
“Well, I cal'lated you was. My name's Stover, Abijah Stover. I live over
to Trumet. Me and my wife drove over for a sort of picnic like. We've
got her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along. Sophi's a widow from Boston,
and she ain't never seen a lighthouse afore. I know Seth Atkins
slightly, and I was cal'latin' he'd show us around, but bein' as he's so
sick--”
“Sick? Is Mr. Atkins sick?”
“Why, yes. Didn't you know it? He's in the bedroom there groanin'
somethin' terrible. He told me not to say nothin' to the women folks,
but to hail you, and you'd look out for us. Didn't you know he was laid
up? Why, he--”
Brown did not wait to hear more. He strode to the house, with Mr. Stover
at his heels. On his way he caught a glimpse of the buggy, the horse
dozing between the shafts. On the seat of the buggy were two women, one
plump and round-faced, the other thin and gaunt.
Mr. Stover panted behind him.
“Say, Mr. Brown,” he whispered, as they entered the kitchen; “don't tell
my wife nor Sophi about Seth's bein' sick. Better not say a word to them
about it.”
The tone in which this was spoken made the substitute assistant curious.
“Why not?” he asked.
“'Cause--well, 'cause Hannah's hobby is sick folks, as you might say. If
there's a cat in the neighborhood that's ailin' she's always dosin' of
it up and fixin' medicine for it, and the like of that. And Sophi's one
of them 'New Thoughters' and don't believe anybody's got any right to be
sick. The two of 'em ain't done nothin' but argue and row over diseases
and imagination and medicines ever since Sophi got here. If they knew
Seth was laid up, I honestly believe they'd drop picnic and everythin'
and start fightin' over whether he was really sick or just thought he
was. And I sort of figgered on havin' a quiet day off.”
Brown found the lightkeeper stretched on the bed in his room. He was
dressed, with the exception of coat and boots, and when the young man
entered he groaned feebly.
“What's the matter?” demanded the alarmed helper.
“Oh, my!” groaned Seth. “Oh, my!”
“Are you in pain? What is it? Shall I 'phone for the doctor?”
“No, no. No use gettin' the doctor. I'll be all right by and by. It's
one of my attacks. I have 'em every once in a while. Just let me alone,
and let me lay here without bein' disturbed; then I'll get better, I
guess.”
“But it's so sudden!”
“I know. They always come on that way. Now run along, like a good
feller, and leave me to my suff'rin's. O-oh, dear!”
Much troubled, Brown turned to the door. As he was going out he happened
to look back. The dresser stood against the wall beyond the bed, and
in its mirror he caught a glimpse of the face of the sick man. On that
face, which should have been distorted with agony, was a broad grin.
Brown found the little Stover man waiting for him in the kitchen.
“Be you ready?” he asked.
“Ready?” repeated Brown, absently. “Ready for what?”
“Why, to show us round the lights. Sophi, she ain't never seen one
afore. Atkins said that, bein' as he wasn't able to leave his bed, you'd
show us around.”
“He did, hey?”
“Yes. He said you'd be glad to.”
“Hum!” Mr. Brown's tone was that of one upon whom, out of darkness, a
light has suddenly burst. “I see,” he mused, thoughtfully. “Yes, yes. I
see.”
For a minute he stood still, evidently pondering. Then, with a twinkle
in his eye, he strode out of the house and walked briskly across to the
buggy.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, removing the new cap which Seth had
recently purchased for him in Eastboro. “Mr. Stover tells me you wish to
be shown the lights.”
The plump woman answered. “Yes,” she said, briskly, “we do. Are you a
new keeper? Where's Mr. Atkins?”
“Mr. Atkins, I regret to say,” began Brown, “is ill. He--”
Stover, standing at his elbow, interrupted nervously.
“Mr. Brown here'll show us around,” he said quickly. “Seth said he
would.”
“I shall be happy,” concurred that young gentleman. “You must excuse me
if I seem rather worried. Mr. Atkins, my chief--I believe you know him,
Mrs. Stover--has been taken suddenly ill, and is, apparently, suffering
much pain. The attack was very sudden, and I--”
“Sick?” The plump woman seemed actually to prick up her ears, like a
sleepy cat at the sound of the dinner bell. “Is Seth sick? And you all
alone with him here? Can't I do anything to help?”
“All he wants is to be left alone,” put in her husband anxiously. “He
said so himself.”
“Do you know what's the matter? Have you got any medicine for him?” Mrs.
Stover was already climbing out of the buggy.
“No,” replied Brown. “I haven't. That is, I haven't given him any yet.”
The slim woman, Mrs. Hains of Boston, now broke into the conversation.
“Good thing!” she snapped. “Most medicine's nothing but opium and
alcohol. Fill the poor creature full of drugs and--”
“I s'pose you'd set and preach New Thought at him!” snapped Mrs. Stover.
“As if a body could be cured by hot air! I believe I'll go right in and
see him. Don't you s'pose I could help, Mr. Brown?”
Mr. Brown seemed pleased, but reluctant. “It's awfully good of you,” he
said. “I couldn't think of troubling you when you've come so far on a
pleasure excursion. But I am at my wit s end.”
“Don't say another word!” Mrs. Stover's bulky figure was already on the
way to the door of the house. “I'm only too glad to do what I can. And,
if I do say it, that shouldn't, I'm always real handy in a sick room.
'Bijah, be quiet; I don't care if we ARE on a picnic; no human bein'
shall suffer while I set around and do nothin'.”
Mrs. Hains was at her cousin's heels.
“You'll worry him to death,” she declared. “You'll tell him how sick
he is, and that he's goin' to die, and such stuff. What he needs is
cheerful conversation and mental uplift. It's too bad! Well, you sha'n't
have your own way with him, anyhow. Mr. Brown, where is he?”
“You two goin' to march right into his BEDROOM?” screamed the irate
Abijah. The women answered not. They were already in the kitchen. Brown
hastened after them.
“It's all right, ladies,” he said. “Right this way, please.”
He led the way to the chamber of the sick man. Mr. Atkins turned on his
bed of pain, caught a glimpse of the visitors, and sat up.
“What in time?” he roared.
“Seth,” said Brown, benignly, “this is Mrs. Stover of Eastboro. I think
you know her. And Mrs. Hains of Boston. These ladies have heard of your
sickness, and, having had experience in such cases, have kindly offered
to stay with you and help in any way they can. Mrs. Stover, I will leave
him in your hands. Please call me if I can be of any assistance.”
Without waiting for further comment from the patient, whose face was a
picture, he hastened to the kitchen, choking as he went. Mr. Stover met
him at the outer door.
“Now you've done it!” wailed the little man. “NOW you've done it! Didn't
I tell you? Oh, this'll be a hell of a picnic!”
He stalked away, righteous indignation overcoming him. Brown sat down in
a rocking chair and shook with emotion. From the direction of the sick
room came the sounds of three voices, each trying to outscream the
other. The substitute assistant listened to this for a while, and, as he
did so, a new thought struck him. He remembered a story he had read in a
magazine years before. He crossed to the pantry, found an empty bottle,
rinsed it at the sink, stepped again to the pantry, and, entering it,
closed the door behind him. There he busied himself with the molasses
jug, the soft-soap bucket, the oil can, the pepper shaker, and a few
other utensils and their contents. Footsteps in the kitchen caused him
to hurriedly reenter that apartment. Mrs. Stover was standing by the
range, her face red.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Brown!” she exclaimed. “I wondered where you'd
gone to.”
“How is he?” inquired Brown, the keenest anxiety in his utterance.
“H'm! he'd do well enough if he had the right treatment. I cal'late he's
better now, even as 'tis; but, when a person has to lay and hear over
and over again that what ails 'em is nothin' but imagination, it ain't
to be wondered at that they get mad. What he needs is some sort of
soothin' medicine, and I only wish 'twan't so fur over to home. I've got
just what he needs there.”
“I was thinking--” began Brown.
“What was you thinkin'?”
“I was wondering if some of my 'Stomach Balm' wouldn't help him. It's
an old family receipt, handed down from the Indians, I believe. I always
have a bottle with me and . . . Still, I wouldn't prescribe, not knowing
the disease.”
Mrs. Stover's eyes sparkled. Patent medicines were her hobby.
“Hum!” she said. “'Stomach Balm' sounds good. And he says his trouble is
principally stomach. Some of them Indian medicines are mighty powerful.
Have you--did you say you had a bottle with you, Mr. Brown?”
The young man went again to the pantry and returned with the bottle he
had so recently found there. Now, however, it was two thirds full of
a black sticky mixture. Mrs. Stover removed the cork and took an
investigating sniff.
“It smells powerful,” she said, hopefully.
“It is. Would you like to taste it?” handing her a tablespoon. He
watched as she swallowed a spoonful.
“Ugh! oh!” she gasped; even her long suffering palate rebelled at THAT
taste. “It--I should think that OUGHT to help him.”
“I should think so. It may be the very thing he needs. At any rate, it
can't hurt him. It's quite harmless.”
Mrs. Stover's face was still twisted, under the influence of the “Balm”;
but her mind was made up.
“I'm goin' to try it,” she declared. “I don't care if every New
Thoughter in creation says no. He needs medicine and needs it right
away.”
“The dose,” said Mr. Brown, gravely, “is two tablespoonfuls every
fifteen minutes. I do hope it will help him. Give him my sympathy--my
deepest sympathy, Mrs. Stover, please.”
The plump lady disappeared in the direction of the sick room. The
substitute assistant lingered and listened. He heard a shrill pow-wow
of feminine voices. Evidently “New Thought” and the practice of medicine
had once more clashed. The argument waxed and waned. Followed the click
of a spoon against glass. And then came a gasp, a gurgle, a choking
yell; and high upon the salty air enveloping Eastboro Twin-Lights rose
the voice of Mr. Seth Atkins, expressing his opinion of the “Stomach
Balm” and those who administered it.
John Brown darted out of the kitchen, dodged around the corner of
the house, tiptoed past the bench by the bluff, where Mr. Stover sat
gloomily meditating, and ran lightly down the path to the creek and
the wharf. The boathouse at the end of the wharf offered a convenient
refuge. Into the building he darted, closed the door behind him, and
collapsed upon a heap of fish nets.
At three-thirty that afternoon, Mr. Atkins, apparently quite recovered,
was sitting in the kitchen rocker, reading a last week's newspaper, one
of a number procured on his most recent trip to the village. The Stovers
and their guest had departed. Their buggy was out of sight beyond the
dunes. A slight noise startled the lightkeeper, and he looked up. His
helper was standing in the doorway, upon his face an expression of
intense and delighted surprise.
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Brown. “What? Is it really you?”
Seth put down the paper and nodded.
“Um-hm,” he observed drily, “it's really me.”
“Up? and WELL?” queried Brown.
“Um-hm. Pretty well, considerin', thank you. Been for a stroll up
Washin'ton Street, have you? Or a little walk on the Common, maybe?”
The elaborate sarcasm of these questions was intended to be withering.
Mr. Brown, however, did not wither. Neither did he blush.
“I have been,” he said, “down at the boathouse. I knew you were in safe
hands and well looked after, so I went away. I couldn't remain here and
hear you suffer.”
“Hum! HEAR me suffer, hey? Much obliged, I'm sure. What have you been
doin' there all this time? I hoped you was--that is, I begun to be
afraid you was dead. Thought your sympathy for me had been too much for
you, maybe.”
Brown mournfully shook his head. “It was--almost,” he said, solemnly. “I
think I dropped asleep. I was quite overcome.”
“Hum! Better take a dose of that 'Stomach Balm,' hadn't you? That'll
liven you up, I'll guarantee.”
“No, thank you. The sight of you, well and strong again, is all the
medicine I need. We must keep the 'Balm' in case you have another
attack. By the way, I notice the dinner dishes haven't been washed. I'll
do them at once. I know you must be tired, after your illness--and the
exertion of showing your guests about the lights.”
Atkins did not answer, although he seemed to want to very much. However,
he made no objection when his helper, rolling up his sleeves, turned to
the sink and the dish washing.
Seth was silent all the rest of the afternoon and during supper. But
that evening, as Brown sat on the bench outside, Atkins joined him.
“Hello!” said Seth, as cheerfully as if nothing had happened.
“Hello!” replied the assistant, shortly. He had been thinking once more,
and his thoughts were not pleasant.
“I s'pose you cal'late,” began Atkins, “that maybe I've got a grudge
against you on account of this mornin' and that 'Balm' and such. I
ain't.”
“That's good. I'm glad to hear it.”
“Yes. After the fust dose of that stuff--for thunder sakes WHAT did you
put in it?--I was about ready to murder you, but I've got over that. I
don't blame you for gettin' even. We are even, you know.”
“I'm satisfied, if you are.”
“I be. But what I don't understand is why you didn't want to show them
folks around.”
“Oh, I don't know. I had my reasons, such as they were. Why didn't you
want to do it yourself?”
Seth crossed his legs and was silent for a moment or two. Then he spoke
firmly and as if his mind was made up.
“Young feller,” he said, “I don't know whether you realize it or not,
and perhaps I shouldn't be the one to mention it--but you're under some
obligations to me.”
His companion nodded. “I realize that,” he said.
“Yes, but maybe you don't realize the amount of the obligations. I'm
riskin' my job keepin' you here. If it wa'n't for the superintendent
bein' such a friend of mine, there'd have been a reg'lar assistant
keeper app'inted long ago. The gov'ment don't pick up its lightkeepers
same as you would farm hands. There's civil service to be gone through,
and the like of that. But you wanted to stay, and I've kept you, riskin'
my own job, as I said. And now I cal'late we'd better have a plain
understandin'. You've got to know just what your job is. I'm goin' to
tell you.”
He stopped, as if to let this sink in. Brown nodded again. “All right,”
he observed, carelessly; “go on and tell me; I'm listening.”
“Your job around the lights you know already, part of it. But there's
somethin' else. Whenever men folks come here, I'll do my share
of showin' the place off. But when women come--women, you
understand--you've got to be guide. I'll forgive you to-day's doin's. I
tried to play a joke on you, and you evened it up with a better one on
me. That's all right. But, after this, showin' the lights to females is
your job, and you've got to do it--or get out. No hard feelin's at all,
and I'd really hate to lose you, but THAT'S got to be as I say.”
He rose, evidently considering the affair settled. Brown caught his coat
and pulled him back to the bench.
“Wait, Atkins,” he said. “I'm grateful to you for your kindness, I like
you and I'd like to please you; but if what you say is final, then--as
they used to say in some play or other--'I guess you'll have to hire
another boy.'”
“What? You mean you'll quit?”
“Rather than do that--yes.”
“But why?”
“For reasons, as I told you. By the way, you haven't told me why you
object to acting as guide to--females.”
“Because they are females. They're women, darn 'em!”
Before his helper could comment on this declaration, it was repeated.
The lightkeeper shook both his big fists in the air.
“Darn 'em! Darn all the women!” shouted Seth Atkins.
“Amen,” said John Brown, devoutly.
Seth's fists dropped into his lap. “What?” he cried; “what did you say?”
“I said Amen.”
“But--but . . . why . . . you didn't mean it!”
“Didn't I?” bitterly. “Humph!”
Seth breathed heavily, started to speak once more, closed his lips on
the words, rose, walked away a few paces, returned, and sat down.
“John Brown,” he said, solemnly, “if you're jokin', the powers forgive
you, for I won't. If you ain't, I--I . . . See here, do you remember
what you asked me that night when you struck me for the assistant
keeper's job? You asked me if I was married?”
Brown assented wonderingly. “Why, yes,” he said, “I believe I did.”
“You did. And I ain't been so shook up for many a day. Young feller,
I'm goin' to tell you what no other man in Ostable County knows. I AM
married. I've got a wife livin'.”