The Woman-Haters — Inside the Classic

is superior had quarreled two days before. The quarrel was the culmination, on Ezra's part, of a gradually developing “grouch” brought on by the loneliness of his surroundings. After a night of duty he had marched into the house, packed his belongings in a battered canvas extension case, and announced his intention of resigning from the service.

“To the everlastin' brimstone with the job!” he snarled, addressing Mr. Atkins, who, partially dressed, emerged from the bedroom in bewilderment and sleepy astonishment. “To thunder with it, I say! I've had all the gov'ment jobs I want. Life-savin' service was bad enough, trampin' the condemned beach in a howlin' no'theaster, with the sand cuttin' furrers in your face, and the icicles on your mustache so heavy you got round-shouldered luggin' 'em. But when your tramp was over, you had somebody to talk to. Here, by godfreys! there ain't nothin' nor nobody. I'm goin' fishin' again, where I can be sociable.”

“Humph!” commented Seth, “you must be lonesome all to once. Ain't my company good enough for you?”

“Company! A heap of company you are! When I'm awake you're asleep and snorin' and--”

“I never snored in my life,” was the indignant interruption

“What? YOU'LL snore when you're dead, and wake up the whole graveyard. Lonesome!” he continued, without giving his companion a chance to retort, “lonesome ain't no name for this place. No company but green flies and them moskeeters, and nothin' to look at but salt water and sand and--and--dummed if I can think of anything else. Five miles from town and the only house in sight shut tight. When I come here you told me that bungalow was opened up every year--”

“So it has been till this season.”

“And that picnics come here every once in a while.”

“Don't expect picnickers to be such crazy loons as to come here in winter time, do you?”

“I don't know. If they're fools enough to come here ANY time, I wouldn't be responsible for 'em. There ain't so many moskeeters in winter. But just LOOK at this hole. Just put on your specs and LOOK at it! Not a man--but you--not a woman, not a child, not a girl--”

“Ah ha! ah ha! NOW we're gettin' at it! Not a girl! That's what's the matter with you. You want to be up in the village, where you can go courtin'. You're too fur from Elsie Peters, that's where the shoe pinches. I've heard how you used to set out in her dad's backyard, with your arm round her waist, lookin' at each other, mushy as a couple of sassers of hasty-puddin'. Bah! I'll take care my next assistant ain't girl-struck.”

“Girl-struck! I'd enough sight ruther be girl-struck than always ravin' and rippin' against females. And all because some woman way back in Methusalem's time had sense enough to heave you over. At least, that's what everybody cal'lates must be the reason. You pretend to be a woman-hater. All round this part of the Cape you've took pains to get up that kind of reputation; but--”

“There ain't no pretendin' about it. I've got brains enough to keep clear of petticoats. And when you get to be as old as I be and know as much as I do--though that ain't no ways likely, even if you live to be nine hundred and odd, like Noah in Scripture--you'll feel the same way.”

“Aw, come off! Woman-hater! You hate women same as the boy at the poorhouse hated ice cream--'cause there ain't none around. Why, I wouldn't trust you as fur as I could see you!”

This was the end of the dialogue, because Mr. Payne was obliged to break off his harangue and dodge the stove-lifter flung at him by the outraged lightkeeper. As the lifter was about to be followed by the teakettle, Ezra took to his heels, bolted from the house and began his long tramp to the village. When he reached the first clumps of bayberry bushes bordering the deeply rutted road, a joyful cloud of mosquitoes rose and settled about him like a fog.

So Seth Atkins was left alone to do double duty at Eastboro Twin-Lights, pending the appointment of another assistant. The two days and nights following Ezra's departure had been strenuous and provoking. Doing all the housework, preparation of meals included, tending both lights, rubbing brass work, sweeping and scouring, sleeping when he could and keeping awake when he must, nobody to talk to, nobody to help--the forty-eight hours of solitude had already convinced Mr. Atkins that the sooner a helper was provided the better. At times he even wished the disrespectful Payne back again, wished that he had soothed instead of irritated the departed one. Then he remembered certain fragments of their last conversation and wished the stove-lifter had been flung with better aim.

Now, standing on the gallery of the south tower, he was conscious of a desire for breakfast. Preparing that meal had been a part of his assistant's duties. Now he must prepare it himself, and he was hungry and sleepy. He mentally vowed that he would no longer delay notifying the authorities of the desertion, and would urge them to hurry in sending some one to fill the vacant place.

Grumbling aloud to himself, he moved around the circle of the gallery toward the door. His hand was on the latch, when, turning, he cast another glance over the rail, this time directly downward toward the beach below. And there he saw something which caused him to forget hunger and grievances of all kinds; something which, after one horrified look to make sure, led him to dart into the light chamber, spring at a reckless gait down the winding stair, out of the tower, rush to the edge of the bluff, and plunge headlong down the zigzag path worn in the clay.

On the sand, at the foot of the bluff below the lights, just beyond reach of the wash of the surf, lay a man, or the dead body of a man, stretched at full length.

Once before, during his years of service as keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights, had Seth seen such a sight as that which now caused him to make his dash for the shore. Once before, after the terrible storm of 1905, when the great steamer Bay Queen went down with all on board, the exact spot of her sinking unknown even to this day. Then the whole ocean side of the Cape, from Race Point to Orham, was strewn with ghastly relics. But the Bay Queen met her fate in the winter season, amid a gale such as even the oldest residents could not remember. Now it was early summer; the night before had been a flat calm. There had been no wreck, or the lifesavers would have told him of it. There would be no excuse for a wreck, anyway.

All this, in disjointed fragments, passed through the lightkeeper's mind as he descended the path in frantic bounds and plowed through the ankle-deep white sand of the beach. As he approached the recumbent figure he yelled a panted “Hi, there!” He did not expect the hail to be answered or even noticed. Therefore, he was pleasantly disappointed when the figure rolled over, raised itself on one elbow, looked at him in a dazed sort of way and replied cheerfully but faintly, “Hello!”

Seth stopped short, put a hand to the breast of his blue flannel shirt, and breathed a mighty sigh of relief.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed with fervor. Then, changing his labored gallop for a walk, he continued his progress toward the man, who, as if his momentary curiosity was satisfied, lay down again. He did not rise when the lightkeeper reached his side, but remained quiet, looking up from a pair of gray eyes and smiling slightly with lips that were blue. He was a stranger to Atkins, a young fellow, rather good looking, dressed in blue serge trousers, negligee shirt, blue socks, and without shoes or hat. His garments were soaked, and the salt water dripped from his shoulders to the sand. The lightkeeper stared at him, and he returned the stare.

“Gosh!” repeated Seth, after an instant of silence. “Jiminy crimps! I feel better.”

The stranger's smile broadened. “Glad to hear it, I'm sure,” he said, slowly. “So do I, though there's still room for improvement. What was your particular ailment? Mine seems to have been water on the brain.”

He sat up and shakily ran a hand through his wet hair as he spoke. Atkins, his surprise doubled by this extraordinary behavior, could think of nothing to say.

“Good morning,” continued the young man, as if the meeting had been the most casual and ordinary possible; “I think you said a moment ago that you were feeling better. No relapse, I trust.”

“Relapse? What in the world? Are you crazy? I ain't sick.”

“That's good. I must have misunderstood you. Pleasant morning, isn't it?

“Pleasant morn--Why, say! I--I--what in time are you doin', layin' there all soaked through? You scared me pretty nigh to death. I thought you was drowned, sure and sartin.”

“Did you? Well, to be honest, so did I, for a while. In fact, I'm not absolutely sure that I'm not, even yet. You'll excuse me if I lie down again, won't you? I never tried a seaweed pillow before, but it isn't so bad.”

He again stretched himself on the sand. Seth shook his head.

“Well, if this don't beat me!” he exclaimed. “You're the coolest critter that ever I--I--”

“I am cool,” admitted the young man, with a slight shiver. “This stretch of ocean here isn't exactly a Turkish bath. I've been swimming since--well, an hour or two ago, and I am just a little chilled.”

“Swimmin'! An hour or two? Where on earth did you come from?”

“Oh, I fell overboard from a steamer off here somewhere. I--”

Another and emphatic shiver caused him to pause. The lightkeeper awoke to the realities of the situation.

“Good land of love!” he exclaimed. “What am I thinkin' of? Seein' you this way, and you talkin' so kind of every-day and funny drove my senses clean out, I guess. Get right up off that wet place this minute. Come up to the house, quick! Can you walk?”

“Don't know. I am willing to try. Would you mind giving me a lift?”

Seth didn't mind, which was fortunate, as his new acquaintance couldn't have risen unaided. His knees shook under him when he stood erect, and he leaned heavily on the lightkeeper's arm.

“Steady now,” counselled Atkins; “no hurry. Take it easy. If you've navigated water all alone for hours, I cal'late between us we can manage to make a five-minute cruise on dry land. . . . Even if the course we steer would make an eel lame tryin' to follow it,” he added, as the castaway staggered and reeled up the beach. “Now don't try to talk. Let your tongue rest and give your feet a chance.”

The climbing of the steep bluff was a struggle, but they accomplished it, and at length the stranger was seated in a chair in the kitchen.

“Now, the fust thing,” observed Seth, “is to get them wet clothes off you. Usually I'd have a good fire here, but that miserable Ezry has--that is, my assistant's left me, and I have to go it alone, as you might say. So we'll get you to bed and . . . No, you can't undress yourself, neither. Set still, and I'll have you peeled in a jiffy.”

His guest was making feeble efforts to remove his socks. Atkins pushed him back into the chair and stripped the blue and dripping rags from feet which were almost as blue from cold. The castaway attempted a weak resistance, but gave it up and said, with a whimsical smile:

“I'm mightily obliged to you. I never realized before that a valet was such a blessing. Most of mine have been confounded nuisances.”

“Hey?” queried Seth, looking up.

“Nothing. Pardon me for comparing you with a valet.”

“Land sakes! I don't care what you call me. I was out of my head once myself--typhoid fever 'twas--and they say the things I called the doctor was somethin' scandalous. You ain't responsible. You're beat out, and your brain's weak, like the rest of you. Now hold on till I get you a nightgown.”

He started for the bedroom. The young man seemed a bit troubled.

“Just a minute,” he observed. “Don't you think I had better move to a less conspicuous apartment? The door is open, and if any of your neighbors should happen by--any ladies, for instance, I--”

“Ladies!” Mr. Atkins regarded him frowningly. “In the fust place, there ain't a neighbor nigher'n four miles; and, in the next, I'd have you understand no women come to this house. If you knew me better, young feller, you'd know that. Set where you be.”

The nightshirt was one of the lightkeeper's own, and, although Seth was a good-sized man, it fitted the castaway almost too tightly for comfort. However, it was dry and warm and, by leaving a button or two unfastened at the neck, answered the purpose well enough. The stranger was piloted to the bedroom, assisted into the depths of a feather bed, and covered with several layers of blankets and patchwork quilts.

“There!” observed Seth, contentedly, “now you go to sleep. If you get to sweatin', so much the better. 'Twill get some of that cold water out of you. So long!”

He departed, closing the door after him. Then he built a fire in the range, got breakfast, ate it, washed the dishes and continued his forenoon's work. Not a sound from the bedroom. Evidently the strange arrival had taken the advice concerning going to sleep. But all the time he was washing dishes, rubbing brass work or sweeping, Mr. Atkins's mind was busy with the puzzle which fate had handed him. Occasionally he chuckled, and often he shook his head. He could make nothing out of it. One thing only was certain--he had never before met a human being exactly like this specimen.

It was half past twelve before there were signs of life in the bedroom. Seth was setting the table for dinner, when the door of the room opened a little way, and a voice said:

“I say, are you there?”

“I be. What do you want?”

“Would you mind telling me what you've done with my clothes?”

“Not a bit. I've got 'em out on the line, and they ain't dry yet. If you'll look on the chair by the sou'west window you'll find a rig-out of mine. I'm afraid 'twill fit you too quick--you're such an elephant--but I'll risk it if you will.”

Apparently the stranger was willing to risk it, for in a few moments he appeared, dressed in the Atkins Sunday suit of blue cloth, and with Seth's pet carpet slippers on his feet.

“Hello!” was the lightkeeper's greeting. “How you feelin'?--better?”

“Tip top, thank you. Where do you wash, when it's necessary?”

“Basin right there in the sink. Soap in the becket over top of it. Roller towel on the closet door. Ain't you had water enough for a spell?”

“Not fresh water, thank you. I'm caked with salt from head to foot.”

“Does make a feller feel like a split herrin', if he ain't used to it. Think you can eat anything?”

“Can I?” The response was enthusiastic. “You watch me! My last meal was yesterday noon.”

“Yesterday NOON! Didn't you eat no supper?”

“Well, I--well, to be frank, because I hadn't the price. It took my last cent to pay my fare on that blessed steamer.”

“Great land of love! What time was it when you fell overboard?”

“Oh, I don't know. Two o'clock, perhaps.”

“Two o'clock! What was you doin' up at two o'clock? Why wasn't you in your stateroom asleep?”

“I hadn't any stateroom. Staterooms cost money.”

“My soul! And you swum three hours on an empty stomach?”

“Not altogether. Part of it on my back. But, if you'll excuse familiarity on short acquaintance, those things you're cooking smell good to me.”

“Them's clam fritters, and, if YOU'LL excuse my sayin' so that shouldn't, they ARE good. Set down and fill up.”

The visitor ate nine of the fritters, a slice of dried-apple pie, and drank two cups of coffee. Seth, between intervals of frying and eating, watched him with tremendous curiosity and as much patience as he could muster. When the pie was finished he asked the first of the questions with which he had been bursting all the forenoon.

“Tell me,” he said, “how'd you come to fall overboard?”

“I'm not very certain just how it happened. I remember leaning over the rail and watching the waves. Then I was very dizzy all at once. The next thing I knew I was in the water.”

“Dizzy, hey? Seasick, may be.”

“I guess not. I'm a pretty good sailor. I'm inclined to think the cause was that empty stomach you mentioned.”

“Um-hm. You didn't have no supper. Still, you ate the noon afore.”

“Not much. Only a sandwich.”

“A sandwich! What did you have for breakfast?”

“Well, the fact is, I overslept and decided to omit the breakfast.”

“Gosh! no wonder you got dizzy. If I went without meals for a whole day I cal'late I'd be worse than dizzy. What did you do when you found yourself in the water?”

“Yelled at first, but no one heard me. Then I saw some lights off in this direction and started to swim for them. I made the shore finally, but I was so used up that I don't remember anything after the landing. Think I took a nap.”

“I presume likely. Wonder 'twasn't your everlastin' nap! Tut! tut! tut! Think of it!”

“I don't want to, thank you. It isn't pleasant enough to think of. I'm here and--by the way, where IS here?”

“This is Eastboro township--Eastboro, Cape Cod. Them lights out there are Eastboro Twin-Lights. I'm the keeper of 'em. My name's Atkins, Seth Atkins.”

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Atkins. And tremendously obliged to you, besides.”

“You needn't be. I ain't done nothin'. Let me see, you said your name was--”

“Did I?” The young man seemed startled, almost alarmed. “When?”

Seth was embarrassed, but not much. “Well,” he admitted, “I don't know's you did say it, come to think of it. What IS your name?”

“Oh, why--my name is Brown--er--John Brown. Not the gentleman who was hanged, of course; distant relative, that's all.”

“Hum! John Brown, hey? What steamer did you fall off of?”

“Why--why--I can't seem to remember. That's odd, isn't it?”

“Yes, I should say 'twas. Where was she bound?”

“Bound? Oh, you mean where was she going?”

“I think--I think she was going to--to. . . . Humph! how strange this is!”

“Why, that I should forget all these things.”

The lightkeeper regarded his guest with suspicion.

“Yaas,” he drawled slowly, “when you call it strange you ain't exaggeratin' none wuth mentionin'. I s'pose,” he added, after a moment, during which he stared intently at Mr. Brown, who smiled in polite acknowledgment of the stare; “I s'pose likely you couldn't possibly remember what port you hailed from?”

“I suppose not,” was the calm reply.

Seth rose from the table.

“Well,” he observed, “I've been up all night, too, and it's past my bedtime. As I told you, my assistant's left all of a sudden and I'm alone in charge of gov'ment property. I ought to turn in, but--” he hesitated.

John Brown also rose.

“Mr. Atkins,” he said, “my memory seems to be pretty bad, but I haven't forgotten everything. For instance,” his smile disappeared, and his tone became earnest, “I can remember perfectly well that I'm not a crook, that I haven't done anything to be ashamed of--as I see it--that I'm very grateful to you, and that I don't steal. If you care to believe that and, also, that, being neither a sneak or a thief, I sha'n't clear out with the spoons while you're asleep, you might--well, you might risk turning in.”

The lightkeeper did not answer immediately. The pair looked each other straight in the eye.

Then Seth yawned and turned toward the bedroom.

“I'll risk it,” he said, curtly. “If I ain't awake by six o'clock I wish you'd call me. You'll find some spare clay pipes and tobacco on the mantelpiece by the clock. So long.”

He entered the bedroom and closed the door. Mr. Brown stepped over to the mantel and helped himself to a pipe.

MR. BROWN PUTS IN AN APPLICATION