so," he said. "I used twenty-two matches, by actual count, and then gave it up. Bah!" he smacked his lips disgustedly and made a face: "'Honest Friend'—is that the name of it? Meaning that it'll stick to you through life, I presume. Water has no effect on the taste; I've tried it."

"Maybe some supper might help. I'll wash the dinner dishes and start gettin' it. All there seems to be to this job of mine just now is washin' dishes. And how I hate it!"

He reentered the kitchen. Then he uttered an exclamation:

"Why, what's become of the dishes?" he demanded. "I left 'em here on the table."

Brown arose from the bench and sauntered to the door.

"I washed them," he said. "I judged that you would have to if I didn't, and it seemed the least I could do, everything considered."

"Sho! You washed the dishes, hey? Where'd you put 'em?"

"In the closet there. That's where they belong, isn't it?"

Seth went to the closet, took a plate from the pile and inspected it.

"Um!" he grunted, turning the plate over, "that ain't such a bad job. Not so all-fired bad, for a green hand. What did you wash 'em with?"

"A cloth I found hanging by the sink."

"I see. Yes, yes. And you wiped 'em on—what?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't see any towels in sight, except that one on the door; and, for various reasons, I judged that wasn't a dish towel."

"Good judgment. 'Tisn't. Go on."

"So I hunted around, and in the closet in the parlor, or living room, or whatever you call it, I found a whole stack of things that looked like towels; so I used one of those."

"Is this it?" Seth picked up a damp and bedraggled cloth from the table.

"That's it. I should have hung it up somewhere, I suppose. I'll lose my job if I don't look out."

"Um! Well, I'm much obliged to you, only—"

"Only?"

"Only you washed them dishes with the sink cloth and wiped 'em with a piller case."

The volunteer dishwasher's mouth opened.

"NO!" he gasped.

"Ya-as."

"A pillow case! Well, by George!"

"Um-hm. I jedge you ain't washed many dishes in your lifetime."

"Not so very many. No."

They looked at each other and burst into a roar of laughter. Brown was the first to recover.

"Well," he observed, "I guess it's up to me. If you'll kindly put me next to a genuine cloth, or sponge, or whatever is the proper caper for dish-washing, I'll undertake to do them over again. And, for heaven's sake, lock up the pillow cases."

Seth protested, declaring that the dishes need not be rewashed that very minute, and that when he got a chance he would do them himself. But the young man was firm, and, at last, the lightkeeper yielded.

"It's real kind of you," he declared, "and bein' as I've consider'ble to do, I don't know but I'll let you. Here's a couple of dishcloths, and there's the towels. I'm goin' out to see to the lights, and I'll be back pretty soon and get supper."

Later in the evening, after supper, the housework done, they sat again on the bench beside the door, each with a pipe, filled, this time, with genuine smoking tobacco. Before and below them was the quiet sea, rolling lazily under the stars. Overhead the big lanterns in the towers thrust their parallel lances of light afar into the darkness. The only sounds were the low wash of the surf and the hum of the eager mosquitoes. Brown was silent, alternately puffing at the pipe and slapping at the insects, which latter, apparently finding his skin easier to puncture than that of the tanned and leathery Atkins, were making the most of their opportunity.

Seth, whose curiosity had been checked but not smothered by his companion's evident desire to say nothing concerning himself, was busy thinking of various guileful schemes with which to entrap the castaway into the disclosure of his identity. Having prepared his bait, he proceeded to get over a line.

"Mr. Brown," he said, "I ain't mentioned it to you afore, 'count of your needin' rest and grub and all after your fallin' overboard last night. But tomorrer you'll be feelin' fustrate again, and I cal'late you'll be wantin' to get word to your folks. Now we can telephone to the Eastboro depot, where there's a telegraph, and the depot master'll send a dispatch to your people, lettin' 'em know you're all safe and sound. If you'll just give me the address and what you want to say, I'll 'tend to it myself. The depot master's a good friend of mine, and he'll risk sending the dispatch 'collect' if I tell him to."

"Thank you," replied Brown, shortly.

"Oh, don't mention it. Now who'll I send it to?"

"You needn't send it. I couldn't think of putting you to further trouble."

"Trouble! 'Tain't no trouble to telephone. Land sakes, I do it four or five times a day. Now who'll I send it to?"

"You needn't send it."

"Oh, well, of course, if you'd ruther send it yourself—"

"I sha'n't send it. It really isn't worth while 'phoning or telegraphing either. I didn't drown, and I'm very comfortable, thank you—or should be if it weren't for these mosquitoes."

"Comf'table! Yes, you're comf'table, but how about your folks? Won't they learn, soon's that steamer gets into—into Portland—or—or—New York or Boston—or . . . Hey?"

"I didn't speak."

Seth swallowed hard and continued. "Well, wherever she was bound," he snapped. "Won't they learn that you sot sail in her and never got there? Then they'll know that you MUST have fell overboard."

John Brown drew a mouthful of smoke through the stem of the pipe and blew it spitefully among the mosquitoes.

"I don't see how they'll learn it," he replied.

"Why, the steamer folks'll wire em right off."

"They'll have to find them first."

"That'll be easy enough. There'll be your name, 'John Brown,' of such and such a place, written right on the purser's book, won't it."

"No," drawled Mr. Brown, "it won't."

The lightkeeper felt very much as if this particular road to the truth had ended suddenly in a blind alley. He pulled viciously at his chin whiskers. His companion shifted his position on the bench. Silence fell again, as much silence as the mosquitoes would permit.

Suddenly Brown seemed to reach a determination.

"Atkins," he said briskly, and with considerable bitterness in his tone, "don't you worry about my people. They don't know where I am, and—well, some of them, at least, don't care. Maybe I'm a rolling stone—at any rate, I haven't gathered any moss, any financial moss. I'm broke. I haven't any friends, any that I wish to remember; I haven't any job. I am what you might call down and out. If I had drowned when I fell overboard last night, it might have been a good thing—or it might not. We won't argue the question, because just now I'm ready to take either side. But let's talk about yourself. You're lightkeeper here?"

"I be, yes."

"And these particular lights seem to be a good way from everywhere and everybody."

"Five mile from Eastboro Center, sixteen from Denboro, and two from the nighest life savin' station. Why?"

"Oh, just for instance. No neighbors, you said?"

"Nary one."

"I noticed a bungalow just across the brook here. It seems to be shut up. Who owns it?"

"Bunga—which? Oh, that cottage over on t'other side the crick? That b'longs to a couple of paintin' fellers from up Boston way. Not house painters, you understand, but fellers that put in their time paintin' pictures of the water and the beach and the like of that. Seems a pretty silly job for grown-up men, but they're real pleasant and folksy. Don't put on no airs nor nothin.' They're most gen'rally here every June and July and August, but I understand they ain't comin' this year, so the cottage'll be shut up. I'll miss 'em, kind of. One of 'em's name is Graham and t'other's Hamilton."

"I see. Many visitors to the lights?"

"Not many. Once in a while a picnic comes over in a livery four-seater, but not