“Well, it’s all over now,” said Tom comfortingly. “Where do you live?”
“Over yonder, young man,” replied the hermit, pointing to the ocean side of the point.
“We will take you home. You lie down for a while and you will feel better,” Ruth said soothingly. “We will come back here afterward and get your skiff ashore.”
“Thank you, Miss,” said the man courteously.
“I’ll make those fellows who played the trick on you get the boat ashore,” promised Tom, running for his shoes and sweater.
The hermit proved to be a very uncommunicative person. Ruth tried to get him to talk about himself as they crossed the rocky spit, but all that he said of a personal nature was that his name was “John.”
His shack was certainly a lonely looking hovel. It faced the tumbling Atlantic and it seemed rather an odd thing to Ruth that a man who was so afraid of the sea should have selected such a spot for his home.
The hermit did not invite them to enter his abode. He promised Ruth that he would make a hot drink for himself and remove his wet garments and lie down. But he only seemed moderately grateful for their assistance, and shut the door of the shack promptly in their faces when he got inside.
“Just as friendly as a sore-headed dog,” remarked Tom, as they went back to the bay side of the Point.
“Perhaps the others have played so many tricks on him that he is suspicious of even our assistance,” Ruth said.