Here a sharp, quick knock sounded on the outer door, and in stalked Captain Bob Brandt, six feet or more of wet oilskins, the rain dripping from his sou’wester, his rosy, good-natured face peering out from under the puckered brim.
“Cap’n Joe sent me down to the station for ye, sir, in case ye come, but I missed ye, somehow. Mr. Carleton was on the platform, an’ said he see ye git off. Guess ye must ’a’ come cross lots.”
“Did Mr. Carleton mention anything about receiving a telegram from me, saying I wanted to see him?” inquired Sanford, as he shook the skipper’s hand.
“Yes, sir; said he knew yer was comin’, but that he was goin’ over to Medford till the storm was over.”
Sanford’s brow knit. Carleton had evidently avoided him.
“Did he leave any message or letter with Captain Joe?” Sanford asked, after a pause. He still hoped that the coveted certificate had finally been signed.
“Guess not, sir. Don’t think he see ’im. I suppose ye know Cap’n Joe’s gone to the Ledge with the new pump?”
“Not in this storm?” cried Sanford, a look of alarm overspreading his face.
“Yes, sir, half an hour ago, in Cap’n Potts’ Dolly. I watched ’em till they run under the P’int, then I come for you; guess that’s what got me late. She was under double reefs then, an’ a-smashin’ things for all she was worth. I tell ye, ’t ain’t no good place out there for nobody, not even Cap’n Joe.” As he spoke he took off his hat and thrashed the water from it against the jamb of the door. “No, thank ye, ma’am,” with a wave of his hand in answer to Mrs. Bell’s gesture to sit down opposite Betty. “I had breakfast ’board the Screamer.”
“Who’s with him?” exclaimed Sanford, now really uneasy. Captain Joe’s personal safety was worth more to him than the completion of a dozen lighthouses.