"I suppose you think they just light the lantern when they have a mind to and then snore all night long?"
"N-no, of course they can't," the Eel replied, humbly, "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose they have to keep watch."
"You bet they do," Eric said emphatically, "and a mighty close watch at that. And when it comes to discipline—the Lighthouse Service has every civilian organization in America beaten to a frazzle."
"I didn't know it was so strict."
"Strict! Carelessness means dishonorable dismissal, right off the bat! Not that there's ever much chance of such a thing ever being needed. The Commissioner has built up such a sense of pride in the service that a chap would do anything rather than neglect his duty. I'll tell you a story of a woman light-keeper, a woman, mind you, Eel, that'll show you. You know Angel Island?"
"Right here in San Francisco Bay?"
"That's the one. You know that there's a light and a fog signal there?"
"I hadn't ever thought of it," the other replied. "Yes, I guess there is."
"There's a new fog-horn on that point now, Eel, but when I was quite a small shaver, in 1906, the fog signal was a bell, rung with a clapper. In July of that year the clapper broke and couldn't be used. A heavy fog came down and blanketed the island so that you couldn't see anything a foot away. That woman light-keeper stood there with a watch in one hand and a nail-hammer in the other and struck that bell once every twenty seconds for twenty hours and thirty-five minutes until the fog lifted. She didn't stop for meals or sleep. Two days later, the bell not having yet been fixed, another fog came down at night and she did the same thing the whole night long. That's what I call being on the job!"
"Yes," the Eel agreed with admiration, "you can't beat that, anywhere."