CHAPTER XIII.
A DISABLED CREW.
The tears nearly blinded the lad as he lighted the lamp, started the clock, and watched to make certain it was running smoothly. Then he raised the wick until the flame was of the same size as Captain Eph had said was required to get the greatest amount of light without danger of smoke, and, closing the door of the lantern softly lest the echoes should be aroused, crept down to the kitchen.
Here he lighted a small lamp; raked out the ashes from the fire, put on fresh coal, and then stood in the middle of the room asking himself if it was possible he could stay there alone all night.
"That's a foolish question," he said, speaking aloud as if to hear the sound of his own voice. "I've got to stay, because I couldn't go away if I was willing to leave the light alone. It isn't likely any of them will be back before morning, and I'd be ashamed to confess that I'd made a baby of myself at a time when it is possible to be of some service to those who have been so kind to me."
It was as if this little self-lecture did him good, for his face was brighter when he ascended the stairs to make certain the lamp was burning at its best.
Then back to the kitchen, where he put the dishes on the table so that a meal might be made ready quickly, if it so chanced that the keepers succeeded in gaining the ledge before another day had come. The coffee pot, full as when Uncle Zenas left it, was set on the back of the stove, and then he forced himself to eat a little.
"I'll go into the lantern every half-hour till sunrise," he said aloud. "There's no danger I shall feel like going to sleep while I'm here alone, and climbing the stairs so often will take up just so much of the time."
As he had said, so he did; but yet the hours passed so slowly that at times it really seemed as if the hands of the clock stood still. He tried in vain to read; but the words danced before his eyes, and he found himself listening to the moaning of the wind, instead of taking heed to that which was before him.
At eight o'clock it seemed as if the night must have passed, and from then until nine, each second was as a minute. It was hardly more than bed-time; eight more hours must elapse before a new day dawned, and there would be such a long, dreary time of waiting.