They reached the platform through a small door, and as the girls stepped out upon it they felt almost as if they were stepping out into space.
The water seemed unbelievably far away, farther a good deal than it actually was, and Billie did not dare look down very long for fear of becoming dizzy.
It was almost half an hour before Uncle Tom finally succeeded in luring them away from the platform, and then the whole crowd of girls went reluctantly.
They went downstairs with Uncle Tom and listened to his yarns, with Bruce curled happily up at his master’s feet, until the thought of the clam chowder he had promised them became insistent and Connie asked him pointblank whether he had forgotten all about it.
Uncle Tom indignantly denied the latter imputation, and set about preparing the chowder immediately, the girls offering eager but inexperienced help. Bruce tried to help, too, but only succeeded, as usual, in getting himself in the way.
And after that came bliss! The girls succeeded in devouring a huge pot of delicious chowder—it was better than that they had had the night before, because it was freshly made—and it was after three o’clock before they finally tore themselves from the lighthouse and Uncle Tom and started for the Danvers' bungalow.
“Come again and come often,” he called after them in his megaphone voice, one hand stroking Bruce’s beautiful head as the big dog stood beside him.
“We will,” they answered happily.
“Especially if you give us clam chowder every time,” Billie laughed back at him over her shoulder. “Good-bye, Bruce.” She turned once more before they lost sight of the lighthouse keeper, and there he was, towering in the doorway, his dog at his side, smoking his corn cob pipe and gazing thoughtfully out to sea.
“I don’t wonder you love him, Connie,” she said, shading her eyes with her hand, for the brilliant sunshine made her blink. “I think he’s wonderful. He’s like—like—somebody out of a book.”