“Five mile from Eastboro Center, sixteen from Denboro, and two from the nighest life savin' station. Why?”
“Oh, just for instance. No neighbors, you said?”
“Nary one.”
“I noticed a bungalow just across the brook here. It seems to be shut up. Who owns it?”
“Bunga—which? Oh, that cottage over on t'other side the crick? That b'longs to a couple of paintin' fellers from up Boston way. Not house painters, you understand, but fellers that put in their time paintin' pictures of the water and the beach and the like of that. Seems a pretty silly job for grown-up men, but they're real pleasant and folksy. Don't put on no airs nor nothin.' They're most gen'rally here every June and July and August, but I understand they ain't comin' this year, so the cottage'll be shut up. I'll miss 'em, kind of. One of 'em's name is Graham and t'other's Hamilton.”
“I see. Many visitors to the lights?”
“Not many. Once in a while a picnic comes over in a livery four-seater, but not often. The same gang never comes twice. Road's too bad, and they complain like fury about the moskeeters.”
“Do they? How peevish! Atkins, you're not married?”
It was an innocent question, but it had an astonishing effect. The lightkeeper bounced on the bench as if someone had kicked it violently from beneath.
“What?” he quavered shrilly. “Wha—what's that?”