Brown looked up. Seth Atkins, a paint pail in one hand and a dripping brush in the other, was standing beside him, blank astonishment written on his features.
“Well—by time!” said Seth again, and with even stronger emphasis.
The substitute assistant raised himself to his knees, rubbed his back with one hand, and then, turning, sat in the sand and returned his superior's astonished gaze with one of equal bewilderment.
“Hello!” he gasped. “Well, by George! it's you, isn't it! What are you doing here?”
The lightkeeper put down the pail of paint.
“What am I doin'?” he repeated. “What am I doin'—? Say!” His astonishment changed to suspicion and wrath. “Never you mind what I'm doin',” he went on. “That's my affairs. What are YOU doin' here? That's what I want to know.”
Brown rubbed the sand out of his hair.
“I don't know exactly what I am doing—yet,” he panted.
“You don't, hey? Well, you'd better find out. Maybe I can help you to remember. Sneakin' after me, wa'n't you? Spyin', to find out what I was up to, hey?”
He shook the wet paint brush angrily at his helper. Brown looked at him for an instant; then he rose to his feet.