“Oh, just a helper. I don't get any wages. You've told me yourself, over and over, that I have no regular standing here. And, according to the government rules, those you've got posted in the kitchen, the lightkeeper is obliged to show visitors about. I wouldn't break the rules for the world. Good morning. Think I'll go down to the beach.”
He stalked away whistling. Atkins, his face flaming, roared after him a profane opinion concerning his actions. Then he went into the kitchen, slamming the door with a bang.
Some twenty minutes later the helper heard his name shouted from the top of the bluff.
“Mr. Brown! I say! Ahoy there, Mr. Brown! Come up here a minute, won't ye?”
Brown clambered up the path. A little man, with grey throat whiskers, and wearing an antiquated straw hat, the edge of the brim trimmed with black braid, was standing waiting for him.
“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brown,” stammered the little man, “but you be Mr. Brown, ain't you?”
“I am. Yes.”
“Well, I cal'lated you was. My name's Stover, Abijah Stover. I live over to Trumet. Me and my wife drove over for a sort of picnic like. We've got her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along. Sophi's a widow from Boston, and she ain't never seen a lighthouse afore. I know Seth Atkins slightly, and I was cal'latin' he'd show us around, but bein' as he's so sick—”
“Sick? Is Mr. Atkins sick?”
“Why, yes. Didn't you know it? He's in the bedroom there groanin' somethin' terrible. He told me not to say nothin' to the women folks, but to hail you, and you'd look out for us. Didn't you know he was laid up? Why, he—”