Tom Lute was whirling a grindstone by candle-light in the shed. When Bob Likely lifted the latch and pushed in he was interrupted and startled.
"Who's that?" he demanded.
"'Tis His Majesty's Mail, Tom."
"That you, Bob?" Tom's drawn face lightened with heartiness. "Well, well! Come in. You're welcome. We've need of a lusty man in this house the night. If the thing haves t' be done, Bob, you'll come handy for holdin'. You come across from Candlestick?"
Bob threw off his pack.
"No," said he, "I come over from Point o' Bay."
"Up from Laughter Bight, Bob?"
"All the way."
"Any word o' Doctor Luke down north?"
"Ay; he's down north somewheres."