They called him "the howler," for, when he was drunk—which he invariably was an hour after he came ashore—he would stop at the village street corners and bellow for converts.
Any one within a mile would know what was taking place, and many would stop to listen. Failure to get responses brought forth such a torrent of profanity that he would have to be locked up until sober—when he would repeat the effort until his leave was over.
Then, solemnly and with ponderous dignity, he would take himself back to his home in the air over the blue Gulf Stream, and no one would see him again for several months. Black Flanagan would greet him with a grunt, and the two would take up the even life of lighting the lantern and putting it out.
Men were not struggling for their positions, and they took some comfort from the fact. They would probably live so for a long time, drawing good pay, with nothing whatever to do except clean and light the lamp.
It was a hot and sultry morning in August, and the keepers were hanging lazily over the rail of the platform, when they saw the wrecking-sloop Sea-Horse coming slowly up the Hawk's Channel.
Her main-boom was well off to port, and she was fanning along before a very light air from the southeast, going not more than two knots an hour.
Upon her deck lay the crew of half-naked Conchs, while at her wheel the giant form of "Bahama Bill," the mate, stood leaning against the shaft, smoking a short pipe.
The fact that the black man now and then looked astern at a thin trail of smoke caused Black Flanagan to notice him.
"There goes the Sea-Horse," said he to his assistant; and they both came to the side of the platform nearest the passing vessel.
"Never seen thet big feller show so much consarn about what was astern o' him, hey?" said the preacher. "Looks like they were from the east'ard." And he nodded significantly.