I have already said that Cook Charlie was fat. He was also bald. Though not over thirty, his appearance of age gave a certain authority to his opinions, and a second title for him was that of “old man.” Old man or young man, he was always good–natured. Did it blow without? Did the wind bring a sting with every blast? Cook Charlie was calm. Did the sky scowl on the tired surfman? Cook Charlie was sure to smile. Did any discussion in the living–room become a disputation, ill–natured, angry, and did the men turn uneasily in their chairs, stamping stormily on the floor with their hard, heavy boots? “So—so, boys,” Cook Charlie would exclaim. “Now, look here! Let me put that question.” And this amiable manipulator of contentious souls would “put the question” so skillfully that both sides might find themselves on the same side! Then Cook Charlie was monarch of the kitchen stove. He knew that, and what a center of comfort and happiness he made that stove! No sulking fire—one big, black pout—awaited the chilled surfman when he came from his windy beat; but a cheery heat radiated from that stove, in whose ascending current the patrolman rubbed and bathed his hands gratefully. Then the breakfasts, dinners, and suppers! There was not a great variety of food, but it was sure to be hot. It was sure to be abundant also. Then Cook Charlie would have a little “surprise” for the men, perhaps a pudding that he would covertly slip out of the oven and land on the table amid a series of, “Oh—Oh—Oh!” I think he realized that he had a mission in that bleak little station, and with his cook stove he could do marvels. He did not say it in words, but there was a cheerful little tune forever sounding in his thoughts, and this was the burden of the song:
“My stove is king,
My stove is king.”
“Mr. Barney,” said the district superintendent Baker, one day, “who is your right hand man here—I mean the one you get the most help from?”
“My cook,” said the keeper promptly. “Of course he wants his wages, but I don’t think he works just for them. I think he takes a pleasure in seein’ how well he can do. He keeps his fire in good condition all the time, so that the boys can warm themselves handy any hour; and then, you know, surfmen must be well fed if you want good work of them. I call Cook Charlie my steerin’ oar.”
It was Cook Charlie that Walter had a special talk with one morning. The young surfman’s watch was now toward sunrise. He halted as he was about finishing his beat, and from the doorstep of the station, looked off upon the sea. Winter was whitening the earth, but the warm flush of summer was on the sea and in the sky. It was a holiday sky, a long fold of purple swathing the horizon. Then came a pink flush, and deep set in this was the morning star. The sea was one vast sheet of silver, warm and placid. Along the shore, it was wrinkled and broken into surf. Far at the right, the sky was of a cold azure, and the sea beneath it was chilled and shadowy also. Here were two vessels sailing. They seemed to be eagerly pushing toward that summer light in the east and that sea of silver.
“I’ll watch the sun come up,” said Walter, and this sentinel of the Life Saving Service, his extinguished lantern in his hand, stood sharply watching as if for an enemy that would come by water. A noise on the land called his attention away for a few minutes. When he turned again, no enemy was there on that still, shining sea, but away off on the horizon’s edge was a tiny, pink boat, a boat without oar or sail, a boat that must have come for a carnival, but had mistaken the time of the year. The pink flamed into silver, and the little boat became a gay turban of some royal Turk about to show his eyes and peep over the horizon line at the earth. Was this the enemy that the young coastguard expected? No, the turban expanded into a very big innocent–looking frozen pudding laid by Neptune’s jolly cook on this smooth, polished table of the sea. This confectioner’s dish soon began to rise, growing into a lofty, bulging dome, a towering dome, rising, swelling, rounding out—till there swung clear of the sea a globe of fire, the sun himself! He began to assert his presence in the most unmistakable way, sending out the sharpest, the most dazzling rays, from which Walter was glad to turn away his eyes.
“A new day,” said Walter, “and what is to be done to–day? Breakfast, and then I may turn in awhile, and have a nap. The newspaper will come, and I suppose I shall read that. We shall have a drill of some kind, and the watch from the lookout must be kept up. Then I suppose we shall be loafing about Charlie’s stove. I believe I have about gone through that library in the corner. I wish—yes—and I’ll ask Charlie about it right off.”
Cook Charlie was alone with his stove, his coffee–pot, and frying–pan. An appetizing fragrance welcomed the hungry young surfman as he opened the door of the station.
“Good chance now,” thought Walter, “and I’ll speak about it.”
“Charlie,” said Walter, laying down his time–detector and signal, and hanging up his lantern, “I wanted to ask your opinion.”