“That’s the place,” said Blake, in a low voice.
“Yes,” agreed Joe. “It looks comfortable and homelike, too.”
Back of the lighthouse was a small garden, and also a flower bed, and a man could be seen working there. His back was toward the boys.
“I—I wonder if that’s him—my father?” said Joe, softly. “He seems to be very old,” for they had a glimpse of a long white beard, and the man seemed to be bent with the weight of many years.
“Go up and ask,” said Blake. “I’ll wait here.”
“No, I want you to come with me,” insisted his chum. “You were with me when I first heard the good news, and now I want you along to hear the conclusion of it. Come on, Blake.”
“No, I’d rather not,” and nothing Joe could say would induce his chum to accompany him.
Their talk had been carried on in low voices, and the aged man, working in the garden, had apparently not heard them. He continued to hoe away among the rows.
“Well, here goes!” exclaimed Joe, with a sigh. Now that he felt he was at the end of his quest his sensations were almost as sorrowful as joyful. In fact, he did not know exactly how he did feel.
Walking up toward the old man, he paused, and then coughed slightly to attract his attention. The lighthouse keeper turned, surveyed the boy and in a pleasant voice asked: