The captain closed the kitchen door softly behind him.  He sat down on a bench and painfully pulled on his shoes and laced them.  When he tried to straighten up it was by a method which he termed, “easy, by jerks.”  He sat and recovered his breath after the effort.

Then, taking his cane, he hobbled off to the barn.  The big doors were open, for it had been a warm night.  The pungent odor from Queenie’s stall made his nostrils wrinkle.  He stumbled in, and the pale face of the old mare appeared at the opening above her manger.  She snorted her surprise.

“You’ll snort more’n that afore I’m done with you,” Cap’n Ira said, trying to seem embittered.

But when he unknotted the halter and backed her out of the stable, quite involuntarily he ran a tender hand down her sleek neck.  He sighed as he led her out of the rear door.

The old mare hung back, stretching first one hind leg and then the other as old horses do when first they come from the stall in the morning.

“Come on, you old nuisance!” exploded Cap’n Ira under his breath, giving an impatient tug at the rope.

He did not look around at her, but set his face sternly toward the distant lot which had once been known as the east meadow.  It was no longer in grass.  Wild carrots sprang from its acidulous soil.  The herbage would scarcely have nourished sheep.  There were patches of that gray moss which blossoms with a tiny red flower, and there was mullein and sour grass.  Altogether the run-down condition of the soil could not be mistaken by even the casual eye.

The hobbling old man and the hobbling old mare, making their way across the bare lot, made as drab a picture in the early morning as a Millet.  At a distance their moving shapes would have seemed like shadows only.  There was no other sign of life upon Wreckers’ Head.

A light but keen and salty breath blew in from the sea.  Cap’n Ira faced this breeze with twitching nostrils.  The old mare’s lower lip hung down in depression.  She groaned.  She did not care to be led out of her comfortable stall at this unconscionably early hour.

“Grunt, you old nuisance!” muttered Cap’n Ira bitterly.  “You don’t even know what a dratted, useless thing you be, I swan!”

There was a depression in the field.  When the heavy spring and fall rains came the water ran down into this sink and stood, sometimes a foot or two deep over several acres.  In some past time of heavy flood the water had washed out to the edge of the highland overlooking the ocean beach.  There it had crumbled the brink of the Head away, the water gullying year after year a deeper and broader channel, until now the slanting gutter began a hundred yards back from the brink.

The recurrent downpours, aided by occasional landslips, had made a slanting trough to the beach itself, which was all of two hundred feet below the brink of Wreckers’ Head.  Many such water-worn gullies are to be found along the face of the Cape headlands, up which the fishermen and seaweed gatherers freight their cargoes from the shore.  There was no wheel track here; merely a trough of sliding sand, treacherous under foot and almost continuously in motion.  As the gully progressed seaward, the banks on either hand became more than forty feet high, the trough itself being scarcely half as wide.