“You jump right off the cars and then
     Turn round and jump right on again.”

This fragment of a song, sung at a “moving-picture” show in the town hall, and resung many times thereafter by Ezra Payne, John Brown’s predecessor as assistant keeper at the lights, recurred to him as he urged the weary Joshua onward.  So far as Seth knew, the Reno custom might be universal.  At any rate, he must get to Judge Gould’s before Emeline and her brother-in-law left there.  What he should do when he arrived and found them there was immaterial; he must get there, that was all.

Eastboro Back Harbor was left behind, and the long stretch of woods beyond was entered.  Joshua, his hoofs swollen by the sticky clay to yellow cannon balls, plodded on, but, in spite of commands and pleadings—­the lightkeeper possessed no whip and would not have used one if he had—­he went slower and slower.  He was walking now, and limping sadly on the foot where the loose shoe hung by its bent and broken nails.

Five miles, six, seven, and the limp was worse than ever.  Seth, whose conscience smote him, got out of the carriage into the rain and mud and attempted repairs, using a stone as a hammer.  This seemed to help matters some, but it was almost dark when the granite block marking the township line was passed, and the windows in the houses were alight when he pulled up at the judge’s door.

The judge himself answered the knock, or series of knocks.  He seemed much surprised to find the keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights standing on his front step.

“Why, hello, Atkins!” he cried.  “What in the world are you doing over here? a night like this!”

“Has—­has Mrs. Bascom been here?  Is she here now?” panted Seth anxiously.

“Mrs. Bascom?  Who is Mrs. Bascom?”

“She—­she’s a friend of mine.  She and—­and a relation of hers was comin’ over here to see you on business.  Ain’t they here?  Ain’t they been here?”

“No.  No one has been here this afternoon.  I’ve been in since one o’clock, and not a soul has called, on business or otherwise.”

The lightkeeper could scarcely believe it.

“You’re sure?” he demanded.

“Certainly.  If they came before one my wife would have told me, I think.  I’ll ask her.”

“No, no,” hastily.  “You needn’t.  If they ain’t been since one they ain’t been.  But I don’t understand. . . .  There’s no other lawyer nigh here, is there?”

“No; none nearer than Bayport.”

“My land!  My land!  Then—­then I’m out of soundin’s somehow.  They never came for it, after all.”

“Came for what?”

“Nothin’, nothin’, I guess,” with a sickly smile.  “I’ve made some sort of mistake, though I don’t know how.  Benije must have . . .  I’ll break that feller’s neck; I will!”

The lawyer began to share the blacksmith’s opinion that his caller had gone crazy.

“Come in, Atkins,” he urged.  “Come in out of the wet.  What is the matter?  What are you doing here at this time of night so far from the Lights?  Is it anything serious?  Come in and tell me about it.”