“Bunga—­which?  Oh, that cottage over on t’other side the crick?  That b’longs to a couple of paintin’ fellers from up Boston way.  Not house painters, you understand, but fellers that put in their time paintin’ pictures of the water and the beach and the like of that.  Seems a pretty silly job for grown-up men, but they’re real pleasant and folksy.  Don’t put on no airs nor nothin.’  They’re most gen’rally here every June and July and August, but I understand they ain’t comin’ this year, so the cottage’ll be shut up.  I’ll miss ’em, kind of.  One of ’em’s name is Graham and t’other’s Hamilton.”

“I see.  Many visitors to the lights?”

“Not many.  Once in a while a picnic comes over in a livery four-seater, but not often.  The same gang never comes twice.  Road’s too bad, and they complain like fury about the moskeeters.”

“Do they?  How peevish!  Atkins, you’re not married?”

It was an innocent question, but it had an astonishing effect.  The lightkeeper bounced on the bench as if someone had kicked it violently from beneath.

“What?” he quavered shrilly.  “Wha—­what’s that?”

Brown was surprised.  “I asked if you were married, that’s all,” he said.  “I can’t see—­”

“Stop!” Seth’s voice shook, and he bent down to glare through the darkness at his companion’s face.  “Stop!” he ordered.  “You asked me if I was—­married?”

“Yes.  Why shouldn’t I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?  See here, young feller, you—­you—­what made you ask that?”

“What made me?”

“Stop sayin’ my words after me.  Are you a man or a poll-parrot?  Can’t you understand plain United States language?  What made you?  Or who made you?  Who told you to ask me that question?”

He pounded the bench with his fist.  The pair stared at each other for a moment; then Brown leaned back and began to whistle.  Seth seized him by the shoulders.

“Quit that foolishness, d’you hear?” he snarled.  “Quit it, and answer me!”

The answer was prefaced by a pitying shake of the head.

“It’s the mosquitoes,” observed the young man, musingly.  “They get through and puncture the brain after a time, I presume.  I’m not surprised exactly, but,” with a sigh, “I’m very sorry.”

“What are you talkin’ about,” demanded Atkins.  “Be you crazy?”

“No-o.  I’m not.”

“You’re not!  Do you mean that I am?”

“Well,” slowly, “I’m not an expert in such cases, but when a perfectly simple, commonplace question sets a chap to pounding and screaming and offering violence, then—­well, it’s either insanity or an attempt at insult, one or the other.  I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt.”

He scratched a match on his heel and relit his pipe.  The lightkeeper still stared, suspicious and puzzled.  Then he drew a long breath.

“I—­I didn’t mean to insult you,” he stammered.

“Glad to hear it, I’m sure.  If I were you, however, I should see a doctor for the other trouble.”