Atkins’s fist wavered in mid-air, opened, and was drawn across its owner’s forehead.

“Well, by jiminy!” exclaimed the lightkeeper with emphasis, “this is—­is—­ . . .  I guess I be crazy.  If I ain’t, you are.  Would you mind tellin’ me what in time you mean by that?”

“It is not the mosquitoes,” continued his companion, in apparent soliloquy; “there are no mosquitoes at present.  It must be the other thing, of course.  But so early in the morning, and so violent.  Alcohol is—­”

“Shut up!” It was not a request, but an order.  Brown opened his eyes.

“You were addressing me?” he asked, blandly.  “Yes?”

“Addressin’ you!  For thunder sakes, who else would I be ad—­ . . .  There! there!  Now I cal’late you’re hintin’ that I’m drunk.  I ain’t.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, indeed.  And I ain’t out of my head—­not yet; though keepin’ company with a Bedlamite may have some effect, I shouldn’t wonder.  Mr. John Brown—­if that’s your name, which I doubt—­you listen to me.”

“Very well, Mr. Seth Atkins—­if that is your name, which I neither doubt nor believe, not being particularly interested—­I’m listening.  Proceed.”

“You told me last night that you wanted the job of assistant keeper here at these lights.  Course you didn’t mean it.”

“I did.”

“You did! . . .  Well, you must be drunk or loony.”

“I’m neither.  And I meant it.  I want the job.”

Seth looked at him, and he looked at Seth.  At length the lightkeeper spoke again.

“Well,” he said, slowly, “I don’t understand it at all, but never mind.  Whatever happens, we’ve got to understand each other.  Mind I don’t say the job’s yours, even if we do; but we can’t even think of it unless we understand each other plain.  To begin with, I want to tell you that I ain’t done nothin’ that’s crooked, nor wicked, nor nothin’ but what I think is right and what I’d do over again.  Do you believe that?”

“Certainly.  As I told you, I’m not interested, but I’ll believe it with pleasure if you wish me to.”

“I don’t wish nothin’.  You’ve got to believe it.  And whether you stay here ten minutes or ten years you’ve got to mind your own business.  I won’t have any hints or questions about me—­from you nor nobody else.  ‘Mind your own business,’ that’s the motto of Eastboro Twin-Lights, while I’m boss of ’em.  If you don’t like it—­well, the village is only five mile off, and I’ll p’int out the road to you.”

He delivered this ultimatum with extraordinary energy.  Then he reached for his overturned chair, set it on its legs, and threw himself into it.  “Well,” he demanded, after a moment; “what do you say to that?”

“Hurrah!” replied Mr. Brown cheerfully.

“Hurrah?  For the land sakes! . . .  Say, can’t you talk sensible, if you try real hard and set your mind to it?  What is there to hurrah about?”