“Sure thing.  Why not?  Got room enough to keep a whole zoological menagerie if we wanted to, ain’t we?  Besides, a dog’ll be handy to have around.  Bill Foster, the life saver, told me that somebody busted into the station henhouse one night a week ago and got away with four of their likeliest pullets.  He cal’lates ’twas tramps or boys.  We don’t keep hens, but there’s some stuff in that boathouse I wouldn’t want stole, and, bein’ as there’s no lock on the door, a dog would be a sort of protection, as you might say.”

“But thieves would never come way down here.”

“Why not?  ’Tain’t any further away from the rest of creation than the life savin’ station, is it?  Anyhow, Henry G. give the dog to me free for nothin’, and that’s a miracle of itself.  You’d say so, too, if you knew Henry.  I was so surprised that I said I’d take it right off; felt ‘twould be flyin’ in the face of Providence not to.  A miracle—­jumpin’ Judas!  I never knew Henry to give anybody anything afore—­unless ’twas the smallpox, and then ‘twan’t a genuine case, nothin’ but varioloid.”

“But what kind of a dog is it?”

“I don’t know.  Henry used to own the mother of it, and she was one quarter mastiff and the rest assorted varieties.  This one he’s givin’ me ain’t a whole dog, you see; just a half-grown pup.  The varioloid all over again—­hey?  Ho, ho!  I didn’t really take him for sartin, you understand; just on trial.  If we like him, we’ll keep him, that’s all.”

The third afternoon following this announcement, Brown was alone in the kitchen, and busy.  Seth had departed on one of his mysterious excursions, carrying a coil of rope, a pulley and a gallon can of paint.  Before leaving the house he had given his helper some instructions concerning supper.

“Might’s well have a lobster tonight,” he said.  “Ever cook a lobster, did you?”

No, Mr. Brown had never cooked a lobster.

“Well, it’s simple enough.  All you’ve got to do is bile him.  Bile him in hot water till he’s done.”

“I see.”  The substitute assistant was not enthusiastic.  Cooking he did not love.

“Humph!” he grunted.  “I imagined if he was boiled at all, it was be in hot water, not cold.”

Atkins chuckled.  “I mean you want to have the water bilin’ hot when you put him in,” he explained.  “Wait till she biles up good and then souse him; see?”

“I guess so.  How do you know when he’s done?”

“Oh—­er—­I can’t tell you.  You’ll have to trust to your instinct, I cal’late.  When he looks done, he is done, most gen’rally speakin’.”

“Dear me! how clear you make it.  Would you mind hintin’ as to how he looks when he’s done?”

“Why—­why, done, of course.”

“Yes, of course.  How stupid of me!  He is done when he looks done, and when he looks done he is done.  Any child could follow those directions.  How is he done—­brown?”