“Aa-ow-ooo!  Ooo-aa-ow!”

“For heaven’s sake,” exclaimed the lightkeeper’s helper, running to meet the vehicle, “what is the matter?”

The boy grinned more expansively than ever.  “Whoa!” he shouted, to the horse he was driving.  The animal stopped in his tracks, evidently glad of the opportunity.  Another howl burst from the covered depths of the wagon.

“I’ve got him,” said the boy, with a triumphant nod and a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.  “He’s in there.”

“He?  Who?  What?”

“Job.  He’s in there.  Hear him?  He’s been goin’ on like that ever since he finished his bone, and that was over two mile back.  Say,” admiringly, “he’s some singer, ain’t he!  Hear that, will ye?”

Another wail arose from the wagon.  Brown hastened to the rear of the vehicle, on the canvas side of which were painted the words “Henry G. Goodspeed, Groceries, Dry and Fancy Goods and Notions, Eastboro,” and peered in over the tailboard.  The interior of the wagon was well nigh filled by a big box with strips of board nailed across its top.  From between these strips a tawny nose was uplifted.  As the helper stared wonderingly at the box and the nose, the boy sprang from his seat and joined him.

“That’s him,” declared the boy.  “Hi, there, Job, tune up now!  What’s the matter with ye?”

His answer was an unearthly howl from the box, accompanied by a mighty scratching.  The boy laughed delightedly.

“Ain’t he a wonder?” he demanded.  “Ought to be in church choir, hadn’t he.”

Brown stepped on the hub of a rear wheel, and, clinging to the post of the wagon cover, looked down into the box.  The creature inside was about the size of a month old calf.

“It’s a—­it’s a dog,” he exclaimed.  “A dog, isn’t it?”

“Sure, it’s a dog.  Or he’ll be a dog when he grows up.  Nothin’ but a pup now, he ain’t.  Where’s Seth?”

“Seth?  Oh, Mr. Atkins; he’s not here.”

“Ain’t he?  Where’s he gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t ye?  When’s he comin’ back?  Hush up!” This last was a command to the prisoner in the box, who paid absolutely no attention to it.

“I don’t know when he’ll be back.  Do you want to see him personally?  Won’t I do?  I’m in charge here till he returns.”

“Be ye?  Oh, you’re the new assistant from Boston.  You’ll do.  All I want to do is unload him—­Job, I mean—­and leave a couple bundles of fly paper Seth ordered.  Here!” lowering the tailboard and climbing into the wagon, “you catch aholt of t’other end of the box, and I’ll shove on this one.  Hush up, Job!  Nobody’s goin’ to eat ye—­’less it’s the moskeeters.  Now, then, mister, here he comes.”

He began pushing the box toward the open end of the wagon.  The dog’s whines and screams and scratchings furnished an accompaniment almost deafening.

“Wait!  Stop!  For heaven’s sake, wait!” shouted Brown.  “What are you putting that brute off here for?  I don’t want him.”