“Good Lord!” he exclaimed; “I believe—­”

He did not finish the sentence.  There was no need.  If he had any doubts as to the cause of the racket at the door they were dispelled by a howl like a fog whistle.  “Job” had escaped from durance vile and was seeking companionship.

Brown muttered an exclamation of impatience and, opening the door a very little way, peeped through the crack.  The pup—­he looked like a scrawny young lion—­hailed his appearance with a series of wild yelps.  His mouth opened like a Mammoth Cave in miniature, and a foot of red tongue flapped like a danger signal.

“Get out, you brute!” ordered Brown.

Job did not get out.  Instead he yelped again and capered with the grace of a cow.  His feet and legs seemed to have grown out of proportion to the rest of him; they were enormous.  Down the length of his yellow back were three raw furrows which the nails of the box cover had scraped as he climbed from under them.

“Nice dog!” coaxed the lightkeeper’s helper.  “Nice doggie!  Good old boy!”

The good old boy pranced joyfully and made a charge at the door.  Brown slammed it shut just in time.

“Clear out!” he yelled, from behind it.  “Go away!  Go and lie down!”

The answer was a mighty howl of disappointment and an assault on the door which threatened to shatter the panels.  Job’s paws were armed with claws proportionate to their size.

This would never do.  The paint on that door had been furnished by the government, and Atkins was very careful of it.  Brown, within, pounded a protest and again commanded the dog to go and lie down.  Job, without, thumped and scratched and howled louder than ever.  He had decidedly the best of the duet, and the door was suffering every second.  Brown picked up the fire shovel and threw the door wide open.

“Get out!” he roared.  “Get out or I’ll kill you!”

He brandished the shovel, expecting an assault.  But none came.  It was evident that Job knew a shovel when he saw it, had encountered other shovels in the course of his brief young life.  His ears and tail drooped, and he backed away.

“Clear out!” repeated Brown, advancing threateningly.  With each step of the advance, Job retreated a corresponding distance.  When the assistant stopped, he stopped.  Brown lowered the shovel and looked at him.  The dog grovelled in the sand and whined dolefully.

“Humph!” grunted the young man; “I guess you’re not as dangerous as you look.  Stay where you are and keep still.”

He turned to enter the kitchen, turning again just in time to find the pup at his heels.  He lifted the shovel, and Job jumped frantically out of reach, sat down in a clump of beach grass, lifted his nose to the sky and expressed his feelings in a howl of utter misery.

“Good—­heavens!” observed John Brown fervently, and, shifting the shovel to his left hand, rubbed his forehead with his right.  Job howled once more and gazed at him with sorrowful appeal.  The situation was so ridiculous that the young man began to laugh.  This merriment appeared to encourage the pup, who stopped howling and began to caper, throwing the loose sand from beneath his paws in showers.