So the young man did go.  He climbed aboard the stranded craft—­a forlorn picture she made, lying on her side in the mud—­and was surprised to find how much had been manufactured “out of nothing.”  Her seams, those which the sun had opened, were caulked neatly; her deck was clean and white; she was partially rigged, with new and old canvas and ropes; and to his landsman’s eyes she looked almost fit for sea.  But when he said as much to Seth, the latter laughed scornfully.

“Fit for nothin’,” scoffed the lightkeeper.  “I could make her fit, maybe, if I wanted to spend money enough, but I don’t.  I can’t get at her starboard side, that’s down in the mud, and I cal’late she’d leak like a skimmer.  She’s only got a fores’l and a jib, and the jib’s only a little one that used to belong to a thirty-foot sloop.  Her anchor’s gone, and I wouldn’t trust her main topmast to carry anything bigger’n a handkerchief, nor that in a breeze no more powerful than a canary bird’s breath.  And, as I told you, it would take a tide like a flood to float her.  No, she’s no good, and never will be; but,” with a sigh, “I get a little fun fussin’ over her.”

“Er—­by the way,” he added, a little later, “of course you won’t mention to nobody what I told you about—­about my bein’ a fishin’ skipper once.  Not that anybody ever comes here for you to mention it to, but I wouldn’t want . . .  You see, nobody in Eastboro or anywheres on the Cape knows where I come from, and so . . .  Oh, all right, all right.  I know you ain’t the kind to talk.  Mind our own business, that’s the motto you and me cruise under, hey?”

Yet, although the conversation in the substitute assistant’s room was not again referred to by either, it had the effect of making the oddly assorted pair a bit closer in their companionship.  The mutual trust was strengthened by the lightkeeper’s half confidence and Brown’s sympathetic reception of it.  Each was lonely, each had moments when he felt he must express his hidden feelings to some one, and, though neither recognized the fact, it was certain that the time was coming when all mysteries would be mysteries no longer.  And one day occurred a series of ridiculous happenings which, bidding fair at first to end in a quarrel the relationship between the two, instead revealed in both a kindred trait that removed the last barrier.

At a little before ten on this particular morning, Brown, busy in the kitchen, heard vigorous language outside.  It was Atkins who was speaking, and the assistant wondered who on earth he could be talking to.  A glance around the doorpost showed that he was, apparently, talking to himself—­at least, there was no other human being to be seen.  He held in his hand a battered pair of marine glasses and occasionally he peered through them.  Each time he did so his soliloquy became more animated and profane.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Brown, emerging from the house.

“Matter?” repeated Seth.  “Matter enough!  Here! take a squint through them glasses and tell me who’s in that buggy comin’ yonder?”