The buggy, a black dot far down the sandy road leading from the village, was rocking and dipping over the dunes.  The assistant took the glasses, adjusted them, and looked as directed.

“Why!” he said slowly, “there are three people in that buggy.  A man—­and—­”

“And two women; that’s what I thought.  Dum idiots comin’ over to picnic and spend the day, sure’s taxes.  And they’ll want to be showed round the lights and everywheres, and they’ll ask more’n forty million questions.  Consarn the luck!”

Brown looked troubled.  He had no desire to meet strangers.

“How do you know they’re coming here?” he asked.  The answer was conclusive.

“Because,” snarled Seth, “as I should think you’d know by this time, there ain’t no other place round here they could come to.”

A moment later, he added, “Well, you’ll have to show ’em round.”

“I will?”

“Sartin.  That’s part of the assistant keeper’s job.”

He chuckled as he said it.  That chuckle grated on the young man’s nerves.

“I’m not the assistant,” he declared cheerfully.

“You ain’t?  What are you then?”

“Oh, just a helper.  I don’t get any wages.  You’ve told me yourself, over and over, that I have no regular standing here.  And, according to the government rules, those you’ve got posted in the kitchen, the lightkeeper is obliged to show visitors about.  I wouldn’t break the rules for the world.  Good morning.  Think I’ll go down to the beach.”

He stalked away whistling.  Atkins, his face flaming, roared after him a profane opinion concerning his actions.  Then he went into the kitchen, slamming the door with a bang.

Some twenty minutes later the helper heard his name shouted from the top of the bluff.

“Mr. Brown!  I say!  Ahoy there, Mr. Brown!  Come up here a minute, won’t ye?”

Brown clambered up the path.  A little man, with grey throat whiskers, and wearing an antiquated straw hat, the edge of the brim trimmed with black braid, was standing waiting for him.

“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Brown,” stammered the little man, “but you be Mr. Brown, ain’t you?”

“I am.  Yes.”

“Well, I cal’lated you was.  My name’s Stover, Abijah Stover.  I live over to Trumet.  Me and my wife drove over for a sort of picnic like.  We’ve got her cousin, Mrs. Sophia Hains, along.  Sophi’s a widow from Boston, and she ain’t never seen a lighthouse afore.  I know Seth Atkins slightly, and I was cal’latin’ he’d show us around, but bein’ as he’s so sick—­”

“Sick?  Is Mr. Atkins sick?”

“Why, yes.  Didn’t you know it?  He’s in the bedroom there groanin’ somethin’ terrible.  He told me not to say nothin’ to the women folks, but to hail you, and you’d look out for us.  Didn’t you know he was laid up?  Why, he—­”

Brown did not wait to hear more.  He strode to the house, with Mr. Stover at his heels.  On his way he caught a glimpse of the buggy, the horse dozing between the shafts.  On the seat of the buggy were two women, one plump and round-faced, the other thin and gaunt.