Once before, during his years of service as keeper of Eastboro Twin-Lights, had Seth seen such a sight as that which now caused him to make his dash for the shore.  Once before, after the terrible storm of 1905, when the great steamer Bay Queen went down with all on board, the exact spot of her sinking unknown even to this day.  Then the whole ocean side of the Cape, from Race Point to Orham, was strewn with ghastly relics.  But the Bay Queen met her fate in the winter season, amid a gale such as even the oldest residents could not remember.  Now it was early summer; the night before had been a flat calm.  There had been no wreck, or the lifesavers would have told him of it.  There would be no excuse for a wreck, anyway.

All this, in disjointed fragments, passed through the lightkeeper’s mind as he descended the path in frantic bounds and plowed through the ankle-deep white sand of the beach.  As he approached the recumbent figure he yelled a panted “Hi, there!” He did not expect the hail to be answered or even noticed.  Therefore, he was pleasantly disappointed when the figure rolled over, raised itself on one elbow, looked at him in a dazed sort of way and replied cheerfully but faintly, “Hello!”

Seth stopped short, put a hand to the breast of his blue flannel shirt, and breathed a mighty sigh of relief.

“Gosh!” he exclaimed with fervor.  Then, changing his labored gallop for a walk, he continued his progress toward the man, who, as if his momentary curiosity was satisfied, lay down again.  He did not rise when the lightkeeper reached his side, but remained quiet, looking up from a pair of gray eyes and smiling slightly with lips that were blue.  He was a stranger to Atkins, a young fellow, rather good looking, dressed in blue serge trousers, negligee shirt, blue socks, and without shoes or hat.  His garments were soaked, and the salt water dripped from his shoulders to the sand.  The lightkeeper stared at him, and he returned the stare.

“Gosh!” repeated Seth, after an instant of silence.  “Jiminy crimps!  I feel better.”

The stranger’s smile broadened.  “Glad to hear it, I’m sure,” he said, slowly.  “So do I, though there’s still room for improvement.  What was your particular ailment?  Mine seems to have been water on the brain.”

He sat up and shakily ran a hand through his wet hair as he spoke.  Atkins, his surprise doubled by this extraordinary behavior, could think of nothing to say.

“Good morning,” continued the young man, as if the meeting had been the most casual and ordinary possible; “I think you said a moment ago that you were feeling better.  No relapse, I trust.”

“Relapse?  What in the world?  Are you crazy?  I ain’t sick.”

“That’s good.  I must have misunderstood you.  Pleasant morning, isn’t it?

“Pleasant morn—­Why, say!  I—­I—­what in time are you doin’, layin’ there all soaked through?  You scared me pretty nigh to death.  I thought you was drowned, sure and sartin.”