For the door of the bungalow was open, and one or two of the shutters were down.  The carriage had brought some person or persons to the bungalow and left them there.  Instantly, of course, Brown thought of the artists from Boston.  Probably they had changed their minds and decided to summer at Eastboro after all.  His frown deepened.

Then, from across the cove, from the bungalow, came a shrill scream, a feminine scream.  The assistant started, scarcely believing his ears.  Before he could gather his wits, a stout woman, with a checked apron in her hand, rushed out of the bungalow door, looked about, saw him, and waved the apron like a flag.

“Hi!” she screamed.  “Hi, you!  Mr. Lighthouseman! come quick! do please come here quick and help us!”

There was but one thing to do, and Brown did it instinctively.  He raced through the beach grass, down the hill, in obedience to the call.  As he ran, he wondered who on earth the stout woman could be.  Seth had said that the artists did their own housekeeping.

“Hurry up!” shrieked the stout woman, dancing an elephantine fandango in front of the bungalow.  “Come on!”

To run around the shore line of the cove would have taken a good deal of time.  However, had the tide been at flood there would have been no other way—­excepting by boat—­to reach the cottage.  But the tide was out, and the narrowest portion of the creek, the stream connecting the cove with the ocean, was but knee deep.  Through the water splashed the substitute assistant and clambered up the bank beyond.

“Quick!” screamed the woman.  “They’ll eat us alive!”

“Who?  What?” panted Brown.

“Wasps!  They’re in there!  The room’s full of ’em.  If there’s one thing on earth I’m scart of, it’s . . .  Don’t stop to talk!  Go in!”

She indicated the door of a room adjoining the living room of the little cottage.  From behind the door came sounds of upsetting furniture and sharp slaps.  Evidently the artists were having a lively time.  But they must be curious chaps to be afraid of wasps.  Brown opened the door and entered, partly of his own volition, partly because he was pushed by the stout woman.  Then he gasped in astonishment.

The wasps were there, dozens of them, and they had built a nest in the upper corner of the room.  But they were not the astonishing part of the picture.  A young woman was there, also; a young woman with dark hair and eyes, the sleeves of a white shirtwaist rolled above her elbows, and a wet towel in her right hand.  She was skipping lightly about the room, slapping frantically at the humming insects.

“Mrs. Bascom,” she panted, “don’t stand there screaming.  Get another towel and—­”

Then she turned and saw Brown.  For an instant she, too, seemed astonished.  But only for an instant.

“Oh, I’m so glad you came!” she exclaimed.  “Here! take this! you must hit quick and hard.”