He started for the bedroom.  The young man seemed a bit troubled.

“Just a minute,” he observed.  “Don’t you think I had better move to a less conspicuous apartment?  The door is open, and if any of your neighbors should happen by—­any ladies, for instance, I—­”

“Ladies!” Mr. Atkins regarded him frowningly.  “In the fust place, there ain’t a neighbor nigher’n four miles; and, in the next, I’d have you understand no women come to this house.  If you knew me better, young feller, you’d know that.  Set where you be.”

The nightshirt was one of the lightkeeper’s own, and, although Seth was a good-sized man, it fitted the castaway almost too tightly for comfort.  However, it was dry and warm and, by leaving a button or two unfastened at the neck, answered the purpose well enough.  The stranger was piloted to the bedroom, assisted into the depths of a feather bed, and covered with several layers of blankets and patchwork quilts.

“There!” observed Seth, contentedly, “now you go to sleep.  If you get to sweatin’, so much the better.  ’Twill get some of that cold water out of you.  So long!”

He departed, closing the door after him.  Then he built a fire in the range, got breakfast, ate it, washed the dishes and continued his forenoon’s work.  Not a sound from the bedroom.  Evidently the strange arrival had taken the advice concerning going to sleep.  But all the time he was washing dishes, rubbing brass work or sweeping, Mr. Atkins’s mind was busy with the puzzle which fate had handed him.  Occasionally he chuckled, and often he shook his head.  He could make nothing out of it.  One thing only was certain—­he had never before met a human being exactly like this specimen.

It was half past twelve before there were signs of life in the bedroom.  Seth was setting the table for dinner, when the door of the room opened a little way, and a voice said: 

“I say, are you there?”

“I be.  What do you want?”

“Would you mind telling me what you’ve done with my clothes?”

“Not a bit.  I’ve got ’em out on the line, and they ain’t dry yet.  If you’ll look on the chair by the sou’west window you’ll find a rig-out of mine.  I’m afraid ’twill fit you too quick—­you’re such an elephant—­but I’ll risk it if you will.”

Apparently the stranger was willing to risk it, for in a few moments he appeared, dressed in the Atkins Sunday suit of blue cloth, and with Seth’s pet carpet slippers on his feet.

“Hello!” was the lightkeeper’s greeting.  “How you feelin’?—­better?”

“Tip top, thank you.  Where do you wash, when it’s necessary?”

“Basin right there in the sink.  Soap in the becket over top of it.  Roller towel on the closet door.  Ain’t you had water enough for a spell?”

“Not fresh water, thank you.  I’m caked with salt from head to foot.”

“Does make a feller feel like a split herrin’, if he ain’t used to it.  Think you can eat anything?”