The storm was dying out.  The squalls were less and less frequent, and the rain had been succeeded by a thick fog.  The breakers pounded in the dark below him, and from afar the foghorns moaned and wailed.  It was a bad night, a night during which no lightkeeper should be absent from his post.  And where was Seth?

CHAPTER XIV

“Bennie D.”

Seth’s drive to Eastboro was a dismal journey.  Joshua pounded along over the wet sand or through ruts filled with water, and not once during the trip was he ordered to “Giddap” or “Show some signs of life.”  Not until the first scattered houses of the village were reached did the lightkeeper awaken from his trance sufficiently to notice that the old horse was limping slightly with the right forefoot.

“Hello!” exclaimed Seth.  “What’s the matter with you, Josh?”

Joshua slopped on, but this was a sort of three-legged progress.  The driver leaned forward and then pulled on the reins.

“Whoa!” he ordered.  “Stand still!”

Joshua stood still, almost with enthusiasm.  Seth tucked the end of the reins between the whip socket and the dashboard, and swung out of the wagon to make an examination.  Lifting the lame foot, he found the trouble at once.  The shoe was loose.

“Humph!” he soliloquized.  “Cal’late you and me’ll have to give Benijah a job.  Well,” climbing back into the vehicle, “I said I’d never give him another after the row we had about the last, but I ain’t got ambition enough to go clear over to the Denboro blacksmith’s.  I don’t care.  I don’t care about nothin’ any more.  Giddap.”

Benijah Ellis’s little, tumble-down blacksmith shop was located in the main street of Eastboro, if that hit-or-miss town can be said to possess a main street.  Atkins drove up to its door, before which he found Benijah and a group of loungers inspecting an automobile, the body of which had been removed in order that the engine and running gear might be the easier reached.  The blacksmith was bending over the car, his head and shoulders down amidst the machinery; a big wrench was in his hand, and other wrenches, hammers, and tools of various sizes were scattered on the ground beside him.

“Hello, Benije,” grunted Seth.

Ellis removed his nose from its close proximity to the gear shaft and straightened up.  He was a near-sighted, elderly man, and wore spectacles.  Just now his hands, arms, and apron were covered with grease and oil, and, as he wiped his forehead with the hand not holding the wrench, he left a wide mourning band across it.

“Well?” he panted.  “Who is it?  Who wants me?”

One of the loafers, who had been assisting the blacksmith by holding his pipe while he dove into the machinery, languidly motioned toward the new arrival.  Benijah adjusted his spectacles and walked over to the wagon.

“Who is it?” he asked crossly.  Then, as he recognized his visitor, he grunted:  “Ugh! it’s you, hey.  Well, what do you want?”