"Well, I don't know but there is. I come over hopin' you might.
How's the stings?"
"The what?"
"The wasp bites."
"They're all, right, thank you."
"You're welcome, I'm sure. Did you put the cold mud on 'em, same as I told you to?"
"No. . . . What was it you wanted?"
Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat. The rocker was at the opposite side of the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr. Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of the conventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and had forgotten to take with him. The lady picked up the garment, looked at it, and sat down in the chair.
"Your boss is to bed, I s'pose likely?" she asked.
"You mean Mr. Atkins? I suppose likely he is."
"Um. I judged he was by"--with a glance at the garment which she still held--"the looks of things. What in the world ARE you doin'-- cleanin' house?"
The young man sighed wearily. "Yes," he said with forced resignation, "something of that sort."
"Seein' what there was to eat, I guess."
"You guess right. You said you had an errand, I think."
"Did I? Well, I come to see if I couldn't . . . What's that stuff?
Cake?"
She rose, picked up a slice of the dry cake, broke it between her fingers, smelled of it, and replaced it on the plate.
"'Tis cake, ain't it?" she observed; "or it was, sometime or other.
Who made it? You?"
"No."
"Oh, your boss, Mr.--er--Atkins, hey?"
"Yes. Considering that there are only two of us here, and I didn't make it, it would seem pretty certain that he must have."
"Yes, I guess that's right; unless 'twas some that washed ashore from Noah's Ark, and it's too dry for that. What on earth are these?" picking up one of the molasses cookies; "stove lids?"
Brown grinned, in spite of his annoyance.
"Those are supposed to be cookies," he admitted.
"Are they? Yes, yes. Mr. Atkins responsible for them?"
"No--o. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr.
Atkins's directions and orders. I'm rather proud of those cookies, myself."
"You'd ought to be. There, there!" with a smile, "I guess you think I'm pretty free with my criticism and remarks, don't you? You must excuse me. Housekeepin'--'specially the cookin' part--is my hobby, as you might say, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with the job. I mustn't set around and keep you from your work. You might want to make some more cookies, or somethin'."
The substitute assistant laughed aloud. "I wasn't thinking of it," he said; "but I shall be glad to make the attempt if it would afford you amusement."
Mrs. Bascom laughed, too. "I guess you're better natured than I thought you was," she observed. "It might amuse me some, I will admit, but I ain't got the time. I came to borrow some butter, if you've got any to spare. Down here we're as far from supplies as the feller that run the Ark I was mentionin', old Noah himself."
Brown took the bowl from her hands and went to the pantry to get the butter. When he turned again she was standing by the door, one hand hidden beneath her apron. She took the bowl with the other.
"Much obliged," she said. "I'll fetch this back soon's the grocery cart comes. Miss Graham made arrangements to have him drive across every Saturday. Or, rather, I arranged for it myself. Her head's too full of paintin' and scenery to think of much else. I tell her you can't eat an ile paintin'--unless you're born a goat. Good-by."
She went away. Brown chuckled and went on with his account of stock.
Seth "turned out" rather early that day. At half past one he appeared in the kitchen, partially dressed.
"Where in time is my shirt?" he demanded impatiently.
"Your what?"
"My shirt. I thought I took it off out here. Could have sworn I did. Guess likely I didn't, though. Must be gettin' absent- minded."
He was on his way back to the bedroom when his helper called.
"You did take it off out here," he cried. "It was on that chair there. I remember seeing it. Probably it has fallen on the floor somewhere."
Atkins returned, grumbling that the kitchen floor was a "healthy place to heave a shirt."
"Where is it?" he asked after a hurried search. "I can't find it nowheres. Didn't put it in the fire, did ye?"
"Of course I didn't. I saw it. . . . Why, I remember that woman's picking it up when she sat down."
"Woman? What woman?"
"That Baskin--Buskin--whatever her name is. The housekeeper at the bungalow."
"Was she--HERE?" Seth's question was almost a shout. His helper stared at him.
"Yes," he answered; "she was. She came to borrow some butter."
"To--to borrow--butter?"
"Why, yes. You didn't think I invited her in for a morning call, did you? Don't act as if you had been struck by lightning. It's not so very serious. We've got to expect some trouble of that kind.
I got rid of her as soon as I could."
"You--you did?"
"Yes, I did. You should thank me. I am on duty during the day, and I suppose most of that sort of thing will fall on me. You're lucky.
Our neighbors aren't likely to make many calls after dark. . . .
What's the matter now? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Seth walked to the door and leaned against the post. Brown repeated his question. "What IS the matter?" he asked. "You act just as you did when I first happened into this forsak--this place. If you've got any more hideous secrets up your sleeve I'm going to quit."
"Secrets!" Atkins laughed, or tried to. "I ain't got any secrets," he declared, "any more than you have."
The latter half of this speech shut off further questioning. Brown turned hastily away, and the lightkeeper went into his bedroom and finished dressing.
"Find your shirt?" asked the young man an hour or so later.
"Hey? Yes, yes; I found it."
"In your room? That's odd. I could have sworn I saw it out here.
Is that it you're wearing?"
"Hey? No. That was--was sort of s'iled, so I put on my other one.
I--I cal'late I'll go over and work on the Daisy M. a spell, unless you need me."
"I don't need you. Go ahead."
The time dragged for John Brown after his superior's departure.
There was work enough to be done, but he did not feel like doing it.
