The next morning Seth was gloomy and uncommunicative. At the breakfast table, when Brown glanced up from his plate, he several times caught the lightkeeper looking intently at him with the distrustful, half-suspicious gaze of the night before. Though quite aware of this scrutiny, he made no comment upon it until the meal was nearly over; then he observed suddenly:
"It's all right; you needn't."
"Needn't what?" demanded Atkins, in astonishment.
"Look at me as if you expected me to explode at any minute. I sha'n't. I'm not loaded."
Seth colored, under his coat of sunburn, and seemed embarrassed.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he stammered. "Have the moskeeters affected YOUR brains?"
"No. My brains, such as they are, are all right, and I want to keep them so. That's why I request you not to look at me in that way."
"How was I lookin' at you? I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do. You are wondering how much I know. I don't know anything and I'm not curious. That's the truth. Now why not let it go at that?"
"See here, young feller, I--"
"No; you see here. I'm not an Old Sleuth; I haven't any ambitions that way. I don't know anything about you--what you've been, what you've done--"
"Done!" Seth leaned across the table so suddenly that he upset his chair. "Done?" he cried; "what do you mean by that? Who said I'd done anything? It's a lie."
"What is a lie?"
"Why--why--er--whatever they said!"
"Who said?"
"Why, the ones that--that said what you said they said."
"I didn't say anyone had said anything."
"Then what do you mean by--by hintin'? Hey? What do you mean by it?"
He brandished a clenched fist over the breakfast dishes. Brown leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"Call me when the patient recovers his senses," he drawled wearily.
"This delirium is painful to a sensitive nature."
Atkins's fist wavered in mid-air, opened, and was drawn across its owner's forehead.
"Well, by jiminy!" exclaimed the lightkeeper with emphasis, "this is--is-- . . . I guess I BE crazy. If I ain't, you are. Would you mind tellin' me what in time you mean by THAT?"
"It is not the mosquitoes," continued his companion, in apparent soliloquy; "there are no mosquitoes at present. It must be the other thing, of course. But so early in the morning, and so violent. Alcohol is--"
"SHUT UP!" It was not a request, but an order. Brown opened his eyes.
"You were addressing me?" he asked, blandly. "Yes?"
"Addressin' you! For thunder sakes, who else would I be ad-- . . .
There! there! Now I cal'late you're hintin' that I'm drunk. I ain't."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, indeed. And I ain't out of my head--not yet; though keepin' company with a Bedlamite may have some effect, I shouldn't wonder.
Mr. John Brown--if that's your name, which I doubt--you listen to me."
"Very well, Mr. Seth Atkins--if that is your name, which I neither doubt nor believe, not being particularly interested--I'm listening.
Proceed."
"You told me last night that you wanted the job of assistant keeper here at these lights. Course you didn't mean it."
"I did."
"You DID! . . . Well, YOU must be drunk or loony."
"I'm neither. And I meant it. I want the job."
Seth looked at him, and he looked at Seth. At length the lightkeeper spoke again.
"Well," he said, slowly, "I don't understand it at all, but never mind. Whatever happens, we've got to understand each other. Mind I don't say the job's yours, even if we do; but we can't even think of it unless we understand each other plain. To begin with, I want to tell you that I ain't done nothin' that's crooked, nor wicked, nor nothin' but what I think is right and what I'd do over again. Do you believe that?"
"Certainly. As I told you, I'm not interested, but I'll believe it with pleasure if you wish me to."
"I don't wish nothin'. You've GOT to believe it. And whether you stay here ten minutes or ten years you've got to mind your own business. I won't have any hints or questions about me--from you nor nobody else. 'Mind your own business,' that's the motto of Eastboro Twin-Lights, while I'm boss of 'em. If you don't like it-- well, the village is only five mile off, and I'll p'int out the road to you."
He delivered this ultimatum with extraordinary energy. Then he reached for his overturned chair, set it on its legs, and threw himself into it. "Well," he demanded, after a moment; "what do you say to that?"
"Hurrah!" replied Mr. Brown cheerfully.
"Hurrah? For the land sakes! . . . Say, CAN'T you talk sensible, if you try real hard and set your mind to it? What is there to hurrah about?"
"Everything. The whole situation. Atkins," Brown leaned forward now and spoke with earnestness, "I like your motto. It suits me.
'Mind your own business' suits me down to the ground. It proves that you and I were made to work together in a place just like this."
"Does, hey? I want to know!"
"You do know. Why, just think: each of us has pleaded 'not guilty.'
We've done nothing--we're entirely innocent--and we want to forget it. I agree not to ask you how old you are, nor why you wear your brand of whiskers, nor how you like them, nor--nor anything. I agree not to ask questions at all."
"Humph! but you asked some last night."
"Purely by accident. You didn't answer them. You asked me some, also, if you will remember, and I didn't answer them, either. Good!
We forget everything and agree not to do it again."
"Ugh! I tell you I ain't done nothin'."
"I know. Neither have I. Let the dead past be its own undertaker, so far as we are concerned. I'm honest, Atkins, and tolerably straight. I believe you are; I really do. But we don't care to talk about ourselves, that's all. And, fortunately, kind Providence has brought us together in a place where there's no one else TO talk. I like you, I credit you with good taste; therefore, you must like me."
"Hey? Ho, ho!" Seth laughed, in spite of himself. "Young man," he observed, "you ain't cultivated your modesty under glass, have you?"
