RULY no one ever looked into a face more beaming than Regie's when Mrs. Fairfax told him of their plan to leave him in Sister Julia's care, and that they were both to board at the Murrays.
“I've been wondering what you would do,” said Regie. “I knew you could not take along a boy on crutches; and, Mamma Fairfax,” he added, ruefully, “I thought I was in the way for once at any rate.”
Then Mrs. Fairfax drew the little fellow into her lap, and said, very tenderly and earnestly, “Remember this, Regie Fairfax: you have never been in the way yet, and you never will be so long as you stay the dear good boy you are to-day.” A grateful, happy look came into Regie's face, and he nestled his head close down on Mamma Fairfax's shoulder, quite forgetting that nine-year-old boys are supposed not to care in the least for that sort of thing.
Well, the day for the move to the Murrays dawned at last, though at times it had seemed to Regie as if it never would come.
In the thought that he was going to live in the same house with Nan and Harry, the little reprobate almost forgot he was to say good-bye to Papa and Mamma Fairfax for three whole months at least. But Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax were quite willing he should forget it, and were only too delighted to see the little fellow anticipating so much happiness. It would have been sad enough to have sailed away over that great ocean, leaving a brokenhearted as well as a broken-legged little Reginald behind them.
Still dependent upon his crutches, Regie of course could not help very much with the packing, but as he sat on the piazza, in the warm September sunshine, Sister Julia gave him a lapful of his own neckties to sort over and fold into a box. They were to move that very afternoon. It was half-past eleven now, and at twelve Harry and Nan were coming, as they thought, to say “Good-bye.”
Puzzled little Nan and Harry! They had not heard a word of Reginald's coming to stay with them. Had they known it, they would not have been trudging sorrowfully along the beach as they were that very moment. Naturally they wondered at the strange preparations going forward at home. Fresh dimity curtains had been tacked up in the room over the kitchen, and there was a new bowl and pitcher on the wash-stand, and some red-bordered towels that were very beautiful in Nan's eyes. But when the children asked their mother the reason for all this, she had told them that times were a little hard, as indeed they were, and that they were going to take a couple to board.
“I don't like the idea of a couple to board at all,” Harry had confided to Nan when they were gathering up the chips one morning in the woodshed.
“Neither do I,” sighed Nan, “but if times are hard of course we ought to make the best of it.” That Sister Julia and Reginald were the couple never entered their foolish little heads for a second.
Regie sat sorting the neckties, putting the worn ones, and the ones he did not like, at the bottom of the box, you may be sure. Now and then he would stop to watch the four Brooks' boys, who were playing tennis in front of their cottage, and then it seemed as though he could not stand keeping still another moment; but he knew he must, and that word must is a very tyrannical and exacting little master. Presently the waggon from the store at Atlanticville, where they sold everything, from kerosene oil to shoe-strings, drove up and stopped; and a little errand boy, no larger than Regie, jumped down and pulled a basket out from the back. The basket was filled with groceries, and was so very heavy that the boy had to slip the handle way up to his elbow, so that he could rest part of its weight on his hip, as he carried it into the Brooks's kitchen.
When he came out again he stopped to watch the little tennis players with such a wistful look on his thin face, while the old horse, as overworked as his child-driver, improved the opportunity for a hurried browsing on the Fairfax terrace.
“What a difference!” thought Regie, noting the contrast between the boys in knickerbockers and polo caps and this shabby little stranger. “I wonder why some boys have to wear themselves out trudging round with dinners for other boys who do nothing but have a good time the whole summer long!”
In another moment the little fellow jumped into his waggon, and, as if to make up for lost time, jerked the old horse into a bobbing sort of gait, which was something better than a walk and yet could not honestly be called a trot Then Reginald sat dreaming and looking out to sea. Perhaps he was thinking of a time when there might be a better order of things, not exactly of a better world,—that blue ocean and cloud-flecked sky were about as beautiful as anything could be—but of a time when the sins and misfortunes of the fathers should no longer be visited upon the children, and when everyone should have an equal chance. At any rate his thoughts were far away from anything about him, and Harry and Nan came nearer and nearer, without his ever seeing them, and he only knew they were there when Nan rushed up in front of him and said “Boo!” as if to frighten him out of his reverie.
“Why, I did not see you at all!” exclaimed Regie.
“Of course you didn't; you were looking right over our heads,” said Harry, seating himself on the edge of the piazza, and straightway beginning to whittle on a block, which was fast being converted into a boat hull. “You seem to be able to see farther than anyone I know of,” he added. “You looked then as though you were staring right round the world and up the other side.” Reginald blushed a little. Somehow or other, in the presence of matter-of-fact Harry, he always felt ashamed of this dreaming habit of his.
“We're awful sorry you're going,” said Nan. “It's so dull for bodyguards when there's no king to care for.”
“I'm glad you're sorry,” said Regie, biting his lip to keep from smiling. He did not want to have the pleasure of telling them over quite yet. Then there was a lull in the conversation. It was going to be very lonely without Regie, and the bodyguard, particularly Nan, had little heart for conversation.
“How's your base-ball club getting on, Harry?” asked Reginald, feeling he must either keep matters going or tell right away. “It was great fun your beating those fellows up at the Branch.”
“It was quite a beat,” Harry replied, complacently, “but I guess our beating days are over.”
“Why?” asked Regie, astonished.
“Oh, our catcher, the best in the 'nine,' you know, is disabled.”
“That's too bad, but I suppose he'll get over it,” said Regie, cheerily.
“Well, I rather guess not,” Harry drily remarked; “he's dead,” and he held the little boat-hull at arm's length to get a better view of its shape. If Nan had been paying attention she would have taken Harry to task for speaking in such apparently heartless fashion of poor little Joe Moore's death. But instead of listening, she was wondering when would be the best time to give Regie a little rubber pencil-case her right hand was affectionately clasping, as it lay in the bottom of her pocket. There was another long pause, and Reginald could keep his secret no longer.
“Children,” he said, importantly, “where do you suppose I am going to when I leave here?”
“To New York, of course,” replied Nan, with a little sigh.
“No, sir'ree; to Captain Epher Murray's;” and Regie, glancing from one puzzled face to the other, fairly beamed with delight.
“To our house?” said Nan, incredulously.
“By Jimmini!” exclaimed Harry, tossing his hat so high in the air that it caught on the leader of the roof.
“It isn't so!” said Nan, decidedly, and shaking her head from side to side, showing that she believed that to be one of the things literally too good to be true.
“Yes, it is true,” said Sister Julia, who had just come on to the porch with her arms full of boxes; “and I am coming too, and the pony, and Hereward, and Ned.”
“And we're going to stay till Christmas,” chimed in Regie.
“And what is more,” added Sister Julia, “we are coming this very day, and you have arrived just in time to escort the king in person, as a true bodyguard should. His little Royal Highness will ride in his own court carriage,” and as she spoke Pet and the village cart jogged up to the door.
Then for a few moments Sister Julia and Nan busied themselves, stowing away in the cart such valuable commodities as two or three tennis racquets, a base-ball bat, a tool chest, a small photographing camera, and other things too numerous to mention. Meanwhile Harry, to use his own expressive English, had “shinned up” one of the piazza posts, and succeeded in regaining his jubilant hat.
Nan's brown little face as she bustled about was wreathed in smiles, but she said nothing. Awhile ago she was too sorry to talk, and now she was too happy.
Finally, Sister Julia helped Reginald into the cart, and Nan, with Regie's crutches in her lap, took her seat on one side and Harry on the other.
'“When is your mother going?” questioned Harry.
“To-morrow morning early,” Reginald replied.
“Well, don't you want to say goodbye to her?”
“Do you suppose I'd be going off like this, Harry Murray, if I were not going to see her again?” with as much imperiousness as a real king.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax are coming to your house to-night to supper,” Sister Julia explained.
“They are, are they?” said Harry, somewhat gruffly. “Well, I think they might have told Nan and me something about it all.”
“Oh! I don't,” Nan cried, eagerly. “I think s'prises are lovely. I love to be s'prised.”
“And I love to s'prise people,” said Reginald; “and so Mamma Fairfax planned for me to do it.”
“Now I guess you're all ready,” Sister Julia remarked, wisely changing the subject, as she tucked the linen lap-robe close about Nan, so that her stiffly-starched little gingham dress should not puff out against the wheel.
“Where are the dogs?” asked Harry, looking forward to their establishment in his home with possibly as much interest as to that of their little master.
Regie gave a loud, shrill whistle. That was one of the few things he could do just as well as before he broke his leg, and so he seemed to take special delight in doing it. Hereward and Ned came bounding from some point back of the house, and Pet, seeming to understand that all was in readiness, started off of his own accord. Hereward and Ned, comprehending at once that they were to be allowed to follow, flew hither and yon in the wildest manner, bringing up at the cart every few minutes as if to report proceedings.
“Regie, why do you always say Papa Fairfax and Mamma Fairfax, instead of just papa and mamma?” Nan asked presently. Evidently she had been turning the matter over in her mind for some seconds.
“Because—because—” Regie hesitated,—“because, don't you know, I'm adopted.”
“'Dopted,” said the children, in one breath. Reginald nodded his head in the affirmative, and sat thoughtfully watching the sand as it fell from the wheel with each revolution. If he had looked into Nan's face or Harry's he would have seen a world of wonder in it.
Finally Nan said, in a very sympathetic way, as though she felt it must be something very dreadful,—
“I do not know just what being adopted means, but have you always been so?”
“Almost always. You see, Nan, my own father died when I was a little fellow, and then Papa Fairfax, who was my father's best friend, took me for his own little boy; and that being took is being adopted.”
In certain earnest moments Regie often forgot all about grammar.
“O—h!” said Nan.
It is astonishing how much that one word may mean when one gives it the right inflection. As Nan used it, it stood for “Yes, I understand now; you need never say another word about it, but isn't it strange? Not your own father and mother! I shall have to do a great deal of thinking about that.”
By this time Pet had travelled the half mile between the cottages, but without doubt Hereward and Ned had made two miles of it. Regie half believed they had understood the conversations going on about them, and knew that they were to be permitted to enjoy, for three months longer, the freedom of their life by the sea, instead of being cooped up in the cramped backyard in town. At any rate, they were a pair of very jolly dogs that warm September morning.
T was quite an event in the Murray family to have such people as the Fairfaxes come to supper, and perhaps it was not strange that great preparations were being made; but you might have thought that Mrs. Murray expected Mrs. Fairfax to go straight through her cottage on a tour of critical inspection. The whole house was put in apple-pie order—whatever that may mean—from the cool, clean-smelling cellar, to the little triangular attic, redolent of thyme and sage and other dried things hanging from the rafters. Not that there was ever much disorder in that neat little household; but the fact that the Fairfaxes were coming seemed to lend an extra touch of thoroughness to everything that Mrs. Murray did.
Soon after the children's arrival Sister Julia knocked at the door, and was warmly welcomed. She busied herself right away with unpacking the trunks, which had been sent down that morning, while Regie sat at the pretty curtained window of the room that was to be his, telling Sister Julia where to put his own particular treasures. Already he was fond of that little window, from which he could look straight out to sea.
Nan was busy in the kitchen, cutting out the thinnest of little round cookies from dough that her mother had mixed. Some of them were already in the oven, and sending such a delicious savoury smell up into Regie's room!
Harry was active, making things comfortable for Ned and Hereward in the barn.
It was a very happy afternoon all round, though withal a trifle sad too; for there is always something in the atmosphere more or less depressing on the eve of any decided change, no matter how satisfactorily everything may have been arranged for everybody. At six o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax came down the beach, and at half-past six supper was on the table. Such an inviting little supper-table, with its snowy cloth, polished plated service, and shining glass lamp in the centre, to say nothing of innumerable good things to eat, including a dish heaped high with a delicious “floating island,” such as few besides Mrs. Murray know how to make. The canary, in his cage over the plants, was singing away for dear life, as if he wanted to make the occasion just as merry as possible; and Hereward and Ned, who must have sniffed the buttered toast and broiled mackerel from outside, scratched away at the door trying to gain admission. Then they bounded to the window, and planting their paws upon the sill, peered in with a most beseeching look on their intelligent faces.
I wonder what they thought of what they saw?
The family were standing at their places at the table with their heads bowed, and Captain Murray was asking a blessing, a long blessing with a little prayer midway, for the dear friends going on so “distant a journey.”
Ah! Ned and Hereward, there lies the difference; true and loving and grateful as you are, you cannot comprehend that there is a Father in heaven willing to hear and answer the prayer of, every soul He has created.
“Let the good fellows in to-night,” said Captain Murray, when the blessing was over, and he discovered the dogs at the window. Harry unlatched the door only too gladly, and they came leaping in; but acting under orders from their lord and master, soon dropped quietly down in one corner to wait as patiently as possible for their own supper time. Regie sat next to Mamma Fairfax, holding his fork in the wrong hand now and then, that he might give her left hand a squeeze under the table. Regie was happy and contented, and yet there was a real little ache in his heart. She was going a long way from home, that dear Mamma Fairfax of his, and how could he help feeling somewhat sad about it?
Mr. Fairfax was apparently very full of fun that night, and amused the children, telling of certain strange pranks of his own when he was a boy.
Mrs. Murray laughed whenever the others did, but she really did not hear much that was going on, she was so thoroughly preoccupied in seeing if Mrs. Fairfax would not have another biscuit, or if Mr. Fairfax's cup was empty, and in caring that everyone had plenty to eat. When supper was finished, Sister Julia in her quiet, helpful way insisted upon aiding Mrs. Murray to clear the table. Little Nan attended to her regular share of the work, and as a result, soon paraded a wonderfully bright row of tumblers on the lowest shelf of the dresser. When the red cloth had been laid on the table, Captain Murray brought out a great map, and they all gathered about while Mr. Fairfax showed them the plan of their journey.
“You'll get it out often and keep track of us, won't you?” he said to Regie, taking the crutches from his hand and lifting him to his knee.
“Every night,” Regie promised, solemnly.
“Not every night, Rex,” said Mr. Fairfax. “That will not be necessary, because you see we shall spend a week in London, and another whole week in Berlin, and two weeks perhaps in Paris.”
“Shall you?” asked Regie, ruefully.
“Why, to be sure; have you any objections, Rex?”
“Oh, I thought you'd keep going and going until you got back again. I shall not like to think of you as stopping so long anywhere.”
“We shall come home just as soon,” laughed Mr. Fairfax, giving that little adopted boy of his the most genuine sort of a fatherly hug.
All too soon it was nine o'clock, and time for the children to go to bed.
Mrs. Fairfax went up herself with Regie. Sister Julia had been up before her and lighted the candle, and laid Regie's night-dress out on the bed.
“You will try not to give Mrs. Murray any trouble, won't you, dear?” said Mrs. Fairfax, helping Regie to undress.
“Yes, I will, Mamma Fairfax,” Regie answered, with a little quiver in his voice.
“And you will write to me once a week?”
“Yes, mamma,” with two little quivers.
“And you will do just as Sister Julia tells you?”
“Yes,” and with a great sob Regie hid his face on her shoulder.
“Why, Rex darling, do you really care so much?” said Mrs. Fairfax, with tears in her own eyes. “Well, I am proud that you do, and you will be all the more glad to have us home again. In the meantime, you will be very happy in this dear little home with Harry and Nan.”
“Yes, I know I will,” said Regie, with a shadow of a smile.
“And your little crutches will be hanging on the wall long before that time, because you will have no further need of them.”
“Yes, I know,” said Regie, with a face almost wreathed in smiles at the thought, as he scrambled into bed.
Then Mr. Fairfax ran up the little flight, two steps at a time, to bid him good-bye.
There was considerable whispering and hugging between the little fellow inside the bed and the big fellow outside, and then in another moment Papa Fairfax was gone.
And then it was Mamma Fairfax's turn. “I will send Sister Julia right up,” she said, for Regie should not be left alone that night. “And now two of your best hugs and five of your best kisses—and now, my own dear little Rex, good-night and goodbye.”
T nine o'clock Thursday evening Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax had bade farewell to their friends at Moorlow. At nine o'clock Friday morning the train whirled by on its way to Sandy Hook, and then they waved good-bye from the car windows, as they had promised, to Regie and Harry and Nan, who, seated on a pile of railroad ties, had been watching and waiting for the train a long half hour. At nine o'clock Saturday morning Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax went on board the Alaska, which some one has called “the greyhound of the sea,” and a half hour later the good ship steamed out into the Bay.
“Well, I suppose you've seen the last of 'em,” said Captain Murray, joining the little party just as the train had disappeared, and looking closely at Regie to see how he was taking it.
“The last for a while, I suppose, sir,” said Regie, in a firm little voice, but nevertheless gazing very wistfully down the track in the direction of the vanishing train. “I would have given a good deal,” he added, “to have seen the big ship they are going on.”
“You would? Well, why not?” said the captain. “Yes, why not?” looking from one puzzled face to the other in an amused sort of fashion.
“Oh!” said Harry, “do you mean that you'll take us to the Highland Light?”
“Of course I do. Where else, to be sure? We can drive over with Dobbin early to-morrow morning. I'll take the glass along, and we'll have a good look at the Alaska, every one of us. What time does she leave the dock, Reginald?” for the honest captain believed in calling people and things by their right names.
“Half-past nine, sir,” said Regie, promptly, for he was well posted on all the details of the projected journey.
“Then she'll round the Hook about eleven.”.
“Is the lighthouse very high?” asked Regie, his face aglow with excitement.
“High enough to see a long way out to sea,” answered the captain.
“I was not thinking of that,” said Regie, rather ruefully. “I was thinking I could not climb up so very many stairs with these crutches.”
“But you can go up mighty easy without them. See! just like this,” and Captain Murray caught Regie in his arms as easily as Regie himself would have lifted a kitten. “Bring the crutches, Nan,” he added, “there's no use in staying here any longer.”
“I believe Papa and Mamma Fairfax would like to know we were looking at them,” said Regie, with his arms clasped firmly round the captain's neck. “They could not see us, but they could know we were there.”
“To be sure,” said the captain, making use of those three monosyllables on every possible occasion; “and we'll stop at the railroad station on our way home now, and telegraph them to be on the lookout for us.”
“You're a magnificent captain!” said Regie, never hesitating to express honest admiration.
“I'm glad you think so,” replied the captain, tightening his hold of the warm-hearted little fellow, “but unfortunately your saying so does not make it true.”
“But, papa, it is true,” said Nan, loyally, catching hold of her father's coat, and trudging along by his side. “All the men say so at the Life-saving Station, and I guess they ought to know.”
“None of them have ever been to sea with me, Nan.”
“They know about you all the same,” said Harry, with a significant shake of his head; for he was very proud of his tall father, and of his handsome weather-beaten face.
They had reached the little Gothic railroad station, and Captain Murray sat Regie down on the operator's table while he wrote this telegram on one of the yellow paper blanks:—
“Mr. Curtis Fairfax,
“No. —, Wall St., New York.
“The children will wave you good-bye from the Highland Light at eleven o'clock to-morrow, rain or shine.
“Epher Murray.”
In two hours back came this answer:—
“Captain Epher Murray,
“Moorlow, New Jersey.
“Good for you. Keep a sharp lookout for special signals.
“C. Fairfax.”
“A sharp lookout for special signals!” the words kept ringing in the children's ears.
“What can he mean to do—my darling old Papa Fairfax?” thought Regie, as he dropped off into a sound sleep that night.
At eight o'clock the next morning, Sister Julia and Regie and Nan climbed into the back seat of Cap-. tain Murray's waggon, while Harry took the place beside his father in front.
Faithful old Dobbin broke straightway into a canter, bound for the “Highland Light,” and fortunately for the party there was no “rain,” but plenty of “shine” instead.
Down the fine boulevard they went, past the fine houses, through Sea Bright, with its queer medley of summer cottages, hotels, and fishermen's huts; then crossing and recrossing the track again and again, because the drive on that narrow strip of land between the ocean and the Shewsbury river constantly accommodates itself to the curves of the railroad; over the rickety Highland Bridge, stopping to pay toll on the draw; past the bevy of cottages, where a number of actors and actresses have established a little colony of their own; up the steep hill, with the great seams washed in the road by the heavy rains, but wide enough and deep enough to seem more like the work of an earthquake; finally coming to a halt at the gate which opens on the rear of the grand old lighthouse.
“Why, how do you do, captain? Want to show the youngsters through the light?” asked the keeper, appearing in the doorway at the sound of the waggon wheels.
“Want to do more than that,” answered Captain Murray, lifting his little party out one by one; “want to see the Alaska off for Europe.”
“Friends on board?”
“This little chap's father and mother.”
“Oh, that's it, is it?” said the keeper. “But what's happened the little fellow?” glancing at Regie's crutches.
“He fell from a cherry tree a few week ago,” Sister Julia explained, as they walked towards the house.
“Stealing cherries, eh?” chuckled the man, giving Regie a significant little nudge.
“Indeed, I wasn't,” answered Regie, with some indignation.
“Why, Reginald, he is only joking,” Sister Julia said, reprovingly.
“Of course I was,” said the keeper. “Such a bright little fellow as you look to be ought to know when a man's joking.”
“Yes, I know I ought,” Regie answered, blushing. “I spoke before I thought; you must excuse me, Mr. Keeper.”
“'Mr. Keeper,'” laughed the man, “well! that's a new name for Joe Canfield; but I like it, and you're a mighty honest little fellow. When you're ready to go up, you can leave your crutches below here, and I'll carry you over every one of those blessed stairs myself.”
“You'd better let papa do that,” said Nan, “he's pretty heavy, and we wouldn't have anything happen to him for the world.”
“Do you think I would drop him, little one? Never you fear; I could carry you both as well as not;” whereupon Nan started to travel briskly up the stairs, as if to show him she was quite equal to doing her own climbing.
“Bide a bit, miss,” called the keeper. “You won't be able to sight the Alaska for a half hour yet. If you want to understand about the light you'd better look about down here first.” Then he led the way into a room on the ground floor, where the oil for the lights was stored, the little party following him closely, with the exception of Captain Murray, whom the children were glad to have go “on watch” in the balcony of the light, for fear, by any chance, the Alaska should be sighted ahead of time.
“I suppose you have noticed before you came in, ma'am,” said Keeper Canfield, addressing Sister Julia, “that this lighthouse has two towers and two lights? The dwellings for the keepers' families are in between 'em, and there we live as cosy and comfortable as can be. If you have time when you come down you must take a peep at our baby. Have you ever seen a lighthouse baby?” he added, turning to Nan.
“Never,” said Nan, seriously.
“Well, a lighthouse baby is worth seeing, for somehow or other they look brighter than ordinary babies. It seems as though they were born with a notion that their two eyes must cheer us old codgers on life's great sea, just as the lights in the tower there cheer the sailors.”
The children looked wonderingly up at their guide, not quite sure whether he were in earnest or no.
“Now, you see,” he continued, “this is the room where we store the oil, and how much do you suppose we burn in a year? Forty-five hundred gallons! We burn mineral oil, that is, oil that comes out from the ground through the oil wells.”
The room in which they were standing was flanked with wooden boxes, each containing a full oil-can, and everything was scrupulously neat, for not a speck of dust was to be seen anywhere.
“Now I guess we had better go up,” said the keeper, when a good many questions had been asked and answered, “and we'll go easy, so as not to lose our breath;” then, taking Regie's crutches in one hand, he lifted him into his arms.
“And, Nan,” said Sister Julia, “you had better take hold of my hand, for fear your little head should grow dizzy on this winding flight.”
Of course Harry was half-way up before the rest of the party had even started.
The keeper landed Regie safely right inside the light itself, and indeed it was large enough to hold them all. What a marvellous place it was! It seemed as though they were in a beautiful crystal house, for they were surrounded by tier after tier of glass prisms, so arranged as to project the light from the lantern against a series of brass reflectors at the back, and they, in turn, throw the light twenty-five miles out to sea.
The children were too much awed by the wonderful contrivance to even speak, until Harry slipped out of the light and peered in at them through the glass. It made him look very funny—eyes, nose, mouth, every feature appeared to be drawn out lengthwise by the prisms.
“Why, Harry Murray!” cried Nan, “you're a disgrace to the family. I never saw anything so ugly in all my life!”
“I wish you could come out here and have a look at yourself, then,” Harry called back. “Your head is about two inches high, and two feet wide. You could stand in a bandbox, you are so short, but it would take a dozen of 'em to hold you the other way!”
Nan and Harry were so much amused with these ridiculous distortions that Reginald was the only one who really paid attention to the keeper's description of the lantern, but he listened sagely, and plied questions fast enough to atone for the indifference of the others. Harry might be partially excused for his inattention, on the ground that he had been through the light two or three times before. As for Nan, it must be confessed that she was not of an inquiring turn of mind.
“There's one sad thing about this light,” said the keeper to Reginald, who sat on a little stool with his crutches laid across his knees. “There's one very sad thing, and that is, that some sailors do not understand what it is for at all. They seem to be fascinated by it, and they steer straight for it, and of course there's no help in the end, but that they all get wrecked on the bar.”
“Why, that's very queer,” said Reginald. “I should think a man wasn't fit to be a sailor at all unless he understood about lighthouses and things.”
“So it would seem,” said the keeper, with a shrug; “but I've thought sometimes that the trouble is with their steering apparatus, and that the poor things are more to be pitied than blamed. The moment they come in sight of the light, their helms seem to get bewitched, and first thing they know their queer-rigged little crafts are headed straight for the light, and on they come, sort of in spite of themselves, and with death staring them right in the face.”
“Have there been many wrecks lately?” asked Reginald, his eyes as large as saucers.
“Five last night.”
Regie stared at the man with a look that meant plainly, “I don't believe a word of it,” and the keeper laughed outright. Sister Julia, sitting at the top of the little flight of stairs just outside the lantern, watched him with an amused smile on her face; and Nan, who was listening now, was interested enough to wish that she had heard it all.
“You think that I am telling you a yarn, don't you, youngster?” said the keeper to Regie, “but 'pon honour it is every word true. If you don't believe it, I'll show you the five little wrecks lying in a row on a bench in the yard, just as I picked 'em up this morning.”
“Picked 'em up!” said Regie, scornfully.
“Yes, sir, picked 'em up. The reason you don't understand me is because you spell sailor with an “o,” but in this case you must spell it with an “e”—sailers, you see—which is only another name for birds, you know.”
It was Regie's turn to laugh now. “You fooled me pretty well,” he said; but Nan looked more ready to cry.
“Do you mean,” said she, “that five little birds flew against this lantern last night, and killed themselves?”
“Five last night, and six the night before,” said the man, as though the truth must be told, no matter how unpleasant.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted Captain Murray from the tower balcony, where he had been on watch for the last half hour. All knew what that meant, and Sister Julia and Nan and Harry hurried down the little flight that led from the lantern to the balcony, and the keeper quickly caught Regie in his arms again.
“Where is she?” cried Regie, impatiently, as though he could hardly wait for an answer.
“You can see her with the naked eye,” replied the captain, “away off there in a direct line from the Hook. I knew her build and rig the moment she came in sight; but she's flying a queer sort of flag,” putting his glass to his eye.
“Perhaps it's the special signal Mr. Fairfax telegraphed us to look out for,” said sister Julia.
“Please let me have a look,” cried Reginald, almost pulling the glass from Captain Murray's hands in his eagerness. It took a moment to adjust it to his eyesight, and then he exclaimed, almost breathless with excitement. “Yes, there's a big red flag with some large yellow thing on it. Oh, I know, it's a flag from one of Papa Fairfax's warehouses, and the yellow thing is a coffee canister; see, Captain Murray, see if it isn't.”
Captain Murray took the glass back again. “Yes, you're right, Reginald,” he said; “but there's something on the flag beside the canister, something that looks like letters.”
“Perhaps it is a message,” cried Rex, fairly wild with excitement. “Oh! please let me see if I can make them out.” Once again the glass was quickly re-adjusted to Regie's sight, while Nan and Harry pressed their faces close to his, as though being as close as possible to the glass was the next best thing to looking through it. “Yes, they are letters,” said Regie more calmly, “big white letters, and the first is a G, I think, and the next an O, but the flag waves so I cannot read the rest.”
“'Perhaps it's 'Good-bye,'” said Nan.
“Of course it is,” cried Regie, “I see the B now, and the E; but there's another word besides. Try, Nan, if you can make it out,” and Regie with much self-denial gave up his place at the glass.
Wind and tide seemed always to favour little Nan, for at that very moment a stiff breeze caught the flag and held it out bravely, so that she read “Good-bye, Regie,” as easily as from her spelling book at school.
Oh! how the message thrilled through and through Regie's excited little frame.