haven't any friends, any that I wish to remember; I haven't any job.
I am what you might call down and out. If I had drowned when I fell
overboard last night, it might have been a good thing--or it might not.
We won't argue the question, because just now I'm ready to take either
side. But let's talk about yourself. You're lightkeeper here?"

"I be, yes."

"And these particular lights seem to be a good way from everywhere and
everybody."

"Five mile from Eastboro Center, sixteen from Denboro, and two from the
nighest life savin' station. Why?"

"Oh, just for instance. No neighbors, you said?"

"Nary one."

"I noticed a bungalow just across the brook here. It seems to be shut
up. Who owns it?"

"Bunga--which? Oh, that cottage over on t'other side the crick? That
b'longs to a couple of paintin' fellers from up Boston way. Not house
painters, you understand, but fellers that put in their time paintin'
pictures of the water and the beach and the like of that. Seems a pretty
silly job for grown-up men, but they're real pleasant and folksy. Don't
put on no airs nor nothin.' They're most gen'rally here every June and
July and August, but I understand they ain't comin' this year, so the
cottage'll be shut up. I'll miss 'em, kind of. One of 'em's name is
Graham and t'other's Hamilton."