If it had been winter, or even early spring or fall, a regular assistant
would have been appointed at once, and the castaway given his walking
papers. If Seth Atkins had not been Seth Atkins, particular friend of
the district superintendent, matters might have been different. But the
Eastboro lights were unimportant, merely a half-way mark between Orham
on the one hand and the powerful Seaboard Heights beacon on the other.
It was the beginning of summer, when wrecks almost never occurred. And
the superintendent liked Seth, and Seth liked him. So, although Mr.
Atkins still scoffed at his guest's becoming a permanent fixture at the
lights, and merely consented, after more parley, to see if he couldn't
arrange for him to "hang around and help a spell until somebody else was
sent," the conversation with the superintendent over the long distance
'phone resulted more favorably for Brown than that nonchalant young
gentleman had a reasonable right to expect.

"The Lord knows who I can send you now, Atkins!" said the
superintendent. "I can't think of a man anywhere that can be spared. If
you can get on for a day or two longer, I'll try to get a helper down!
but where he's coming from I don't see."

Then Seth sprung the news that he had a "sort of helper" already. "He's
a likely young chap enough," admitted the lightkeeper, whispering the
words into the transmitter, in order that the "likely young chap" might
not hear; "but he's purty green yet. He wants the reg'lar job and, give
me time enough, I cal'late I can break him in. Yes, I'm pretty sure
I can. And it's the off season, so there really ain't no danger. In a
month he'd be doin' fust-rate."

"Who is he? Where did he come from?" asked the superintendent.