"We will have a good time," said Dave. "All ready! Shove off! Bound for the lighthouse!"

The old schooner was left to its own reflections in the sober moonlight, and the boat slowly crept over the quiet waters to the tall lighthouse tower.

III.

_DID THE SCHOONER COME BACK?_

Mr. Toby Tolman sat in the snug little kitchen of the lighthouse tower.

He was alone, but the clock ticked on the wall, and the kettle purred contentedly on the stove. Music and company in those sounds.

The light-keeper had just visited the lantern, had seen that the lamp was burning satisfactorily, had looked out on the wide sea to detect, if possible, any sign of fog, had "felt of the wind," as he termed it, but did not discover any hint of rough weather. Having p.r.o.nounced all things satisfactory, he had come down to the kitchen to read awhile in his Bible. The gray-haired keeper loved his Bible. It was a companion to him when lonely, a pillow of rest when his soul was weary with cares, a lamp of guidance when he was uncertain about the way for his feet, a high, strong rock of refuge when sorrows hunted his soul.

"I just love my Bible," he said.

He had reason to say it. What book can match it?

As he sat contentedly reading its beautiful promises, he caught the sound of singing.

"Some fishermen going home," he said, and read on. After a while he heard the sound of a vigorous pounding on the lighthouse door.

"Why, why!" he exclaimed in amazement, "what is that?"

He rose and hastily descended the stair-way leading to the entrance of the lighthouse. To gain admission to the lighthouse, one first pa.s.sed through the fog-signal tower. The lighthouse proper was built of stone; the other tower was of iron. They rose side by side. A covered pa.s.sage-way five feet long connected the two towers, and entrance from the outside was first through the fog-signal tower. The foundation of each tower was a stubborn ledge that the sea would cover at high-water, and it was now necessary to have all doors beyond the reach of the roughly-grasping breakers. Otherwise they would have unpleasantly pressed for admittance, and might have gained it. The entrance to the fog-signal tower was about twenty feet above the summit of the ledge, and from the door dropped a ladder closely fastened to the tower's red wall. Around the door was a railed platform of iron, and through a hole in the platform a person stepped down upon the rounds of the ladder.

Toby Tolman seized a lantern, and crossing the pa.s.sage-way connecting the two towers, entered the fog-signal tower, and so gained the entrance. Just above the threshold of the door he saw the head and shoulders of a boy standing on the ladder.

"Why! who's this, at this time of night?" said Toby.

"Good-evening, sir. Excuse me, but I wanted to ask you something."

It was Dave Fletcher.

"Any trouble?"

"Well, yes."

"Come in, come in! Don't be bashful. Lighthouses are for folks in trouble."

"Thank you."

When Dave had climbed into the tower d.i.c.k Fray's curly head appeared.

"Oh, any more of you?" asked the keeper. "Bring him along."

"Good-evening," said d.i.c.k.

Then Jimmy Davis thrust up his head.

"Oh, another?" asked Toby. "How many?"

"Not through yet, Mr. Tolman," said Dave, laughing.

Johnny Richards stuck up his grinning face above the threshold.

"Any more?" said the light-keeper.

And this inquiry Dab Richards answered in person, relieving the ladder of its last load.

"Why, why! wasn't expecting this! All castaways?"

"Pretty near it, Mr. Tolman," said d.i.c.k.

"Come up into the kitchen, and then let us have your story, boys."

They followed the light-keeper into the kitchen, so warm, so cheerfully lighted.

In the boat d.i.c.k Pray had been very bold, and said he would go ahead and "beard the lion in his den;" but when at the foot of the lighthouse, he concluded he would silently allow Dave to precede him. The warmth of the kitchen thawed out d.i.c.k's tongue, and now that he was inside he kept a part of his word, and made an explanation to the light-keeper. He stated that they had had permission to "picnic" on the schooner, had--had--"got adrift"--somehow--and were caught on the bar, and the question was what to do.

"Perhaps you can advise us still further," explained Dave. "One suggestion is that when the tide turns we pull up anchor and drift back with the tide."

"Anchor?" asked Mr. Toby Tolman. "I thought you went on because you couldn't help it. Didn't know you dropped anchor there."

d.i.c.k blushed and cleared his throat.

"The schooner was anch.o.r.ed, but," said d.i.c.k, choking a little, "we--we--got--got--into water too deep for our anchor, and kept on drifting till the anchor caught in the bar."

"Oh!" said the light-keeper, who now saw a little deeper into the mystery, though all was not clear to him yet. "What will you do now?

It is a good rule generally, when you don't know which way to move, not to move. Now, if you pull up anchor and let the next tide take you back, there is no telling where it will take you. Some bad rocks in our harbour as well as a lot of sand. 'Sharks' Fins' you know about. An ugly place. Now let me think a moment."

The light-keeper in deep thought walked up and down the floor, while the five boys cl.u.s.tered about the stove like bees flocking to a flaming hollyhock.

"See here: I advise this. Don't trouble that anchor to-night. The sea is quiet. No harm will be done the schooner, and her anchor has probably got a good grip on some rocks down below, and the tide won't start her. A tug will bring down a new schooner from Shipton to-morrow, and I will signal to the cap'n, and you can get him to tow you back.

What say?" asked the keeper. "'Twill cost something."

"That plan looks sensible," said Dave. "I will give my share of the expense."

d.i.c.k looked down in silence. He wanted to get back without any exposure of his fault. The tug meant exposure, for the world outside would know it. The tide as motive power, drifting the schooner back, would tell no tales if the schooner went to the right place. There would, however, be danger of collision with rocks, and then the bill of expense would be greater and the exposure more mortifying. He scratched his head and hesitated, but finally a.s.sented to the tug-boat plan, and so did the other boys.

"Very well, then," said the keeper, "make yourselves at home, and I'll do all I can to make you comfortable."

What, stay there? Did he mean it? He meant a night of comfort in the lighthouse.

What a night that was!

"I wouldn't have missed it for twenty pounds," Johnny Richards said to those at home.