“What’s her sails for?”

“I dunno.  I often wondered, though.  They’ve been tied up, just like you see ’em now—­stopped snug and neat between gaffs and booms—­for, oh, I dunno—­twenty years now, I reckon.  I know I’ve yet to see ’em hoisted.  But when’ll I come and get you?”

“I’ll send word to the yard station by wireless, to Harty or whoever’s on watch there, when we get it rigged.”

“All right.  And say, a great thing that wireless, ain’t it?  Well, good luck.”  Baldwin gave the bell and the Whist backed away.  He rolled his wheel over, gave her another bell and around she came; then the jingle and ahead she went full-speed, which in smooth water was almost eight knots.

The light-ship crew, headed by her yellow-haired keeper, stood around and watched Bowen and his helpers assembling the parts of the wireless.  A momentous occasion for the light-ship crew, for nobody bothered them much.  Once every two months the supply ship came around, and sometimes, if the weather was fine, some unhurried coaster would stand in and toss them a bundle of newspapers.  But no running alongside old 67 by any big fellows.  A good point of departure, Tide Rip Shoal!  Sight it over your stern and lay your course by her, but otherwise give her a wide berth; for you could pile up a ten-thousand tonner on that shoal or the beach to the west and—­yes, sir, high and dry, before you knew it, especially if it was thick and you were coming from the east’ard.  No, the big fellows were satisfied to have a peek at Tide Rip through a long glass; and so on 67 anything at all except a spell of bad weather stirred them deeply.

In the daylight hours Bowen and his helpers worked at their wireless, and at night they sat in with the light-ship crew.  Bowen usually played checkers in the cabin with the keeper, Nelson, and while they played the keeper gave him the gossip.  He had been nineteen years on Tide Rip Shoal light-ship, had keeper Nelson.

“No, no things never happen.  He blow and she tumble about and her chain chafe—­chafe tarrible sometime.  Nineteen year those chain ban chafe so.  One time he blow ten day without stop, but” (he removed his big pipe to laugh aloud)—­“but ten day over and she right dere.  Good ol’ 67, she ban right dere.  I axpect ol’ 67, she be here on Yoodgment Day.”  Old Nelson put his pipe back, puffed three times, frowned at the checker-board, scratched his yellow head, let drop his eyelids and pondered.  At about the time Bowen began to think the keeper must be taking a nap, a long arm swooped down and moved a black checker one square north-easterly.

Now, if Bowen had been riding to anchor in that one spot with old 67 for nineteen years, perhaps he, too, would have paid small attention to a gale of wind and a high sea; but he was a shore-going man, and he grew very, very weary of the jumping and the rolling, and of the everlasting rattling and chafing of the iron chains in the iron hawse-holes.