The Woman Haters

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THE WOMAN-HATERS


By Joseph C. Lincoln




FOREWORD

(By Way of Explanation)

A story of mine called, like this, "The Woman-Haters," appeared
recently in one of the magazines. That story was not this one, except in
part--the part dealing with "John Brown" and Miss Ruth Graham. Readers
of the former tale who perhaps imagine they know all about Seth Atkins
and Mrs. Emeline Bascom will be surprised to find they really know so
little. The truth is that, when I began to revise and rearrange the
magazine story for publication as a book, new ideas came, grew, and
developed. I discovered that I had been misinformed concerning the
lightkeeper's past and present relations with the housekeeper at the
bungalow. And there was "Bennie D." whom I had overlooked, had not
mentioned at all; and that rejuvenated craft, the Daisy M.; and the
high tide which is, or should be, talked about in Eastboro even yet; all
these I had omitted for the very good reason that I never knew of them.
I have tried to be more careful this time. During the revising process
"The Woman-Haters" has more than doubled in length and, let us hope, in
accuracy. Even now it is, of course, not a novel, but merely a summer
farce-comedy, a "yarn." And this, by the way, is all that it pretends to
be.

JOSEPH C. LINCOLN.

May, 1911.



CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I.-- MR. SETH ATKINS

II.-- MR. JOHN BROWN

III.-- MR. BROWN PUTS IN AN APPLICATION

IV.-- THE COMING OF JOB

V.-- THE GOING OF JOSHUA

VI.-- THE PICNIC

VII.-- OUT OF THE BAG

VIII.--NEIGHBORS AND WASPS

IX.-- THE BUNGALOW GIRL

X.-- THE BUNGALOW WOMAN

XI.-- BEHIND THE SAND DUNE

XII.-- THE LETTER AND THE 'PHONE

XIII.--"JOHN BROWN" CHANGES HIS NAME

XIV.-- "BENNIE D."

XV.-- THE VOYAGE OF THE Daisy M.

XVI.-- THE EBB TIDE

XVII.--WOMAN-HATERS




THE WOMAN-HATERS




CHAPTER I

MR. SETH ATKINS


The stars, like incandescent lights fed by a fast weakening dynamo, grew
pale, faded, and, one by one, went out. The slate-colored sea, with its
tumbling waves, changed color, becoming a light gray, then a faint blue,
and, as the red sun rolled up over the edge of the eastern horizon, a
brilliant sapphire, trimmed with a silver white on the shoals and along
the beach at the foot of the bluff.

Seth Atkins, keeper of the Eastboro Twin-Lights, yawned, stretched,
and glanced through the seaward windows of the octagon-shaped,
glass-enclosed room at the top of the north tower, where he had spent
the night just passed. Then he rose from his chair and extinguished the
blaze in the great lantern beside him. Morning had come, the mists had
rolled away, and the dots scattered along the horizon--schooners,
tugs, and coal barges, for the most part--no longer needed the glare
of Eastboro Twin-Lights to warn them against close proximity to
the dangerous, shoal-bordered coast. Incidentally, it was no longer
necessary for Mr. Atkins to remain on watch. He drew the curtains over
the polished glass and brass of the lantern, yawned again, and descended
the winding iron stairs to the door at the foot of the tower, opened it
and emerged into the sandy yard.

Crossing this yard, before the small white house which the government
provided as a dwelling place for its lightkeepers, he opened the door of
the south tower, mounted the stairs there and repeated the extinguishing
process with the other lantern. Before again descending to earth,
however, he stepped out on the iron balcony surrounding the light
chamber and looked about him.

The view, such as it was, was extensive. To the east the open sea,
the wide Atlantic, rolling lazily in the morning light, a faint breeze
rippling the surfaces of the ground-swell. A few sails in sight, far
out. Not a sound except the hiss and splash of the surf, which, because
of a week of calms and light winds, was low even for that time of
year--early June.

To the north stretched the shores of the back of the Cape. High clay
bluffs, rain-washed and wrinkled, sloping sharply to the white sand
of the beach a hundred feet below. Only one building, except
those connected with the lighthouses, near at hand, this a small,
gray-shingled bungalow about two hundred yards away, separated from the
lights by the narrow stream called Clam Creek--Seth always spoke of it
as the "Crick"--which, turning in behind the long surf-beaten sandspit
known, for some forgotten reason, as "Black Man's Point," continued to
the salt-water pond which was named "The Cove." A path led down from the
lighthouses to a bend in the "Crick," and there, on a small wharf, was a
shanty where Seth kept his spare lobster and eel-pots, dory sails, nets,
and the like. The dory itself, with the oars in her, was moored in the
cove.

A mile off, to the south, the line of bluffs was broken by another
inlet, the entrance to Pounddug Slough. This poetically named channel
twisted and wound tortuously inland through salt marshes and between
mudbanks, widening at last to become Eastboro Back Harbor, a good-sized
body of water, with the village of Eastboro at its upper end. In the
old days, when Eastboro amounted to something as a fishing port, the
mackerel fleet unloaded its catch at the wharves in the Back Harbor.
Then Pounddug Slough was kept thoroughly dredged and buoyed. Now it was
weed-grown and neglected. Only an occasional lobsterman's dory traversed
its winding ways, which the storms and tides of each succeeding winter
rendered more difficult to navigate. The abandoned fish houses along its
shores were falling to pieces, and at intervals the stranded hulk of
a fishing sloop or a little schooner, rotting in the sun, was a dismal
reminder that Eastboro's ambitious young men no longer got their living
alongshore. The town itself had gone to sleep, awakening only in the
summer, when the few cottagers came and the Bay Side Hotel was opened
for its short season.

Behind the lighthouse buildings, to the west--and in the direction
of the village--were five miles of nothing in particular. A desolate
wilderness of rolling sand-dunes, beach grass, huckleberry and bayberry
bushes, cedar swamps, and small clumps of pitch-pines. Through this
desert the three or four rutted, crooked sand roads, leading to and
from the lights, turned and twisted. Along their borders dwelt no human
being; but life was there, life in abundance. Ezra Payne, late assistant
keeper at the Twin-Lights, was ready at all times to furnish evidence
concerning the existence of this life.

"My godfreys domino!" Ezra had exclaimed, after returning from a drive
to Eastboro village, "I give you my word, Seth, they dummed nigh et
me alive. They covered the horse all up, so that he looked for all the
world like a sheep, woolly. I don't mind moskeeters in moderation, but
when they roost on my eyelids and make 'em so heavy I can't open 'em,
then I'm ready to swear. But I couldn't get even that relief, because
every time I unbattened my mouth a million or so flew in and choked me.
That's what I said--a million. Some moskeeters are fat, but these don't
get a square meal often enough to be anything but hide-racks filled with
cussedness. Moskeeters! My godfreys domino!"

Ezra was no longer assistant lightkeeper. He and his superior had
quarreled two days before. The quarrel was the culmination, on Ezra's
part, of a gradually developing "grouch" brought on by the loneliness of
his surroundings. After a night of duty he had marched into the house,
packed his belongings in a battered canvas extension case, and announced
his intention of resigning from the service.

"To the everlastin' brimstone with the job!" he snarled, addressing Mr.
Atkins, who, partially dressed, emerged from the bedroom in bewilderment
and sleepy astonishment. "To thunder with it, I say! I've had all the
gov'ment jobs I want. Life-savin' service was bad enough, trampin' the
condemned beach in a howlin' no'theaster, with the sand cuttin'
furrers in your face, and the icicles on your mustache so heavy you
got round-shouldered luggin' 'em. But when your tramp was over, you had
somebody to talk to. Here, by godfreys! there ain't nothin' nor nobody.
I'm goin' fishin' again, where I can be sociable."

"Humph!" commented Seth, "you must be lonesome all to once. Ain't my
company good enough for you?"

"Company! A heap of company you are! When I'm awake you're asleep and
snorin' and--"

"I never snored in my life," was the indignant interruption

"What? YOU'LL snore when you're dead, and wake up the whole graveyard.
Lonesome!" he continued, without giving his companion a chance to
retort, "lonesome ain't no name for this place. No company but green
flies and them moskeeters, and nothin' to look at but salt water and
sand and--and--dummed if I can think of anything else. Five miles from
town and the only house in sight shut tight. When I come here you told
me that bungalow was opened up every year--"

"So it has been till this season."

"And that picnics come here every once in a while."

"Don't expect picnickers to be such crazy loons as to come here in
winter time, do you?"

"I don't know. If they're fools enough to come here ANY time, I wouldn't
be responsible for 'em. There ain't so many moskeeters in winter. But
just LOOK at this hole. Just put on your specs and LOOK at it! Not a
man--but you--not a woman, not a child, not a girl--"

"Ah ha! ah ha! NOW we're gettin' at it! Not a girl! That's what's the
matter with you. You want to be up in the village, where you can go
courtin'. You're too fur from Elsie Peters, that's where the shoe
pinches. I've heard how you used to set out in her dad's backyard, with
your arm round her waist, lookin' at each other, mushy as a couple of
sassers of hasty-puddin'. Bah! I'll take care my next assistant ain't
girl-struck."

"Girl-struck! I'd enough sight ruther be girl-struck than always ravin'
and rippin' against females. And all because some woman way back in
Methusalem's time had sense enough to heave you over. At least, that's
what everybody cal'lates must be the reason. You pretend to be a
woman-hater. All round this part of the Cape you've took pains to get up
that kind of reputation; but--"

"There ain't no pretendin' about it. I've got brains enough to keep
clear of petticoats. And when you get to be as old as I be and know as
much as I do--though that ain't no ways likely, even if you live to be
nine hundred and odd, like Noah in Scripture--you'll feel the same way."

"Aw, come off! Woman-hater! You hate women same as the boy at the
poorhouse hated ice cream--'cause there ain't none around. Why, I
wouldn't trust you as fur as I could see you!"

This was the end of the dialogue, because Mr. Payne was obliged to break
off his harangue and dodge the stove-lifter flung at him by the outraged
lightkeeper. As the lifter was about to be followed by the teakettle,
Ezra took to his heels, bolted from the house and began his long tramp
to the village. When he reached the first clumps of bayberry bushes
bordering the deeply rutted road, a joyful cloud of mosquitoes rose and
settled about him like a fog.

So Seth Atkins was left alone to do double duty at Eastboro Twin-Lights,
pending the appointment of another assistant. The two days and nights
following Ezra's departure had been strenuous and provoking. Doing
all the housework, preparation of meals included, tending both lights,
rubbing brass work, sweeping and scouring, sleeping when he could and
keeping awake when he must, nobody to talk to, nobody to help--the
forty-eight hours of solitude had already convinced Mr. Atkins that the
sooner a helper was provided the better. At times he even wished the
disrespectful Payne back again, wished that he had soothed instead of
irritated the departed one. Then he remembered certain fragments of
their last conversation and wished the stove-lifter had been flung with
better aim.

Now, standing on the gallery of the south tower, he was conscious of
a desire for breakfast. Preparing that meal had been a part of his
assistant's duties. Now he must prepare it himself, and he was hungry
and sleepy. He mentally vowed that he would no longer delay notifying
the authorities of the desertion, and would urge them to hurry in
sending some one to fill the vacant place.

Grumbling aloud to himself, he moved around the circle of the gallery
toward the door. His hand was on the latch, when, turning, he cast
another glance over the rail, this time directly downward toward the
beach below. And there he saw something which caused him to forget
hunger and grievances of all kinds; something which, after one horrified
look to make sure, led him to dart into the light chamber, spring at a
reckless gait down the winding stair, out of the tower, rush to the edge
of the bluff, and plunge headlong down the zigzag path worn in the clay.

On the sand, at the foot of the bluff below the lights, just beyond
reach of the wash of the surf, lay a man, or the dead body of a man,
stretched at full length.




CHAPTER II

MR. JOHN BROWN


Once before, during his years of service as keeper of Eastboro
Twin-Lights, had Seth seen such a sight as that which now caused him to
make his dash for the shore. Once before, after the terrible storm of
1905, when the great steamer Bay Queen went down with all on board, the
exact spot of her sinking unknown even to this day. Then the whole ocean
side of the Cape, from Race Point to Orham, was strewn with ghastly
relics. But the Bay Queen met her fate in the winter season, amid a gale
such as even the oldest residents could not remember. Now it was early
summer; the night before had been a flat calm. There had been no wreck,
or the lifesavers would have told him of it. There would be no excuse
for a wreck, anyway.

All this, in disjointed fragments, passed through the lightkeeper's
mind as he descended the path in frantic bounds and plowed through
the ankle-deep white sand of the beach. As he approached the recumbent
figure he yelled a panted "Hi, there!" He did not expect the hail to be
answered or even noticed. Therefore, he was pleasantly disappointed when
the figure rolled over, raised itself on one elbow, looked at him in a
dazed sort of way and replied cheerfully but faintly, "Hello!"

Seth stopped short, put a hand to the breast of his blue flannel shirt,
and breathed a mighty sigh of relief.

"Gosh!" he exclaimed with fervor. Then, changing his labored gallop
for a walk, he continued his progress toward the man, who, as if his
momentary curiosity was satisfied, lay down again. He did not rise when
the lightkeeper reached his side, but remained quiet, looking up from a
pair of gray eyes and smiling slightly with lips that were blue. He was
a stranger to Atkins, a young fellow, rather good looking, dressed in
blue serge trousers, negligee shirt, blue socks, and without shoes
or hat. His garments were soaked, and the salt water dripped from his
shoulders to the sand. The lightkeeper stared at him, and he returned
the stare.

"Gosh!" repeated Seth, after an instant of silence. "Jiminy crimps! I
feel better."

The stranger's smile broadened. "Glad to hear it, I'm sure," he said,
slowly. "So do I, though there's still room for improvement. What was
your particular ailment? Mine seems to have been water on the brain."

He sat up and shakily ran a hand through his wet hair as he spoke.
Atkins, his surprise doubled by this extraordinary behavior, could think
of nothing to say.

"Good morning," continued the young man, as if the meeting had been the
most casual and ordinary possible; "I think you said a moment ago that
you were feeling better. No relapse, I trust."

"Relapse? What in the world? Are you crazy? I ain't sick."

"That's good. I must have misunderstood you. Pleasant morning, isn't it?

"Pleasant morn--Why, say! I--I--what in time are you doin', layin' there
all soaked through? You scared me pretty nigh to death. I thought you
was drowned, sure and sartin."

"Did you? Well, to be honest, so did I, for a while. In fact, I'm not
absolutely sure that I'm not, even yet. You'll excuse me if I lie down
again, won't you? I never tried a seaweed pillow before, but it isn't so
bad."

He again stretched himself on the sand. Seth shook his head.

"Well, if this don't beat me!" he exclaimed. "You're the coolest critter
that ever I--I--"

"I am cool," admitted the young man, with a slight shiver. "This
stretch of ocean here isn't exactly a Turkish bath. I've been swimming
since--well, an hour or two ago, and I am just a little chilled."

He shivered again.

"Swimmin'! An hour or two? Where on earth did you come from?"

"Oh, I fell overboard from a steamer off here somewhere. I--"

Another and emphatic shiver caused him to pause. The lightkeeper awoke
to the realities of the situation.

"Good land of love!" he exclaimed. "What am I thinkin' of? Seein' you
this way, and you talkin' so kind of every-day and funny drove my senses
clean out, I guess. Get right up off that wet place this minute. Come up
to the house, quick! Can you walk?"

"Don't know. I am willing to try. Would you mind giving me a lift?"

Seth didn't mind, which was fortunate, as his new acquaintance couldn't
have risen unaided. His knees shook under him when he stood erect, and
he leaned heavily on the lightkeeper's arm.

"Steady now," counselled Atkins; "no hurry. Take it easy. If you've
navigated water all alone for hours, I cal'late between us we can manage
to make a five-minute cruise on dry land. . . . Even if the course we
steer would make an eel lame tryin' to follow it," he added, as the
castaway staggered and reeled up the beach. "Now don't try to talk. Let
your tongue rest and give your feet a chance."

The climbing of the steep bluff was a struggle, but they accomplished
it, and at length the stranger was seated in a chair in the kitchen.

"Now, the fust thing," observed Seth, "is to get them wet clothes
off you. Usually I'd have a good fire here, but that miserable Ezry
has--that is, my assistant's left me, and I have to go it alone, as
you might say. So we'll get you to bed and . . . No, you can't undress
yourself, neither. Set still, and I'll have you peeled in a jiffy."

His guest was making feeble efforts to remove his socks. Atkins pushed
him back into the chair and stripped the blue and dripping rags from
feet which were almost as blue from cold. The castaway attempted a weak
resistance, but gave it up and said, with a whimsical smile:

"I'm mightily obliged to you. I never realized before that a valet was
such a blessing. Most of mine have been confounded nuisances."

"Hey?" queried Seth, looking up.

"Nothing. Pardon me for comparing you with a valet."

"Land sakes! I don't care what you call me. I was out of my head once
myself--typhoid fever 'twas--and they say the things I called the doctor
was somethin' scandalous. You ain't responsible. You're beat out, and
your brain's weak, like the rest of you. Now hold on till I get you a
nightgown."

He started for the bedroom. The young man seemed a bit troubled.

"Just a minute," he observed. "Don't you think I had better move to
a less conspicuous apartment? The door is open, and if any of your
neighbors should happen by--any ladies, for instance, I--"

"Ladies!" Mr. Atkins regarded him frowningly. "In the fust place, there
ain't a neighbor nigher'n four miles; and, in the next, I'd have you
understand no women come to this house. If you knew me better, young
feller, you'd know that. Set where you be."

The nightshirt was one of the lightkeeper's own, and, although Seth was
a good-sized man, it fitted the castaway almost too tightly for comfort.
However, it was dry and warm and, by leaving a button or two unfastened
at the neck, answered the purpose well enough. The stranger was piloted
to the bedroom, assisted into the depths of a feather bed, and covered
with several layers of blankets and patchwork quilts.

"There!" observed Seth, contentedly, "now you go to sleep. If you get to
sweatin', so much the better. 'Twill get some of that cold water out of
you. So long!"

He departed, closing the door after him. Then he built a fire in the
range, got breakfast, ate it, washed the dishes and continued his
forenoon's work. Not a sound from the bedroom. Evidently the strange
arrival had taken the advice concerning going to sleep. But all the time
he was washing dishes, rubbing brass work or sweeping, Mr. Atkins's
mind was busy with the puzzle which fate had handed him. Occasionally he
chuckled, and often he shook his head. He could make nothing out of
it. One thing only was certain--he had never before met a human being
exactly like this specimen.

It was half past twelve before there were signs of life in the bedroom.
Seth was setting the table for dinner, when the door of the room opened
a little way, and a voice said:

"I say, are you there?"

"I be. What do you want?"

"Would you mind telling me what you've done with my clothes?"

"Not a bit. I've got 'em out on the line, and they ain't dry yet. If
you'll look on the chair by the sou'west window you'll find a rig-out of
mine. I'm afraid 'twill fit you too quick--you're such an elephant--but
I'll risk it if you will."

Apparently the stranger was willing to risk it, for in a few moments
he appeared, dressed in the Atkins Sunday suit of blue cloth, and with
Seth's pet carpet slippers on his feet.

"Hello!" was the lightkeeper's greeting. "How you feelin'?--better?"

"Tip top, thank you. Where do you wash, when it's necessary?"

"Basin right there in the sink. Soap in the becket over top of it.
Roller towel on the closet door. Ain't you had water enough for a
spell?"

"Not fresh water, thank you. I'm caked with salt from head to foot."

"Does make a feller feel like a split herrin', if he ain't used to it.
Think you can eat anything?"

"Can I?" The response was enthusiastic. "You watch me! My last meal was
yesterday noon."

"Yesterday NOON! Didn't you eat no supper?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Well, I--well, to be frank, because I hadn't the price. It took my last
cent to pay my fare on that blessed steamer."

"Great land of love! What time was it when you fell overboard?"

"Oh, I don't know. Two o'clock, perhaps."

"Two o'clock! What was you doin' up at two o'clock? Why wasn't you in
your stateroom asleep?"

"I hadn't any stateroom. Staterooms cost money."

"My soul! And you swum three hours on an empty stomach?"

"Not altogether. Part of it on my back. But, if you'll excuse
familiarity on short acquaintance, those things you're cooking smell
good to me."

"Them's clam fritters, and, if YOU'LL excuse my sayin' so that
shouldn't, they ARE good. Set down and fill up."

The visitor ate nine of the fritters, a slice of dried-apple pie, and
drank two cups of coffee. Seth, between intervals of frying and eating,
watched him with tremendous curiosity and as much patience as he could
muster. When the pie was finished he asked the first of the questions
with which he had been bursting all the forenoon.

"Tell me," he said, "how'd you come to fall overboard?"

"I'm not very certain just how it happened. I remember leaning over the
rail and watching the waves. Then I was very dizzy all at once. The next
thing I knew I was in the water."

"Dizzy, hey? Seasick, may be."

"I guess not. I'm a pretty good sailor. I'm inclined to think the cause
was that empty stomach you mentioned."

"Um-hm. You didn't have no supper. Still, you ate the noon afore."

"Not much. Only a sandwich."

"A sandwich! What did you have for breakfast?"

"Well, the fact is, I overslept and decided to omit the breakfast."

"Gosh! no wonder you got dizzy. If I went without meals for a whole
day I cal'late I'd be worse than dizzy. What did you do when you found
yourself in the water?"

"Yelled at first, but no one heard me. Then I saw some lights off in
this direction and started to swim for them. I made the shore finally,
but I was so used up that I don't remember anything after the landing.
Think I took a nap."

"I presume likely. Wonder 'twasn't your everlastin' nap! Tut! tut! tut!
Think of it!"

"I don't want to, thank you. It isn't pleasant enough to think of. I'm
here and--by the way, where IS here?"

"This is Eastboro township--Eastboro, Cape Cod. Them lights out there
are Eastboro Twin-Lights. I'm the keeper of 'em. My name's Atkins, Seth
Atkins."

"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Atkins. And tremendously obliged to you,
besides."

"You needn't be. I ain't done nothin'. Let me see, you said your name
was--"

"Did I?" The young man seemed startled, almost alarmed. "When?"

Seth was embarrassed, but not much. "Well," he admitted, "I don't know's
you did say it, come to think of it. What IS your name?"

"My name?"

"Yes."

"Oh, why--my name is Brown--er--John Brown. Not the gentleman who was
hanged, of course; distant relative, that's all."

"Hum! John Brown, hey? What steamer did you fall off of?"

"Why--why--I can't seem to remember. That's odd, isn't it?"

"Yes, I should say 'twas. Where was she bound?"

"Bound? Oh, you mean where was she going?"

"Sartin."

"I think--I think she was going to--to. . . . Humph! how strange this
is!"