---

Mid-Afternoon Friday September 24, 1909, clear skies, calm sea. Beaufort 4 (windspeed ~9 knots); visibility good.


The notice came that Duncan Kirkness had gone mad at the Merigg post, so they sent the Yankee out. The journey up from Halifax had been a dull blur of being passed vessel to vessel and now Matthew Hall sat up front of the supply boat with his gear, wearing new boots that hardly rubbed at all and the sum total of his worldly possessions perhaps doubled by the Department of Marine and Fisheries. Seabirds occasionally floated alongside them like dainty ghosts, foam-white and briefly curious as to whether they were fishing before veering away on their own paths across the waves.

On the island itself the day had proved fair enough for everyone to settle on the shingle and wait at the low end for MacTaggart and his boat: though Kirkness had had to be confined to the cottage's upper room before Hetty had come out to Merigg at her uncle's request he seemed calm now, toying with the pebbles on the beach. The Captain sat beside Hetty, overtired from double shifts and trying not to show it, the wind quickly blowing the smoke from his pipe to a scented nothing. He'd asked her to stay on a little longer, until he had the measure of the new man at least, though Hetty knew he was less concerned with having another hand to help with daily chores than having her in sight. Home was an empty place right now and there wasn't always enough work to forget it.

Kirkness intermittently skipped stones across the water and Capt. Dowling frowned, though the force of the throwing was not suggestive of the attack the smaller man had made on the light nor himself. It was the absoloutely careless nature, heedless of what he might annoy with his pebbles. Hetty watched the Tammy Noir come in and considered what might be on board besides the newcomer - milk, perhaps; with another round of eggs that could mean pancakes for breakfast or even cocoa tonight, a moment of luxury that her uncle surely couldn't begrudge with the new man having come so far from Away, that word that encompassed the world beyond the eastern Maritimes.

At length the little vessel nudged up alongside the cobbled slipway and grumbled to silence as the water settled under her. Matt caught the boatman's nod that he should go ashore and picked up his kit to reach for the rusted rungs that would be his first contact with the island, a new job and new possibilities.

Matthew said a quiet word of thanks to the boatman before climbing down, genuinely appreciative for his service. Recent years had taught him many things, the ease with which people could be taken for granted among them.

He took the rusted handholds one at a time, dropping down to the stone path. He took a deep breath of the salt air and looked about the shore. An island, not altogether different from the one he had spent most of his life on. Far fewer souls that called it home, obviously. Lonelier, perhaps. Perhaps not. On Deer Island he had spent hours surrounded by others without having connection to any of them. When acknowledged, it was for his reliability, the steadfast way he performed his work. He had been more of a set of completed tasks, rather than a person.

This was likely much the same situation. Only now, he would have the chance to save his wages. To build a reputation as good worker with Marine and Fisheries. From there, he might find his way into a career at sea, the only place in the world where he had a sense of belonging.

He glanced at the shore, watched one of the thrown pebbles skip into the tide. His eyes went to the man who threw the rock, the man he sensed that he had come to replace. He wondered why the man might be leaving his post. Something, perhaps in his careless demeanor, and the stern disposition of the older man nearby, Captain Dowling no doubt, suggested that all was not well. That he was departing in some degree of disgrace, or had possibly even been dismissed.

It was none of his affair, he reminded himself as he approached the Captain, shifting the weight of his pack, moving briskly up the slipway. He was present for one reason only: to work hard and give a good account of himself. That, he felt certain, he could do.

He raised his knuckle to the brim of his cap when he reached Captain Dowling, giving a polite nod to the young woman who was with him. ”Matthew Hall, sir. Reporting for duty.”

Hetty had a hard time figuring out what to pay attention to. Kirkness as he picked up one stone after another and threw it into the sea-- she'd given up trying to keep count-- her uncle, who was lost in his exhaustion and thoughts, or the approaching ship and the promise it held. As the wind stirred a stray hand of dark hair across her face, she raised a fine-boned yet calloused hand to impatiently brushed away. Finally her eyes settled on the approaching ship.

She wasn't necessarily a chatty sort even on what passed for a normal day and today was definitely normal. Her deep blue eyes narrowed slightly to focus in better, smooth freckled brow furrowing. Hetty rose to her feet-- anxious or anticipating? both?-- as the ship ever so slowly approached the shore. She even took a moment to brush off her clothing and tug at it a bit to make herself more marginally presentable.

Hetty unabashedly stared at Matthew as he disembarked, watching as he approached. He even acknowledged her. Before addressing her uncle! Was there a glimmer of approval in the depths of her gaze as she inclined her head towards him as regal as any lady as he started to address her uncle?

Matt recieved a warm if noncommital "-nae bother, buddy," from the boatman as he left. The tide boomed low against the rocks further out.

Captain Dowling looked the newcomer over as though assessing him for seaworthiness or chipped paint, though he spared a glance at Hetty noticing that she was noticed. Whatever conclusions he came to on either front were opaque, but he offered a strong, rough hand over to Matthew, taking his pipe in the other. "Welcome to Merigg, Mr. Hall."

"Captain Absalom Dowling. This is my niece Henrietta. Barry, d'ye have much for us?" he called past Matthew's head.

A distant "Aye," came from the boat. Down on the beach, Kirkness had picked himself up to leave, making some last adjustments to his pack. The Captain turned to Matthew, nodding that he might put down his gear.

"Here's your first task, Mr. Hall - up in yon boatshed's a barrow, and I'd thank ye t' bring it down to us. Hetty-" he didn't need to explain further to his niece, replacing his pipe in his mouth and pulling an all-weather notebook from his jacket: she was to take a primary inventory of what was coming in, to be inked in the ledgers later.

Hall nodded at the Captain and his niece when the lighthouse keeper introduced them both. His gaze moved to Henrietta, thinking he perceived a hint of a pleased expression on the girl’s face, but he did not allow the look to linger, uncertain of his place, and mindful that the Captain was likely protective of the young woman, especially from those he regarded as strangers.

”Yes, sir,” he answered, moving quickly to fulfill Captain Dowling’s request. As he walked, he stole a glance at the lighthouse, suddenly curious about the age of the structure, and how long people had lived on the island, maintaining the light, and keeping watch for ships that drew too close to the shoreline. His thoughts drifted again to the young man who had been throwing the pebbles into the sea, wondering what might have transpired that would lead him to depart his life here, or be forced away from it. Had the solitude overwhelmed him?

He stepped inside the gloom of the shed, taking only a moment to survey the interior before retrieving the barrow and returning to the Captain.

The lighthouse loomed up over Matthew as he climbed the little strip of track to the boatshed, almost as though it was a thing in motion: a taut limb hauling the island upward of its own volition. For a moment, midstep as though his foot were lifted from the earth by vast upheaval, he could imagine the island's gradient as a tilting raised by the light and about to flip over and plunge into the sea. All the same, his new boot returned to the ground the next instant and the lighthouse remained rearing high.

Pausing to look at it from the boatshed door, Matt noticed that despite the well-maintained paint and roughly contemporary look of the lighthouse itself, the foundations had the blocky, unlovely look of eighteenth-century military work. The left-hand platform he took to be the foghorn might at one point have been a gun emplacement against either the French or his own ancestors, no matter how foolhardy a raider would have to be to brave the north shoals there. Setting his hand on the boatshed doorway and stepping in to see the big salt-scarred tarred timbers overhead it seemed the buildings might be contemporary: perhaps some miserable redcoats had huddled here, made a hearth where now the dory lay on trestles and dripped saltwater on an earthen floor. More likely it had been locals, maybe half of them with a brownish cast and a quarter redheaded, deep voices cursing at the biting cold as they piled timber to feed the beacon's fire.

The floor was paved now and the one high window even glazed, the shed equipped with ropes in various states of antiquity, a small stack of creels awaiting repair; glass floats; a folded canvas and tin bucket part-full of tar; a few varnish tins, an old tin bath a man would have to fold to fit in hung to the wall; a set of marlinspikes and sundries bagged in oilcloth hung on a nail and, as advertised, an old wooden barrow to his immediate left. Matt felt the heft of the thing and managed to wheel it out without knocking anything over, letting the lighthouse loom as it would at his back.

---

Whilst Hall toiled up towards the sky and came down with a barrow, Hetty helped with the unloading of goods. At least, she was helping in the counting before Barry Macmorran hefted things over to her uncle. [Language unknown: "Il, din, ul...i o evess latainfor?"]

From up on the boat, Hetty could confirm they did have butter and even a dreaded tin of beef extract she hoped would be used for stock or offered for Hall's drinking rather than proffered at her for supposed vigour and strength. She watched one of the big seagulls skim swiftly across the sky and returned her attention to the others as the conversation turned to Kirkness, who was currently drawing slowly nearer the boat: [Language unknown: "...est iehofi ndet t str, ho to, ous ncehasant evol n her wi thu utnd nteousteranyous foilst dinkorect iouil lintheith it eenlin'ainess e iool. Ekdi al omnot it al red Yankee und, chssarus lat al?"]

Macmorran handed down a sack of flour. [Language unknown: "Ri, er linithion tr nc noei ng re o ure, espepr, sa onneil is al ndil on eravoromeera."]

[Language unknown: "Hmph. Mo poanss tr vorwasverfor, iners nte ntrat pr oerwe nceta fiver."] Kirkness was considering a couple of cobbles he'd picked up, seemingly picking a favourite as souvenir.

[Language unknown: "P, ieur. Trofulesac reahatess el ce m M adenil trmewi moith finier lar sttone"]

[Language unknown: "ine na somearsom,"] Hetty's uncle broke in, not looking at her but making the point all the same.

[Language unknown: "Eiie, alilac ncie-oltr ticonethuromnce a ilnce, evplil whe ne,"] Barry remonstrated, though there was humour in his voice knowing exactly who was trying to warn Hetty, of all creatures.

Captain Dowling gave a small grunt under a sack of coal passed to him. [Language unknown: "Re, M eenioulin ekdile ble rom sanss nt olter lin ec wil,"] he allowed. [Language unknown: "Eenmenvor ckec rut ourthaard"]

---

Matt caught the Captain switching back from Gaelic for propriety and his comfort as the barrow's wheel rumbled on the slipway. "-of wickie they've sent, and it'll be good to have a sane and sober man for all I can't be seeing to myself. Ahoy Mister Hall - you can pack your gear in first, one of these coal sacks and the foodstuffs." He helped Hetty back to the slipway and stood aside a moment, smoking.

"Speaking o' which, Mister Hall - are you anything of a cook?"

Henrietta happily helped with the counting and unloading. Whatever other faults she had, she was not one to shirk responsibility. She took her duties quite seriously. Much could depend on the inventory and her accuracy would insure they would be able to order necessary supplies in a timely fashion and the budget didn't suffer.

She didn't pause in her work but she did spare her uncle a glance at something he said. She turned to Barry and rolled her eyes good-naturedly at him. For a moment she turned to look in Kirkness's direction, a thoughtful frown on his face.

Not everyone could stand under the demands the lighthouse placed on them. It could be grueling, mostly thankless work. Oh, but how she loved the wind and the sea, the crashing of the waves accompanied by the cries of the seabirds...

She blinked and drew her thoughts back to the present. Hetty cast a side-long glance at her uncle when he asked Matt if he could cook. Though to be fair, her cooking was... passable at best. There were always so much better, more interesting things to be doing than standing by the stove and she resented the notion that it was her responsibility simply because she was a woman.

"Anything else I can help with?" she asked, her voice low and pleasantly husky, as she stepped downwind from the smoke.

Duncan Kirkness seemed to have narrowed his choices, but his pensive look had changed when he'd noticed Hetty's attention: he looked wary to the brink of being afraid, as though she might sieze the beach cobbles from his hands and strike him staggering. He flinched a deferential smile and looked out to sea.

A couple of seals were bobbing in the surf near the far end of the bay, likely this year's youngsters indulging their curiousity. His pack already settled on his back, Kirkness slipped the long dark cobble in his left hand into his coat pocket with a soft click. He was looking at the pale round rock taking up his right hand with concentrated nervous intensity when Hetty's uncle gave his reply:

"Let's see what Mr. Hall can get on the barrow, then we'll pick up what's left and get him introduced to the place - leave the other sack of coal t'me, mind, and you two can go up ahead, I've a few last things t'settle here." He frowned at Kirkness, who wouldn't look at him.

As he had taken in the lighthouse itself, along with the shed, Hall found his restless thoughts swimming with more questions, curiosities that would likely never find answers. Although the military origins of the tower stirred speculation about what manner of threat prompted the emplacement, and whether the anticipated danger had ever truly materialized, it was the shed that momentarily stole his attention completely.

Beyond the salt caked structure itself, and the stories it had likely borne witness to, Hall found his gaze lingering on the objects collected within it; the creels, bath, and floats. Each one had a tale to tell; a narrative of how it had come to be here. Strangely, for a moment, he found his thoughts drawn to his home on Deer Island, the collection of trinkets from the shipyards and docks that he had kept in his drafty room as a boy, the building blocks of dreams of the sea, his escape from the suffocating melancholy that his family had become.

He blinked, forcing himself back to the present. There was no time for dawdling. He had a job. A lone chance to show himself worthy of something better.

He made haste with the barrow. Not running, but making for the unloaded supplies at a brisk pace. He caught of the language the Captain and the boatman were speaking, the lilt in some of the words providing him an educated guess as to its origin. When Dowling gave his instructions, Hall moved quickly to comply, putting in his own pack before adding one of the sacks of coal and the foodstuffs. He strove to arrange things efficiently, adding as much to the barrow as he safely could.

The Captain’s question took him slightly off guard. Answering honestly, he said, ”A fair one, sir. Had to learn on my own. Picked up some things from a few ship’s cooks back home. I had good reason to improve my skills. I had to eat whatever I was able to put together.”

From the corner of his eye, he noticed the man with the pebbles again, his nervous demeanor sending a brief whisper of unsettledness winding through Hall’s chest.

Hetty nodded at her uncle and silently helped to load the barrow. It was best to keep her hands busy. Her fingers were itchy. Would she have the chance to get a memento of sorts from Kirkness? Maybe one of those pebbles.

No, no time. There were supplies to unload and put away, inventory to complete. She smiled to herself when Matthew declared himself to be a fair cook. Better than her, probably! Her meals were edible and that was probably the best anyone would be able to say about it.

Hetty nodded in satisfaction at the barrow when it was as full as it could be. She spent a few moments arranging things in her arms so she could take as much as possible with her. The fewer trips they would have to take, the better. The sooner everything was unloaded the sooner she could slip away...

All but a couple of boxes and the other coal sack fitted nicely on the barrow, making of the old implement a squeaky cornucopia of assurance against hunger. Captain Dowling gave a grunt of what might have been sympathy or bemusement at Matt's frankness.

"Well, you'll not have to be down cracking the limpets here," he assured Matt, then brightened. "Good t'hear, though, good to hear - poor Hetty's been stuck with all the galley shifts this past week and the best you'll get from me is beans n' bacon, sometimes bacon and beans. Still, 'twill keep a buddy filled out."

At this point he was distracted by some movement of the man beyond Matt. "Kirkness, will you stop being so rabbity! Took against the island, said the Devil was in the lens and tried to break my head and now you're set to be shot of us all you're havering at the shoreline! Get on the boat!"

Kirkness mutely gripped the pebble he had - small, smooth and red like a coin, the round white rock set down when choosing it, perhaps, or stashed away - and slunk rapidly past those on the slipway. He passed close to Matthew but turned his face away as though there might be something terrible passed on in his look. He made some vague sound to the boatman and settled in where Matt had sat, toying with the small stone in his hands. The captain narrowed his eyes at the man but turned to his charges seeing that all was well.

"All right, you two get on for the house, I'll be up presently," he said, motioning that they could head away from the shore. "Hetty, if you'd show him where things go and where to stow himself, that's fine."

Hall smiled and nodded at the Captain’s talk of the cooking arrangements, pleased by the thought of being able to take some of the burden of the chore away from him and Miss Dowling. When he had finally obtained some degree of mastery in the kitchen, he had found that the process of preparing a meal became something of a calming ritual, a space where he could escape the frequent storms that rolled across his meager existence on Deer Island. Of his skills, he was certain. As he’d told the Captain, he had been the one of the primary recipients of his efforts, good and bad.

The Captain’s words to Kirkness gave Hall pause. The man had tried to attack Captain Dowling? Had he truly believed what the Captain had said about the lighthouse lens? Hall frowned, careful to keep his attention on the items in the barrow. More than one sailor of his acquaintance had told him that loneliness had the power to drive a person mad. Had Kirkness fallen victim to it? Hall had kept company with his own thoughts for so long that being around others for a long period of time seemed almost novel. But not everyone could be so comfortable with isolation.

Taking a firm hold on the barrow’s handles, he moved to follow Miss Dowling to the lighthouse.

When her uncle addressed Matt, Hetty turned to look at Kirkness. She watched as he continued to fidget. Her normally smooth brow furrowed and she drew her lips together as she unconsciously clutched her burden closer. What had happened? Had he recognized whatever it was when it was happening? Could he find his way back from wherever it had driven him? How?

She shivered, hoping that neither man would notice it. The thought of being relieved of her duties in the kitchen banished the shadows Kirkness left with his departure. She looked away from the boat, determined not to glance back.

"Aye," she agreed. She turned around and started walking towards the house, setting a brisk pace. "So, were you given your choice of post?" she asked. The question had been on the tip of her tongue. It was the same one she'd asked Kirkness when he arrived. Matt seemed healthy enough and possessed of his faculties. What would drive a man with prospects-- or so she imagined-- to choose the life of a wickie, let alone come here?

Hall nodded at Miss Dowling’s question, keeping much of his attention on the barrow as he spoke, not wanting to allow it to become unbalanced. “Yes, ma’am. Those at Marine and Fisheries, they told me that there was more than one post to be had.” He paused, then added, ”But they made it plain that Merigg Island was the one most in need of help.”

He continued, unable to refrain from being open and honest, despite how plainly his words spoke to his poor station. ”I was raised in Maine, ma’am. Worked in the docks and the shipyards there since I was of age. I knew quite a number of folk who had the sea as their trade. Had I remained, it might have been that one of them that knew me would have given me a post aboard ship.”

“But...it was important that I go. Find my own way in the world. So, when I was told of this island, I thought it a good opportunity. A blessing, really. I want to give a good account of myself here, ma’am. Show that I’m someone who can be relied upon.”

He gripped the right barrow handle tighter, keeping it steady as it rolled over a slanting rock. Realizing that he had said more than he should have, he felt his cheeks flush, self consciousness thickening his chest and throat.

Finding his voice again, he asked, ”If it isn’t too forward of me to ask, Miss Dowling, how long have you and the Captain been stationed here?”

The wind caught at Matt's hatbrim and flapped the edges of Hetty's dress as they ascended the well-packed path to the lighthouse, shivering the short heath plants that clung close to the island's rusty saltstained soil. The barrow trundled its way over sandy substrate trodden to the texture of concrete, occasionally squeaking a slight protest when pushed over a larger rock.

Gulls mewed and whistled idle quarrels at each other around the rim of the island, always at least in sight when their calls faded from the foreground. The boat purred away. Hetty had raised her head and even parted her lips to speak when there came a sharp and distant cry, not quite a bird's: startlement and even horror marked that tone.

"Hoi!"

The cry was not from the lighthouse, nor the land. Captain Dowling drew the eye on the path behind, just level with the boat shed as he came up: he looked back up at them from where he'd whirled to look behind and motioned them on. His voice carried sharp with absoloute command. "Keep on! Keep on and don't come out of the cottage 'til I'm with ye both!"

Out on the sea, the white wake of the boat showed its circling around the deep beyond the edge of the east shoals. The Captain pointed them onward without compromise, as though to save their lives in a storm that could not be seen.

Hetty's eyes were slightly wide. She hadn't expected quite so much information all at once! Not that she minded at all. It was just surprising. Maybe it shouldn't have been. He'd be spending a lot of time there. By the time most left, they had few, if any, secrets left. It was hard not to grow close to people you spent so much time around.

She had indeed opened her mouth to respond when the shout came. If possible, her eyes grew even wider for a moment. She looked down quickly as she formulated a response. You didn't ask questions in a place like this, not at first anyway. You waited until after things had settled to find out.

Calm, that was trick. Maybe if she didn't react, Matt would stay calm too and not wonder too much. "Do as he says," she said, her voice firm but quiet and steady. She picked up the pace just a bit as she headed towards the cabin. And she resisted the urge to look back.

"I've been here my whole life," she said, in an attempt to distract him. "He's been here going on a month now." Dare she tell him just why he'd been transferred there? Not quite yet, she decided. Not with that word that was more of a sound with its currents of surprise and fear and confusion still eddying in the air.

Although the mystery of the distant noise, the sound without any apparent origin, aroused Hall’s curiosity, he found his attention centered on Miss Dowling’s firm instructions. He knew, with certainty, that it was wise to do as she and the Captain urged. Even so, he felt, deep within him, a sudden unsettledness, the same emotion that visited him on Deer Island when he had seen the blue air east of the shore grow dark with circling storm clouds, the grim promise of an approaching nor’easter. The feeling was one of vulnerability, of powerlessness in the face of forces much greater than himself.

He blinked, refocusing on the barrow and the need to keep it steady. As he did, her words registered on him. All of her life? He had thought that his existence off of the coast of Maine had offered hardships, but here...dwelling on this island, in such isolation, had to be far more difficult.

He looked ahead to the cottage, his pace having quickened, urged by the Captain’s words, and their tone. ”I would imagine that you were glad to have the Captain, someone from your family, be able to join you here,” he offered, steering the barrow to the right onto a flat stretch of ground, free of loose stones.

The barrow trundled along just as it would on the mainland, its weight gently but insistently pushing back against Matt's wrists as the incline grew. The birds cried and the sea boomed and the head keeper was silent, fallen away behind them. The two went on climbing up into the lighthouse's lee and did not look back.

Hetty led the new man along the more trodden path to the back door, the wind suddenly quiet and the air warm as they passed into shelter between the building and the ancient drystone wall of the kailyard. Leaning back a moment, Matt could see straggled onions, beans, cabbage and kail, a haphazard tangling of carrot and potato foliage and a tall stem of parsley long bolted and gone to seed. The little garden looked like it was caught in the act of trying to heave itself out of the earth and disperse, leaves scarred with the salt that could not always be kept out. Hetty let them in through the lockless door, balancing the tins and crate of eggs against her body, and they passed across the threshold.

There was a moment of near-darkness and blinking adjustment. Hetty walked on, knowing where the kitchen table was, whilst Matt looked about him grasping what was easily grabbed from the barrow. Although the largest window dead ahead and the one surely somewhere to his left had their broad sills angled to spread the light into the room, the thickness of the walls made them more like bright islands in a shady place, or lanterns hung above a twilight sea. The flags were cool and sturdy and worn smooth. The place smelled of salt and pipe tobacco, stockfish, stone and stove.

It took Matt a moment to place the source of a vague sensation of disorientation until he realised he could feel through his feet more than observe with his eyes that everything in the place was slightly canted: either stone had weathered and rotted or earthen foundations settled over generations on the northward side. More unsettling was that there was a decent-sized freestanding bath with an underslung brazier sat in the gloomy scullery area to his right which seemed full of rusty reddish fluid.

Besides storing a washtub-and-mangle, it looked like the niche also served for a pantry, with shelves of stacked tins, earthenware jars and preserves. Ahead was the kitchen proper, looking very neat if sparse and aslant. Someone who knew what they were doing could eat well and be comfortable here, for sure.

There was a long pause before Hetty responded. "I am," she admitted. She pursed her lips. Did she tell him why Captain Dowling had come to the island? Not yet, she decided. Maybe later. Especially after that troubling cry and the orders that followed. No sense in adding to the strangeness of the day.

Hetty opened the door and began to put things away. The place was surprisingly orderly and about as clean as it could be. "There's a kettle of water there if you want a drink," she said, gesturing with a free hand. "And you're welcome to heat the water and bathe, but mind you scrub the tub and refill afterwards."

"What can you tell me about Maine?" she asked as she continued to put things away, occasionally make a note in her little book.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make certain keep it clean and filled after use,” he answered. He glanced at the kettle, but made no move to take any water. He would later, his mouth dry from the sea air. But for now, his mind was preoccupied with gaining a firm grasp on this place that was to be his workplace, and his home. He looked about, briefly taking in the space around him, before making himself available to move any of the large items in the barrow to wherever Miss Dowling directed.

”Where I lived in Maine, ma’am, everything was about the sea. Everyone on the island made their living from it in one way or another. Deer Island had its beautiful places, to be sure, but in the winter it is always bitterly cold there. There were a number of good people that made it their home. Many that treated me with kindness when I was very young.”

Being told to leave the coal in the barrow, Matt had hefted in the flour sack and milk churn, a package that might be meat and rattling sacks of beans both coffee and otherwise. He was finally sliding a jar of preserved lemons onto the scarred wood of the kitchen table as he finished his report of Maine, and stepping back to shut the door when there came a violent tapping at the back window.

*TONK* *T-TONK TONK!*