The crews were gathered
from the immediate neighborhood by the custodian,
who was the only man to receive pay from the
Government. If he lived near by he kept the key;
if not, the nearest fisherman held it. Fogarty, the
father of the sick child, and whose cabin was within
gunshot of this house, kept the key this year. No
other protection was given these isolated houses and
none was needed. These black-hooded Sisters of the
Coast, keeping their lonely vigils, were as safe from
beach-combers and sea-prowlers as their white-capped
namesakes would have been threading the lonely
suburbs of some city.
The sound of the mare's feet on the oyster-shell
path outside his cabin brought Fogarty, a tall, thin,
weather-beaten fisherman, to the door. He was still
wearing his hip-boots and sou'wester--he was just in
from the surf--and stood outside the low doorway
with a lantern. Its light streamed over the sand
and made wavering patterns about the mare's feet.
"Thought ye'd never come, Doc," he whispered,
as he threw the blanket over the mare. "Wife's nigh
crazy. Tod's fightin' for all he's worth, but there
ain't much breath left in him. I was off the inlet
when it come on.
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