“Why don’t you ask him where the lighthouse is where your father is supposed to be, and the best way of getting to it?”

 

“I will,” replied his chum.

 

“The Rockypoint light?” repeated the fisherman, in response to Joe’s inquiry¹. “Why yes, I know it well. It’s only a few miles from here. You can see her flash on a clear night, but you can’t make out the house itself, even on a clear day, because she’s down behind that spur of coast. From the ocean, though, she’s seen easily enough.”

 

“And how can we get there?” asked Blake.

 

“Well, you can walk right down the beach, though it’s a middlin’ long tramp; or you can go back to town, and hire a rig.”

 

“We’ll walk,” decided² Joe. “Do you happen to 57know of a Mr. Duncan there?” He waited anxiously for the answer.

 

“No, lad, I can’t rightly say I do,” said the fisherman. “I know the keeper, Harry³ Stanton, and, now I come to think of it, I did hear the other day that he had a new assistant.”

 

“That’s him!” cried Joe, eagerly.

 

“Who?”

 

“My father, I hope,” was the reply, and in his joy Joe told something of his story.

 

“Well, you sure have spun⁴ a queer yarn,” said the old fisherman, “and I wish you all sorts of luck. You’ll soon be at the light if you go right down the beach. I’d row you down in my dory, only I’ve just come in from taking up my nets and I’m sort of tired.”

 

“Oh, we wouldn’t think of asking you,” put in Blake. “We can easily walk it.”

 

“Some day I’ll take you out fishing,” promised the man. “And so you’re here to get moving pictures; eh? Well, I don’t know much about ’em, but you couldn’t come to a nicer place than this spot on the coast. And you only have to go a little way to get right where the real surf comes smashing up on the beach. Of course, as I said, we’re so land-locked just here that we don’t see much of it, even in a storm. Moving pictures; eh? I’d like to see some.”

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