Captain Nazro gazed after him meditatively, took out his pipe and
looked at it, then gazed again. "January's cracked," he said;
"that's what's the matter with him. He's a good man, and a good
lighthouse-keeper, and he's been an able seaman in his day, none
better; but he's cracked!"
There is an island off a certain part of the coast of Maine,--a little
rocky island, heaped and tumbled together as if Dame Nature had shaken
down a heap of stones at random from her apron, when she had finished
making the larger islands which lie between it and the mainland. At
one end, the shoreward end, there is a tiny cove, and a bit of
silver-sand beach, with a green meadow beyond it, and a single great
pine; but all the rest is rocks, rocks. At the farther end the rocks
are piled high, like a castle wall, making a brave barrier against
the Atlantic waves; and on top of this cairn rises the lighthouse,
rugged and sturdy as the rocks themselves, but painted white, and
with its windows shining like great, smooth diamonds. This is Light
Island; and it was in this direction that Captain January's red dory
was headed when he took his leave of his brother-captain, and rowed
away from the wharf. It was a long pull; in fact, it took pretty
nearly the whole afternoon, so that the evening shadows were
lengthening when at length he laid down his oars, and felt the boat's
nose rub against the sand of the little home-cove.
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