II



Four months passed. The ice was out of the river;
the steam heat had been turned off in the high building
and the two time-worn awnings had been fixed to
my windows by the obliging janitor. The Tampico
had come and gone, and had come again. Its arrivals,
and departures were, as usual, always commented
upon by Mawkum, generally in connection with
"That Bunch of Dried Garlic," that being the irreverent
way in which he spoke of his ivory-tinted Excellency.
Otherwise the lighthouse, and all that pertained
to it, had become ancient history.

One lovely spring morning--one of those warm
mornings when every window and door is wide open
to get the breeze from Sandy Hook and beyond--
another visitor stepped into Mawkum's room. He
brought no letters of introduction, nor did he confine
himself to his mother tongue, although his nationality
was as apparent as that of his predecessor. Neither
did he possess a trace of Garlicho's affability or
polish. On the contrary, he conducted himself like
a muleteer, and spoke with the same sort of brutal
authority.

And the differences did not stop here. Garlicho
was shrivelled and sun-dried. This man was round