The door to the fisherman's shack stood ajar, and in the opening showed the form of a man. As the light from the newly risen moon fell full upon the wrinkled features of the face, a pleased, contented smile was to be seen as he placidly puffed his corncob pipe and blew rings before him in the quiet, heavy, midnight air. It was Captain Ichabod, home again after the momentous happenings of the day when the dead body was found in the wreck of The Isabel.

The Captain had been more or less methodical in his ways all his life, but he had never carried routine so far as to keep a diary. Probably during the past twenty years, living the life he had upon his lonely island, there had not been enough of incident to have suggested even the idea of such a record. But on this particular night, the fisherman, closeted within his shack, had been toiling through three long hours in order to set down a detailed narrative of the strange happenings in which he had been concerned since the coming of the great storm. He had ransacked his belongings until he found pencil and paper. Then, with his characteristically painstaking and deliberate manner, he had indited an itemized account of the various events. Now he had completed his work, and rested well content with his accomplishment. As he lounged in the doorway, he was taking a glimpse over the beautiful expanse of water, the while he smoked a final pipe before turning in. He felt that after the arduous endeavors of the day he was entitled to a sound and refreshing sleep. His usual calm had returned to him.

At daylight that very morning when he awakened in the life-saving station at old Fort Macon, he had felt that he could never again occupy his old cabin home. Yet, here he was at night, resting well satisfied, without any qualm whatsoever. The exciting happening of the day—perhaps especially the opportunity to tell his old rival just what he thought of the fellow—had proved a balm to his over-strained nerves. He had come back home with a firm resolve to continue on there in tranquillity, and to enjoy to the full the days that were before him. It is true that he missed Shrimp. But, after mature meditation on the matter of the fowl's going away, the fisherman had about come to the conclusion that in all probability he had gone of his own free will and accord. It occurred to the Captain as possible that the bird might have been peeved by his master's sailing away without him as he hurried to Beaufort Town in quest of Doctor Hudson. Ichabod believed that Shrimp had seen his opportunity to cross to the mainland with the strangers and had seized on it in the hope of being able at last to fight it out with his rooster rival, whose challenging salute had been tantalizing him for many a day. Ichabod chuckled as he expressed the wish that Shrimp's encounter with this rival might give him as much satisfaction as had his own with the beach-comber.

Now, under the flow of his meditations, the old man grew loquacious. He went into the shack, shut the door and lighted the lamp. Then he sprawled at ease in his favorite chair, and since there was no other auditor at hand, talked to himself.

"Wall! I reckon I have larned a heap this day. The most important fact is that Icky Jones has been a fool for over twenty year. Jest because a no-'count woman took a notion in her haid that she had rather marry a beach-combin' thief than an honest fisherman I have made myself hate all o' the rest o' the gender, or least-wise to keep away fr'm 'em, an' lead a miserable lonely life. Why! do ye know, I believe that when I spunked up an' told old Sandy Mason what I thought o' him an' his callin', an' rubbed it in some on the poor kid, that it did me more good than a dost o' medicine. It sure put sand in my craw an' made me feel like fightin' every mean thing livin'. If I hadn't been a narrow-fool, an' awful sot in my way, instead o' takin' the loss of Roxana Lee to heart, I'd 'a' braced up an' gone right ahead an' looked fer one o' the right sort. I've learned jest a short time back that I'd gone off on the wrong track. When I revived that fine-lookin' foreign woman an' she opened those eyes—such beautiful brown eyes!—an' looked at me so appealin'-like an' called me Doctor, I jest couldn't he'p but wish that she'd talk to me a leetle more, but fate was agin me, an' she was mum as an adder."

Captain Ichabod fell silent as he undressed for the night, extinguished the light and stretched himself luxuriously on his bed. As he snuggled down into the blankets with a capacious yawn, he drowsily spoke aloud yet once again.

"Wall, hanged if I 'lowed this mornin' when I woke up at the station, that to-night I'd be a-layin' here so peaceable-like an' jest a-pinin' fer sleep. This shack an' this bunk has had a woman in 'em, but I don't reckin it has hurt 'em none after all. I can sleep, you bet. Uncle Icky may dream a leetle might, but it won't be about Roxana Lee."

It was not until the sun was more than an hour high that the old fisherman opened his eyes again to the realization that another day had come. When he felt the warm rays of the summer sun upon his cheek he knew that he had slept beyond his usual time of waking, which stirred him to a fleeting anger against himself. He got up quickly, and while he dressed, admonished himself harshly.

"Betwixt the rust o' time an' a thievin' yachtsman, ye're plumb out o' time, Ichabod. If ye aim to be a successful fisherman in the future as in the past, you must either find ye another rooster, or buy a clock, an' I reckin that a clock, what will run, but can't run away, is the thing fer you."

Breakfast over, Ichabod busied himself in getting his nets and other fishing paraphernalia straightened out, for in his hurry to put them out of harm's way as the big blow came on, he had got them pretty badly tangled. It was mid-forenoon before he considered that things about the shack and door yard were about as they should be at the place of a first-class fisherman. Occasionally as he worked, he would glance toward the oyster rocks, where lay the remains of The Isabel, and he would wonder once again what could have been the occasion of the curious crime that had resulted in the death of the man chained to the engine. But all his musings brought only increased perplexity, until his wits were totally befuddled. He dare be sure only that the yachtsman he had rescued was either a villain or a maniac.

It was a custom in the Sound Country for the natives at ............