"Well," I says, "I've got nothing to speak of,--a little money, no
relations,--but I'd hate to give up the idea of seeing Long Island
Sound again, and the town of Greenough."
"Your hope is a possession excellent," he says very quiet. "I shall
not see again my Madrid, nor those vineyards of Aragon."
By-and-by the keeper seemed too melancholy to be sociable, I went
back to the banana tree.
Titiaca came. She said Craney had gone inland.
He didn't come back that night, and not till late afternoon of the
next day. Then he came out of the woods, strolling along, and sat
down under the banana tree, and acted as if he had something on his
mind. I told him about the keeper, and laid out my theory about his
having a handsome point of view, but one that needed property to keep
cheerful with. Craney was thoughtful.
"Property, Tommy!" he says at last. "This is the remarkablest
community I ever got to. The old man told you right, so far as he
knew. I guess he applied for four hundred square miles of ancestral
estate and they told him he could have the lighthouse job. That's so!
But see here. He don't really know what his job is. Lighthouse
keeper! My galluses and garters! He's the tin god of ten or fifteen
thousand Injuns and half-breeds.
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