Rugged Water

A dark night, but a clear one. No clouds, no fog, and the wind but
a light southwesterly breeze. Warm, too, for November. The little
room in the tower of the Setuckit Life-Saving Station was chilly,
of course--a landsman might have considered it decidedly cold--but
to Seleucus Gammon, the member of the Setuckit crew on watch in the
tower, it was warm, noticeably and surprisingly so. Seleucus, who
had come on duty dressed for the ordinary November temperature, had
unbuttoned the heavy jacket which he wore over his sweater and had
hung his cap on the hook on the wall, beside the round, brass
ship's clock. The brass of the clock was polished to a mirror-like
glisten. So, too, was the metal of the telescope on its stand in
the middle of the room. So, also, was every particle of brass or
nickel in that room. There was no light to render these things
visible, and no stove or other heating apparatus. Heat within and
cold without meant frost-covered window panes and consequent
difficulty in looking through and from those windows, in keeping
watch up and down the beaches and over the stretches of sea and
shoal. In many stations at this period it was not customary to
keep a man on watch in the tower at night; the regulations did not
require it and the matter was left to the discretion of the keeper.
At Setuckit, however, night watch in the tower was a part of the
regular routine; at least, since Captain Oswald Myrick had been in
charge there.

Seleucus strolled slowly about the glass-inclosed room, stopping to
peer from each window in turn. He was a huge, bulky man, with a
salt sea roll in his walk, and as he lumbered from window to window
in the darkness, a seeker for comparisons might have been reminded
of a walrus wallowing about in an undersized tank. A bald head and
a tremendous sweep of shaggy mustache were distinct aids to the
walrus suggestion.