Mr. Floyd chuckled, as he limped about on a cane, for he was able to be around now, though he could not go up and down the tower stairs.
"So you ran afoul of the professor; did you?" he asked with a laugh.
"Is that who he is—a professor?*' asked Sammy eagerly. "What is he always digging for—pirate's gold?"
"Land love you, boy, I don't know; and no one else does, as far as I can learn," said Mr. Floyd. "He's been in these parts for some time now, but nobody knows what his game is. Digging; eh? Yes, he's always doing that."
"At night, too," said Sammy.
"Yes, night don't seem to make any difference to him," admitted the lighthouse-keeper. "He's a mighty queer man."
"What's his name?" asked Frank, binding a bit of his hndkerchief about his crab-bitten toe, while he and the other boys sat in the warm sun on the dock, letting their clothes dry.
"Watson—Professor Watson he calls himself," said Mr. Floyd. "No one seems to know much about him. He doesn't mix with us folks much—lives all alone in that cabin."
"Do you really think he might be looking for the pirate gold?" asked Sammy eagerly.
"Well, he might be," admitted Mr. Floyd. "Lots of wiser folks, and some more foolish than he seems to be, have dug for it—but never found it. He might have the craze, too. But I wouldn't advise you boys to bother him too much."
"Is he dangerous?" asked Bob.
"No, I wouldn't go so far as to say that," replied the light-keeper, slowly. "But you know you have no right to go on his land, and he might have you arrested."
"Did he ever have anyone taken in?" Frank wanted to know.
"No, but he sued Nate Hardon, his next door neighbor, be-
