Forest and Stream 
Six Months, $1.50. 
$3 a Year, 10 Cts. a Copy. 
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1913. 
VOL. LXXXI.-No. 19. 
127 Franklin St., New York. 
Cap’n Lige of Lonelyville 
L ONELYVILLE is an area of barren beach 
sand, bordered on the south by the Atlantic 
Ocean, on the north by a broad coast bay, 
and on the east and west by other areas of 
equally barren sand. Moreover, it is presided 
over in absolute despotism by Cap'n Elijah 
Wicks, whose wife and progeny constitute in 
summer the principal, and in winter the sole in¬ 
habitants. 
To the north the bay stretches a weary seven 
miles of sandbars and channels to the mainland 
where are dotted scattering towns and scattered 
population, but to which there is no communica¬ 
tion, save by sailboat. To the east and west the 
distances to human habitation are not so far. 
The Government Life-Saving stations are situ¬ 
ated at five-mile intervals along the rib of beach. 
There is one three miles west, and another two 
miles east of Lonelyville. 
Lonelyville properly consists of four shanties. 
The owners of three of these visit them for a 
week or two in the summer. Cap'n Lige lives 
in the fourth all year ’round. Weather-tossed 
cruising parties and gunners occasionally anchor 
off Lonelyville in the autumn and row ashore. 
Then Cap’n Lige gives them a square meal if 
they are hungry, or a bed if wind and weather 
have bound them to the beach for the night. He 
never accepts money for these slight services; 
they are among the unprinted statutes of Lonely¬ 
ville, and Cap'n Lige, as monarch of that un¬ 
pretentious domain, sees that they are in no way 
disregarded. He has been attending to their 
observance for nearly thirty-four years, and dur¬ 
ing that time he has entertained a heterogeneous 
assortment of guests, including magnates of 
commerce, oil kings and clam diggers in his five- 
ply kitchen. And of that kitchen, and the four- 
ply parlor, to say nothing of the shark skin 
violin—but if the reader will be patient. 
A balky stove was the cause of it. Quinker 
and I had sailed across the bay one December 
night, dodging the sandbars more by good luck 
than good management, and arrived off Lonely¬ 
ville, as near as I can remember, in about 7 
o’clock’s worth of windy, winter darkness. We 
brought with us permission to use one of the 
three summer habitations for shelter and cook¬ 
ing purposes, and we were to stay over the next 
day for the duck shooting. 
After anchoring our craft we rowed ashore 
in a sharpie, found our shanty, lugged our dun¬ 
nage into it, lighted a lamp, and turned our at¬ 
tention to the stove. It was a very rusty and 
very small affair, and moreover it was situated 
in a low partition which had been built on the 
northwest side of the main building. The smoke 
By PERCY M. CUSHING 
pipe which went out through the roof was of 
sewer pipe. We found later that this pipe 
reached about four feet above the roof of the 
kitchen, while the main gable roof of the shack 
proper towered some ten feet higher. 
We gathered some driftwood and lighted 
the fire. Puff-puff! Instantly the shack was 
filled with a strangling cloud of smoke, which 
RETURNING SATISFIED. 
billowed out through every crack in the stove. 
We fled to the night for air. 
Presently we returned and lighted up again. 
Again, puff-puff. Five times we fled and re¬ 
turned, and each time puff-puff and unstandable 
smoke. Then we investigated and discovered 
that the strong northwest gale, striking the 
gable of the main shanty, made a back draft that 
rushed down the sewer pipe chimney, throttling 
the fire and turning the smoke back into the 
stove and the house. 
We gave it up. There was nothing else for 
us to do. When the wind blew itself out, we 
could start the fire, and incidentally have sup¬ 
per. The wind might blow for two days or a 
week. And meantime we were in full possession 
of the knowledge that we had nothing to eat 
since the morning. We had started across the 
bay before lunch, and had counted on making 
up the deficiency at supper. 
“Damn,” said Quinker, “I’ve got to have 
something to eat.” 
“Go as far as you like,” I retorted grouchily, 
“there’s plenty of raw eggs, raw bacon, pancake 
flour, cornmeal, lard and butter in the grub 
basket. Help yourself, if you like raw grub. 
Go to it; they say it’s fattening.” 
“Well, what are we going to do then?” he 
complained. 
“Go hungry,” I guess. 
“Not for mine,” answered Quinker; “I'm 
going to build that stovepipe higher, or tear 
down the main roof.” 
He banged the door after him as he went 
out. In a minute he came back. 
“Say,” he exclaimed, “there’s a light on the 
beach to the east. Guess it must be a shack. 
Let’s go over and see if we can get some cooked 
grub there.” 
I was as willing as he, and buttoning our 
hunting coats against the thrust of the wind, we 
started along the shore. We soon perceived that 
the light was near the center of the beach, and 
we struck into the dried briers and bayberry 
bushes toward it. First I fell into a mud hole, 
then Quinker. Then Quinker untangled me from 
a mass of briers, and a moment later we ran 
into a short stretch of barbed wire fence. 
Finally we got by that, and the light gleamed 
through a window close at hand. 
I wonder what it is that makes men look 
into a lighted window of a strange house in a 
lonely place before they knock on the door? It 
was evidently the window of a kitchen through 
which Quinker and I peered. There was a table 
with a red and white cloth on it. A shiny range, 
a swinging ship’s lamp, a box near the range 
piled high with driftwood, a sink with pump and 
dipper hanging above it. Also there were several 
persons. 
A hawk-faced old man with a little gray tuft 
of a goatee, a diminutive little woman with a 
striped calico dress, and half a dozen children. 
“Small family,” grunted Quinker. as I fol¬ 
lowed him around the house to the door. 
“Dummy, dummy, dum. dum, damn—come 
on in. I'm Cap’n Lige Wicks,” remarked the 
hawkish old man as he opened the 'door and 
peered out at us. “What's the matter, boys, be 
you run ashore?” 
