Fogarty, the father of the sick child, and whose cabin was within gunshot of this house, kept the key this year.

No other protection was given these isolated houses and none was needed.
These black-hooded Sisters of the Coast, keeping their lonely vigils, were as safe from beach-combers and sea-prowlers as their white-capped namesakes would have been threading the lonely suburbs of some city.
The sound of the mare's feet on the oyster-shell path outside his cabin brought Fogarty, a tall, thin, weather-beaten fisherman, to the door.
He was still wearing his hip-boots and sou'wester--he was just in from the surf--and stood outside the low doorway with a lantern.

Its light streamed over the sand and made wavering patterns about the mare's feet.
"Thought ye'd never come, Doc," he whispered, as he threw the blanket over the mare.

"Wife's nigh crazy.

Tod's fightin' for all he's worth, but there ain't much breath left in him.