An Indian woman, so hideous
as to scarcely suggest humanity, at stated times performed for him
these offices. When she did not come, which was not infrequent, he
did not eat.
Such was the mental and physical condition of the Man on the Beach
on the 1st of January, 1869.
It was a still, bright day, following a week of rain and wind. Low
down the horizon still lingered a few white flecks--the flying
squadrons of the storm--as vague as distant sails. Southward the
harbor bar whitened occasionally but lazily; even the turbulent
Pacific swell stretched its length wearily upon the shore. And
toiling from the settlement over the low sand dunes, a carriage at
last halted half a mile from the solitary's dwelling.
"I reckon ye'll hev to git out here," said the driver, pulling up
to breathe his panting horses. "Ye can't git any nigher."
There was a groan of execration from the interior of the vehicle, a
hysterical little shriek, and one or two shrill expressions of
feminine disapprobation, but the driver moved not. At last a
masculine head expostulated from the window: "Look here; you agreed
to take us to the house.
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