“I counted on seeing heaps and heaps of snow,” the new member of the crew said in a tone of disappointment as he trudged on between his companions. “Of course the winter in Calcutta isn’t like what it is here, and I don’t remember much about the drifts of which mother often spoke.” “There’s snow and to spare, just back of the timbered land,” Sam Hardy replied with a laugh, “an’ when you’re needin’ a sight of it mighty bad you can go over the hill beyond the lighthouses. Down here on the point, where the wind has full sweep, it’s mostly blown away. Now, for instance, lookin’ up from the station, I reckon you won’t see so much as would make a snowball of respectable size.” “But we find it in spots down here,” Joe Cushing interrupted. “Back of the rocks the wind packs it into sheltered places, and although there’s none to be seen from the station door, we often come upon drifts three or four feet deep. It’s precious hard work draggin’ the beach-wagon then.” Benny soon had an illustration of his companions’ statements. They had been walking over land whereon not a single fleck of white could be seen, when suddenly, coming upon a gully which was sheltered from the wind by the cliffs, they were floundering in a deposit of snow so deep that only with the greatest difficulty could the boy force his way through. “It’s always a feast or a famine out here, lad,” Sam Hardy said grimly. “No snow whatever, or too much of it.” Then he led the way across what might have been mistaken, save for the dead grass, for a summer landscape. The little party were not far from the station when the men halted in front of a post to which was attached a small iron receptacle containing a key, fastened to a chain, and Sam said, as, removing his mittens, he took this out: “Now you shall see, my son, the meaning of this ’ere bit of furniture we’re obliged to carry. A dishonest surfman might go a short distance from the station, find a snug loafing-place, and spend his time of duty there instead of patrolling the coast, if it wasn’t for the little telltale inside this case. We must be at certain places in order to get at the keys which fit the lock--in this wise.” As he spoke Sam turned the key in what was seemingly a tiny lock on the leathern case. “Inside is a sort of clock which makes a record whenever I turn the key. After we are back at the station Tom Downey can tell if I have visited all the points where the key is kept, and exactly what time I was there. It makes a record for him to look up, and is a satisfaction to me, because it proves I have done my whole duty.” At nearly every point along the rugged coast Sam and Joe had some story to tell of disaster, or of saving life from the raging waters by the crew of which Benny had good reason now to consider himself a member.