He puffed contentedly on a corncob pipe, and had just refilled and relit it when the lights went off all over Brigands Key, everywhere but his porch. His porch was bathed in the bright reliable glow of kerosene. He looked out over the town, feeling just a little smug. Blackness everywhere. He drew his pocket watch. Four AM. Most folks wouldn't even notice, being still in bed. He ran out to the yard, looked up at the dark spire of the lighthouse, and swore a blue streak when he saw that the lantern room was dark. He ran his fingers through his hair, and shook his head. Only a couple hours until dawn. Maybe it could wait until then. No. Even a couple hours without a beacon would put men in mortal danger. He emptied his pipe on the ground, stamped out the ash, and hurried back to the porch. He grabbed the lit lantern and two more unlit ones. He ran down the driveway to the rotting picket fence, aiming for the new power pole. The electric lines came across the channel along the old wood bridge on stinking creosote poles that dotted the town.
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