Uncle Isaac shook his head when he swept his eye round at all this loveliness; then he turned on his heel and took a look at the aneroid fastened to the wall of the sitting-room of the Life-Saving Station.  The arrow showed a steady shrinkage.  The barometer had fallen six points.

“What do ye think, Captain Holt?” asked the old surfman.

“I ain’t thinkin’, Polhemus; can’t tell nothin’ ’bout the weather this month till the moon changes; may go on this way for a week or two, or it may let loose and come out to the sou’-east I’ve seen these dog-days last till October.”

Again Uncle Isaac shook his head, and this time kept his peace; now that his superior officer had spoken he had no further opinion to express.

Sam Green dropped his feet to the floor, swung himself over to the barometer, gazed at it for a moment, passed out of the door, swept his eye around, and resumed his seat—­tilted back against the wall.  What his opinion might be was not for publication—­ not in the captain’s hearing.

Captain Holt now consulted the glass, picked up his cap bearing the insignia of his rank, and went out through the kitchen to the land side of the house.  The sky and sea—­feathery clouds and still, oily flatness —­did not interest him this September morning.  It was the rolling dune that caught his eye, and the straggly path that threaded its way along the marshes and around and beyond the clump of scrub pines and bushes until it was lost in the haze that hid the village.  This land inspection had been going on for a month, and always when Tod was returning from the post-office with the morning mail.  The men had noticed it, but no one had given vent to his thoughts.

Tod, of course, knew the cause of the captain’s impatience, but no one of the others did, not even Archie; time enough for that when the Swede’s story was proved true.  If the fellow had lied that was an end to it; if he had told the truth Bart would answer, and the mystery be cleared up.  This same silence had been maintained toward Jane and the doctor; better not raise hopes he could not verify—­ certainly not in Jane’s breast.

Not that he had much hope himself; he dared not hope.  Hope meant a prop to his old age; hope meant joy to Jane, who would welcome the prodigal; hope meant relief to the doctor, who could then claim his own; hope meant redemption for Lucy, a clean name for Archie, and honor to himself and his only son.

No wonder, then, that he watched for an answer to his letter with feverish impatience.  His own missive had been blunt and to the point, asking the direct question:  “Are you alive or dead, and if alive, why did you fool me with that lie about your dying of fever in a hospital and keep me waiting all these years?” Anything more would have been superfluous in the captain’s judgment—­certainly until he received some more definite information as to whether the man was his son.