The sitting-room was full when he entered.  Dinner had been announced by Morgan, who was cook that week, by shouting the glad tidings from his place beside the stove, and the men were sitting about in their chairs.  Two fishermen who had come for their papers occupied seats against the wall.

The captain walked to the corner of the table, stood behind his own chair and rested the knuckles of one hand on the white oilcloth.  The look on his face attracted every eye.  Pausing for a moment, he turned to Polhemus and spoke to him for the others: 

“Isaac, I got a letter just now.  Fogarty brought it over.  You knew my boy Bart, didn’t ye, the one that’s been dead nigh on to twenty years?”

The old surfman nodded, his eyes still fastened on the captain.  This calling him “Isaac” was evidence that something personal and unusual was coming.  The men, too, leaned forward in attention; the story of Bart’s disappearance and death had been discussed up and down the coast for years.

“Well, he’s alive,” rejoined the captain with a triumphant tone in his voice, “and he’ll be here in a week—­comin’ to Amboy on a steamer.  There ain’t no mistake about it; here’s his letter.”

The announcement was received in dead silence.  To be surprised was not characteristic of these men, especially over a matter of this kind.  Death was a part of their daily experience, and a resurrection neither extraordinary nor uncommon.  They were glad for the captain, if the captain was glad—­and he, evidently was.  But what did Bart’s turning up at this late day mean?  Had his money given out, or was he figuring to get something out of his father—­something he couldn’t get as long as he remained dead?

The captain continued, his voice stronger and with a more positive ring in it: 

“He’s part owner in a mine now, and he’s comin’ home to see me and to straighten out some things he’s interested in.”  It was the first time in nearly twenty years that he had ever been able to speak of his son with pride.

A ripple of pleasure went through the room.  If the prodigal was bringing some money with him and was not to be a drag on the captain, that put a new aspect on the situation.  In that case the father was to be congratulated.

“Well, that’s a comfort to you, captain,” cried Uncle Isaac in a cheery tone.  “A good son is a good thing.  I never had one, dead or alive, but I’d ‘a’ loved him if I had had.  I’m glad for you, Captain Nat, and I know the men are.” (Polhemus’s age and long friendship gave him this privilege.  Then, of course, the occasion was not an official one.)

“Been at the mines, did ye say, captain?” remarked Green.  Not that it was of any interest to him; merely to show his appreciation of the captain’s confidence.  This could best be done by prolonging the conversation.

“Yes, up in the mountains of Brazil some’er’s, I guess, though he don’t say,” answered the captain in a tone that showed that the subject was still open for discussion.