touched by a whip, he
started across the sand to meet the surfman.

"Guess we got it all right this time, captain," cried Tod. "It's got
the Nassau postmark, anyhow. There warn't nothin' else in the box but
the newspapers," and he handed the package to his chief.

The two walked to the house and entered the captain's office. Tod hung
back, but the captain laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Come in with me, Fogarty. Shut the door. I'll send these papers in to
the men soon's I open this."

Tod obeyed mechanically. There was a tone in the captain's voice that
was new to him. It sounded as if he were reluctant to be left alone
with the letter.

"Now hand me them spectacles."

Tod reached over and laid the glasses in his chief's hand. The captain
settled himself deliberately in his revolving chair, adjusted his
spectacles, and slit the envelope with his thumb-nail. Out came a sheet
of foolscap closely written on both sides. This he read to the end,
turning the page as carefully as if it had been a set of official
instructions, his face growing paler and paler, his mouth tight shut.
Tod stood beside him watching the lights and shadows playing across his
face. The letter was as follows:

"Nassau, No. 4 Calle Valenzuela,

"Aug. 29, 18--.

"Father: Your letter was not what I expected, although it is, perhaps,
all I deserve. I am not going into that part of it, now I know that
Lucy and my child are alive. What has been done in the past I can't
undo, and maybe I wouldn't if I could, for if I am worth anything
to-day it comes from what I have suffered; that's over now, and I won't
rake it up, but I think you would have written me some word of kindness
if you had known what I have gone through since I left you. I don't
blame you for what you did--I don't blame anybody; all I want now is to
get back home among the people who knew me when I was a boy, and try
and make up for the misery I have caused you and the Cobdens. I would
have done this before, but it has only been for the last two years that
I have had any money. I have got an interest in the mine now and am
considerably ahead, and I can do what I have always determined to do if
I ever had the chance and means--come home to Lucy and the child; it
must be big now--and take them back with me to Bolivia, where I have a
good home and where, in a few years, I shall be able to give them
everything they need. That's due to her and to the child, and it's due
to you; and if