The man started.

"My name is Jack Holland," he said, "sure enough; though how you come
to know it beats me altogether, for I am always called Jack, and
except the governor, I don't think there is a man here knows my other
name."

"You were captain of the Hooghley, wrecked on the Malabar coast, nine
years ago," Dick said, this time speaking in English.

After an exclamation of startled surprise, the man stared at him in an
astonishment too great for words.

"Are you English?" he said slowly, at last. "Yes, I was in command of
the Hooghley. Who, in God's name, are you?"

Dick took his two hands.

"Father," he said, "I am your son, Dick."

The sailor gazed at him with a stupefied air.

"Are you mad, or am I?" he said hoarsely.

"Neither of us, Father. I am disguised as an old man, but really I am
little more than eighteen. I have been searching for you for more than
two years, and, thank God, I have found you at last;" and, bursting
into tears, Dick would have thrown his arms round his father's neck,
but the latter pushed him off with one hand, and held him at arm's
distance, while his other hand plucked at his own throat, as if to
loosen something that was choking him.

"It can't be true," he muttered to himself. "I am dreaming this. I
shall wake presently, and you will be gone."

"It is quite true, Father. Mother is down at Tripataly, waiting for me
to bring you to her."

With a hoarse cry the sailor reeled, and would have fallen, had not
Dick caught him and allowed him to sink gradually to the ground; where
he lay, half supported by one of the bales. Dick ran to one of the
saddlebags, where he carried a flask of brandy in case of emergencies,
poured some into a cup, and held it to his father's lips. The sailor
gasped.

"It is brandy," he said suddenly. "I can't have dreamt that."

Then he broke into a violent sobbing. Dick knelt by his side, and took
his hand.

"It is assuredly no dream, Father," he said gently. "I am really your
son, Dick. I am here with a trusty friend, and now we have found you,
you may be sure that we will, in some way, manage your escape. There
is no time, now, to tell you all that has happened. That I can do,
afterwards. All that is important for you to know, is, that Mother is
quite well. She has never given up hope, and has always insisted that
you were alive, for she said that she should surely have known, if you
had died. So she taught me her language, until I could spea