A moment later Tom had sprung to their side and was wildly hugging them, while the other white castaways, including several sailors, looked on wonderingly and sympathetically. Captain Mosher, with tears of joy in his eyes, stood as a sort of guard, with drawn revolver, but there was no need to use it, for the natives had nearly all vanished, save a small wondering ring of them that stood some distance off.
“I rather guess, Tom, my boy,” spoke the commander, “that our voyage is at an end.”
“It surely is!” cried Tom, as he introduced his parents. “I’ve found them at last!”
“H’I always said them H’Americans was great for doin’ things,” commented the mate, who had followed at a distance.
“Father! Mother!” cried Tom. “Tell me all about it.”
“Oh, dear boy, you tell us!” half sobbed his mother. “However did you find us?”
And there, as night fell, on that half-savage island, in the midst of the hut-village of Walla, the head man, Tom told his story. Its details are already familiar to our readers, so I need not go over it.
“And you kept on after us, in spite of all,” commented Mr. Fairfield, when Tom had finished telling of his days aboard the derelict, and in the open boat, followed by the search in the steamer.
“Of course I did!” exclaimed Tom. “I wanted to find you.”
“And you did, dear boy!” cried his mother. “You found us, and we have you again! Oh, I never thought to see you any more.”