Her overwrought nerves could not stand the excess of joy and she sank into her husband's arms.
Mr. Hamilton carried her into a big room that overlooked the water and placed her gently on a lounge. When she recovered consciousness and opened her eyes, she looked up into the face of her son, who bent anxiously over her.
"Harry," she whispered, her happiness sending the warm blood back into her face again.
"Mother," he cried, seizing her in his strong young arms.
When she was stronger they led her out to her seat on the veranda where she had kept her weary vigil, and she warmly greeted Bert and the Midget, who had just returned from the telegraph office, where they had sent word at once to their homes telling of their safe arrival in America. O'Connor who had come ashore at Harry's earnest solicitation, stood in the background talking with Mr. Hamilton, to whom he had briefly outlined the adventures of the three boys since they had been his guests on the Mariella.
Harry took the big man by the hand and led him over to his mother.
"Mother," he said, proudly, "I want you to know my friend, Captain Dynamite."
"Captain Dynamite?" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, in wonder.
"Captain O'Connor, I mean; they call him Dynamite because when you touch him off there's sure to be something doing. He saved our lives twice—once from the sea, and once from the Spaniards."
"The Spaniards—my son, what are you talking about?"