"Brown, like yours."
"What kind of hair?"
"Curly. It's gray now; he had fever, and it turned."
"Where—when?" Hope and fear were now struggling for the mastery.
"Two years ago—when I first knew him; we were in hospital together."
"What's he been doin'?" The tone was softer. Hope seemed to be stronger now.
"Mining out in Brazil."
The captain took his eyes from the face of the man and asked in something of his natural tone of voice:
"Where is he now?"
The Swede put his hand in his inside pocket and took out a small time-book tied around with a piece of faded tape. This he slowly unwound, Tod's and the captain's eyes following every turn of his fingers. Opening the book, he glanced over the leaves, found the one he was looking for, tore it carefully from the book, and handed it to the captain.