Niven appeared thoughtful. "No," he said, "it wouldn't, or you either. That is, if it meant we had to go back to the Aldebaran. Still, by this time she should be half-way to China, or somewhere else as far."
They had, however, reached the house now, and when they went in Jordan was sitting by the little stove, with a big lead-bottomed ink-pot standing on some papers on the table beside him. The lads stood still a moment, and waited somewhat anxiously for him to speak.
"You've folks in the old country who would worry about what had become of you?" he said.
"Yes, sir," said Niven. "It has troubled me a good deal now and then."
Jordan nodded. "You can write and tell them where you are," he said. "Sit down right here and do it now. If we've better weather we'll run for the harbour I'm making for to-morrow, and now and then a boat from St. Michael's looks in there. She would take any letters I left to Vancouver."
Niven sat down at the table, and Appleby felt very lonely as he watched the smile creep into his face, and the rusty pen scratch across the paper. He knew that other eyes would brighten when they read that letter, but there was nobody to grieve or rejoice over him, and once he coughed for no reason that was apparent to Jordan, who was watching him.
"And you. Haven't you got anybody? There's another pen," said the latter.
Appleby was never quite sure what prompted him, but the skipper's tone was kindly, and fumbling in an inner pocket he pulled out a little leather case and took from it a picture of a sandy mound with palm fronds drooping over the wooden cross at one end of it.
"That is all I have, sir," he said.
Jordan took the photograph, and his eyes grew softer as he returned it with a little nod of sympathy. "It's rough when you're young, but a lonely man's not always the worst off, my lad," he said.