Later in the day the Yellow Leaf met Squinting Jack, and said, "I saw Mr. Drake running like wildfire down the street this forenoon. If I hadn't seen 'en wi' my own eyes, I wouldn't ha' believed it."
"I saw 'en too wi' my own eyes," replied Squinting Jack. "And still I don't believe it."
Captain Drake would have run too had there been less of him. George had never been a liar—the poor fellow had no imagination and rarely picked up a newspaper—still his story sounded too impossible to be true. They reached the newly discovered tombstone; the Captain read the inscription; and in a voice trembling with emotion murmured, "Amelia Drake, of Black Anchor Farm, in this parish."
The portion of stone which bore the date of her departure had sunk into the ground.
"George, my lad," cried the Captain, "this is the grave of my long-lost great-grandmother."
"The missing link," added the nephew, with the joyous certainty of one about to negotiate a loan.
"Our pedigree is now complete. I am certain my father used to speak of a rumour which insisted that his grandmother's name was Amelia; and now we have discovered she lived in this parish, at Black Anchor Farm, which no doubt had passed to her husband—who is down on the pedigree as having been probably lost at sea—from the lineal descendant of the great Founder himself. The name of the farm proves that. You see, George, the reference is to a black anchor, a new freshly tarred anchor, not to an old rusty red one. I must have the stone cleaned. And we will show our respect by planting roses here."
"If it hadn't been for me, this grave would never have been discovered," said George, ready to produce a statement of his bankruptcy.
"That's true, my lad. It's the best day's work you have ever done in your life."
"Skilled labour, too," reminded George, still advertising.