From where he was standing by a group of the rescued sailors, Joe Duncan heard what the lighthouse keeper said. The lad rushed forward.
“Nate Duncan!” he repeated, as he gazed at the two men, who were just beginning to revive under the application of stimulants. “Which one of you is Mr. Duncan?” he asked, eagerly.
“I—I am,” faltered the younger of the two men. “Why, who wants me. Oh, it’s you, Harry Stanton,” and he looked at the lighthouse keeper standing near him. “I—I can explain everything. I——”
“It wasn’t I who asked,” spoke the lighthouse keeper. “It was this lad here,” and he indicated Joe. “Your son.”
“My son!” cried the rescued man. “Are you sure—can it be true. Oh, is it possible? Don’t disappoint me! Are you my son?” and he held out his hands to Joe.
“I—I think so, father,” spoke the boy, softly. “I—I have been looking for you a long time.”
“And I have, too, Joe; yes, you are my boy. I can see it now. Oh, the dear Lord be praised!” and there was moisture in his eyes that was not the salt from the raging sea.
“But—but,” went on Joe. “I thought you went to China. I wrote to you at Hong Kong.”
“I did start for there, Joe; but the vessel on which I sailed was wrecked, and this craft, bound back for San Francisco, picked us up. So I didn’t get very far. Oh, but I have found my boy!”
The others drew a little aside while father and son, so strangely restored to each other by the fury of the sea, clasped each other close.