Kit stood by the bedside for some minutes, till he was sure that his father was asleep; then he sat down at the table and wrote a long letter home, knowing that the mails would reach America weeks earlier than the slow Brindisi could arrive. And a letter to Mr. Clark too, and another to Captain Griffith. It was nearly midnight before he got to bed, but the fatigue and excitement of the day insured a good night’s sleep.
“Kit, my boy, wake up. I want you to tell me something.”
When Kit opened his eyes, the sun was streaming in the windows, and his father, already dressed, was standing by his bed. He sprang up and began to put on his clothes.
“I want you to tell me, Kit,” he repeated, seating himself in one of the big chairs, “how long I have been away from home.”
“Nearly two years, sir,” Kit answered.
“Two years!” Mr. Silburn exclaimed, springing from his chair. “You’re not making game of me, Kit? You wouldn’t do that, my boy!”
“No, sir,” Kit answered; “it is true. After the wreck of the Flower City you disappeared, and we almost gave you up. Then after a long time we heard of an American sailor in the hospital here in New Zealand, and got them to send us a photograph. We were not sure even then; but I came on, and found you. So that trouble is all over, and you mustn’t worry yourself about it.”
“No, I’ll not worry about it,” his father replied. “But I want to know; it makes a man feel so foolish not to know where he has been. How did you get here, my boy?”
That made a long story; for Kit had to tell how he had been a cabin boy and a supercargo; how he had become an assistant purser; and how his good friends on the two ships had paved the way for him to New Zealand. As he got on with the recital, his father seized his hand and fondled it; and before he finished, great tears of love and gratitude were rolling down the old sailor’s cheeks.
While he was still in this position, the house surgeon called to learn how his former patient had passed the night.