“Oh, he had beautiful teeth, sir,” Kit declared. “He never had to go to the dentist’s, and they were as white and regular—well, I used to tell him they were almost as handsome as a set of false ones.”
“Put it down,” the Captain repeated. “And do you know whether there were any marks on his body that he could be identified by?”
“The only mark I know of was a long scar on his left temple, sir,” Kit answered, “running down like this;” and he drew a finger across his own temple to show the direction. “He got that when he had such a narrow escape from being killed. A block fell from aloft and came just near enough to make a gash in his skin. A quarter of an inch more would have killed him on the spot, of course; but he only laughed at it when he told us about it.”
“Ah, that is a good point; put it down. A man may lose his teeth, or grow fat or thin, or his hair turn gray, but he never can get rid of a scar. That cut on the temple will go further than anything else to tell us whether this is your father or not. Now when you write to the consul tell him all these things that you have told me, and as much more as you can think of. And there is another thing. To make such an inquiry as this, and get your father home, if it proves to be your father, will cost some money. You are willing to spend whatever you can afford, I suppose?”
“Why, Captain,” Kit exclaimed, “what would I care for money in exchange for my father! I would sell the last shirt off my back just to hear that he is alive. And we could raise a little money in Huntington, if it came to the worst. I know mother would spend her last cent to find him. But I think I can manage it myself, if it does not cost too much.”
“Well, Silburn,” the Captain said, laying his hand on Kit’s shoulder, “you have a good name, and that is always something to fall back on. I have a little money that I have saved year after year, and if you need more than you think, I will lend you a few hundred, and you can pay me interest on it and pay it off gradually. I should consider it quite as safe in your hands as if it remained in the bank.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Kit answered. “I am more grateful to you than I can tell you. But it will be months before we can hear from the consul, and by that time I shall have a little more money of my own. I want to send him a little money in the letter and ask him to have a photograph taken of the man in the hospital. If it is my father, I think we should recognize him, no matter how much he is changed.”
“That is a capital idea,” the Captain assented; “and by writing from here your letter will get to New Zealand much sooner than if you sent it from America.”
That evening Kit had his hands full with letter-writing. There was one to be written to his mother, and one to Vieve, and a note to Bryant & Williams, thanking them for their letter, and last of all, a long one to the consul at Wellington, in which he gave the fullest possible description of his father.
“The mention of some familiar names,” he wrote, “might cause him to remember things that he has forgotten, if, as I hope, it proves to be my father. He lives in Huntington, Connecticut, opposite the church, and my mother’s name is Emily Silburn. His two children are Genevieve and Christopher Silburn; he always called us Vieve and Kit. Our dog’s name is Turk. The Flower City was the schooner he was wrecked on. The scar I have mentioned looks whiter than the rest of his face. If he seems to recognize any of these names, that will be pretty good evidence that he is Christopher Silburn.”