Now, looking in the direction indicated, the lad saw the sign, “Peter Brady, Linen Draper,” staring him in the face, and thanking the man, he hurried across the street. An old porter, who was putting up the shutters, told him that the squire had driven away in a carriage a few minutes before with a stranger, and had left word that he should not be back that night. Where did he live! Why, about two miles from there, away out on the edge of the city, but a cab would take him there in no time. There were no cabs for Breeze that evening, and so he walked, and inquired his way from one and another. At last, after more than two hours’ persevering labor, he found himself lifting the knocker of a small but neat-looking house some distance outside of the town, in which he had been told that Squire Brady lived. The maid who answered the knock said the squire was at home, and wouldn’t the gentleman step into the parlor. When she asked what name she should announce, he told her to say that it was a friend of the son who was in America. After she had gone, he could not help overhearing a whispered consultation that took place in the hall. While he was wondering about it, a quick footstep approached the room, and the next moment the door was opened by his old dorymate, Wolfe Brady. It would be hard to tell which of the two boys was the more astonished at this meeting. Perhaps Wolfe had the better reason for amazement, at seeing the friend from whom he had been parted thousands of miles from there, under circumstances that led him to fear he was dead. “Breeze!” “Wolfe!” These were the only words the dorymates uttered for a full minute, as they stood holding each other’s hand, and gazing into each other’s face. “How _do_ you happen to be here?” asked Breeze at length. “Oh, my coming is simple enough,” answered Wolfe. “I got a thousand dollars salvage money for helping to carry that brig into port, and thinking I would like to see father and mother once more, I came. I only just got in on the steamer from New York. But where in the name of all that’s wonderful did you come from, and how?” “I,” said Breeze, “have just got in from Iceland on the steam-yacht _Saga_.” Then in a few words he gave his friend the briefest possible outline of his adventures since their parting. “Well!” exclaimed Wolfe, when he had finished, “if it doesn’t beat the ‘Arabian Nights,’ or ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ or anything else I ever heard of, then I’m a mackerel. And to think that I should stand on that steamer’s deck and watch you sail into the harbor only three hours since, and not know it was you any more than Adam! But I must tell father and mother. They’re nearly crazy already from seeing me, and I only hope it won’t upset them entirely when I tell them who you are.”