He stopped, for he was tremendously agitated. The lieutenant took the letter. It was short and crudely written, as by a hand long unaccustomed to the use of the pen. It was dated Marseilles, September 1st, and it told, in a few brief words, of the wreck of the U. S. frigate _Eagle_ on the coast of Africa seventeen years before; of the loss of all the officers and crew, with the exception of the writer, who was rescued by the natives and carried captive into the interior, where he had long remained; of his flight to the seacoast after many ineffectual efforts; of his escape on board of a French ship, and his voyage to Marseilles; of his failure to find friends who would listen to or believe a story that he could not prove; and finally of his being obliged to work his passage home on board of a Baltimore clipper, which would sail in a few days. While Ronald Bruce read this letter the commodore, recovering his voice, was pouring forth his emotions in a torrent of exclamations. “He was to follow the letter by the next ship, you see! In a few days! The date of that letter is old! It has been delayed! It was sent first to the Navy Department at Washington, then forwarded here! Good Heaven, to think of it! Even the consul at Marseilles discredited his story! A half-naked vagabond, picked up by a French ship on the coast of Africa and clothed by the humanity of the crew. Obliged to work his passage home! It is my son, Lonny, that I am talk of, Ronald—do you understand? My son, Lonny Bruce, who was falsely supposed to have been lost at sea seventeen years ago!” “Yes, yes, dear sir, I quite understand. I am reading his letter,” said the young man, trying to comprehend through the confusion what he was reading. “He will be here soon—very soon! Those Baltimore clippers are fast sailers. He will go to Washington first—to the Navy Department—to find out where I am. Then he will post here!” The impetuous torrent of language poured forth by the old man in his excessive excitement made it almost impossible for the young lieutenant to get in his word “edgeways;” but at length he had an opportunity of saying: “If Lonny has neither money nor friends he may have to _tramp_ all the way from Baltimore to Washington, and from Washington here.” “So he may, poor dear fellow,” said the commodore musingly. “By the way, did not that strange _tramp_ who came here this morning say something about a letter from Marseilles which should have preceded him?” inquired Ronald meaningly. The old man started, looked keenly at the younger one for a moment, then doubling his fist and bringing it down upon the table, he smote it smartly, exclaiming: “What an idiot! What a monster I have been! He was my Lonny! And _she_ knew him! Oh! it is all clear enough now! What a jolter-headed beast I have been! No wonder strangers discredited his story when his own father disowned him!”