“Journey’s End” was now occupied by Stephen Strong, an old friend of Captain Hallard, who had come to the rescue when the mortgage was foreclosed. Mr. Strong was a New Englander, and when the time came for him to take possession he did so regretfully, declaring that at any time the fortunes of the Hallards changed once more he would be willing to leave the house. “I’m a wanderer, anyway,” he said, “so I guess this won’t be the end of my journey. Besides, I was bred and born in Gloucester, and when I drop my anchor the last time it ought to be there. Cheer up, Hallard, you’ll be heaving me out of this place yet.” Mr. Strong often made some similar remark when Captain Hallard revisited the house on the cliff, and Captain Hallard laughed at such cheery optimism, for he knew his days of fortune-hunting were over. Dave, however, was imbued with a youthful notion of retrieving the family fortunes, and he realized that as it must be many years before he could obtain command of a ship himself, the sooner he got to work the better. A few days after his encounter with the ancient mariner he spoke to his father on the subject. “Tush, lad, what’s put such notions into your head?” Andrew Hallard asked, anxious to draw from the boy his real feelings. “I don’t think I should like to be anything but a sailor, Dad,” the boy said. Then he told his father of his talk with the old salt. Captain Hallard listened, and nodded. It came to him as an echo of his own boyhood. Thus encouraged, Dave warmed up, and repeated some of the sailor’s stories. When he came to the discovery of the _Hatteras_ on a desert island his father turned quickly in his chair. “_Hatteras, Hatteras_,” he repeated, wrinkling his brows. “I seem to remember something about a ship called the _Hatteras_, years ago, but I don’t recall exactly what for the moment.” He drummed his finger-tips on the edge of the chair and looked up at the ceiling. “Why!” he exclaimed after a pause; “wasn’t there a ship called the _Hatteras_ disappeared once? I think I’ve got something about it in my book of newspaper cuttings. Let me see.” He foraged in a drawer, fished out an old collection of clippings, and turned over the leaves. CHAPTER II THE MYSTERY OF THE BARK HATTERAS “Here she is,” he said at last. “This can’t be the same _Hatteras_ that you’re talking about though, because they searched everywhere for her at the time.” Adjusting his glasses, Captain Hallard read: