He placed the book on the table, and sat down. It was no business of his, but he felt compelled to listen to the conversation. The first words brought the blood to his face with a rush. "Have you a boy named Hartland employed here?" asked the stranger. "I have." "James Hartland?" "That is his name. Why?" "I should like to speak to him for a minute, if I may." "Is it anything important? because he is busy at present." Jim thought the man laughed; but he said aloud, "I think it’s important enough for me to see him." "Hartland!" cried his master, "here’s a gentleman wishes to see you!" And Jim, half dazed by surprise and doubt and fear, moved slowly toward the counter. The man on the other side of the counter was of medium height, well proportioned on the whole, but with a great breadth of chest. He was dressed in heavy serge of a dark-blue colour, and wore a peaked cap. His hair was short and curly; a few silver threads sprinkled the tawny brown of an ample beard. His eyes were gray; his face was white, and rather drawn. An observant critic would probably have called him a strong man just recovered or recovering from a severe illness. For a moment he looked hard at the boy; then a tender smile overspread his face, his lips parted, and in a soft voice he whispered, "Jim!" I do not know that the stationer ever complained; he might have done so with reason. Jim was a good all-round athlete, who, on ordinary occasions, could vault over the counter with ease. Now, dizzy with excitement, he made an erratic kick, sweeping papers, books, and stationery to the floor. Neither did he stop to repair the mischief, but flung himself with a cry of joy into the man’s outstretched arms. Presently the man looked round on the pile of wreckage, and smiled. "Come, Jim," said he, "let us put this straight." And while Mr. Broad looked on in undisguised amazement, the pair proceeded to pick up the fallen articles. "If," said the stationer, slowly rubbing his hands, "I were in the habit of guessing, I should say you are Mr. John Hartland, who was drowned off Cape Horn." "Right you are, sir!" returned the man, smiling pleasantly; "I am John Hartland, and this is my boy. I’m just down from London. I heard Jim was up here, and I’ve come to borrow him. You see, he has to tell his mother. I’ve kept it out of the papers, and no one but the owners of the _Morning Star_ know I’m still in the land of the living." "Take him, my good sir!" said the delighted stationer. "Take him, and good luck to you both! But come to see me, Jim; come to see me!" "I’ll tide you over the busy time, sir!" exclaimed Jim; "I won’t leave you in the lurch. But I must go now. Oh, _how_ shall I tell mother?" People stopped to look at them in the streets—they were so patently, so undeniably happy. John Hartland clutched his boy’s arm tightly, and every now and then Jim smiled up into his father’s face. "We’re living in Brook Street now, father," he remarked.