“And so I might if my ship had come into port,” he sighed. Then, to Gale, “As for _your_ ship, I think she is safe enough. She is probably on the sand only. It makes in and out of that place as the winds change. You may have twenty feet of water there in a week.” He set out with us for the vessel. At first sight of the Billowcrest, he paused and regarded her rapturously. “Oh, that beautiful ship,” he cried. “How I have longed for this moment.” It was with him as with Edith when she had welcomed his desert island. The Billowcrest was not really beautiful after her long battle with the elements, and perhaps later he might not altogether approve of her model, but now she seemed as a winged messenger from Paradise. When we reached the launch the sailors regarded our companion with wonder, and as we drew near the Billowcrest a curious group gathered on the deck forward. Foremost of these was Captain Biffer. I had never spoken to him of my sailor uncle. My former experiences in that line may have resulted in this delicacy, or it may have been out of consideration for my relative, whose skill as a navigator might have been judged by that of his nephew. Now, however, I ascended proudly to the deck. “Captain Biffer,” I said, “I want to present to you my uncle, Captain Nicholas Lovejoy.” With his deflected orb Captain Biffer pierced my innermost being, while with his good eye he searched deeply the soul of the man before him. He tried to speak, but at first his voice failed him. Then he said huskily: “Captain Nick Lovejoy, don’t you know your old shipmate, Joe Biffer?” My uncle, too, started and gasped. “My God, yes!” he said, “it’s Joe—Joe Biffer of Boston!” A moment later Captain Biffer turned and seized my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded; “and say, Chase, I’ve learned to like a good many things about you since we’ve been together, but this is the best yet.” At which Zar, who was standing by, added: “An’ to think dat ole Aunt Artics o’ his turned out to be a’ uncle, aftah all!” That night in my stateroom my Uncle Nicholas and I talked until near morning. I told him of events that had come and gone, and of family changes. Then more fully of our expedition, my love for Edith Gale, and how, as matters had turned out, I did not feel justified in claiming the promise she had made me. He listened quietly and when I had finished, he said: “It’s the money difference you feel most, isn’t it?” I nodded. “I have only a few thousand dollars,” I said, “a mere drop with a man like Gale.” He took my hand.