But the Sailor had no need to be told it was he. This was a Klondyke he had never known and hardly guessed at, but after a long and miraculous nine years he was again to grasp his hand. Somehow, at the sight of that gay and handsome face, the room and the people in it passed away. He could only think of Klondyke on the quay at Honolulu starting to walk across Asia, and here was his hero brown as a chestnut and splendidly fit and cheerful. Silvia, with a display of facetiousness, introduced Mr. Harper, the famous author, while the others, amused yet strangely serious, watched their greeting. The Sailor came forward shyly, once again the ship's boy of the _Margaret Carey_. But in his eyes was a look which the eyes of that boy had never known. The first thing Klondyke did was to take his hands out of his pockets. He then stood gazing in sheer astonishment. "Why ... why, Sailor!" For the moment, that was all. The Sailor said nothing, but blind to all things else, stood looking at his friend. It was the old note of the good comrade his ears had cherished a long nine years. Yes, this was Klondyke right enough. The hero was still gazing at him in sheer astonishment. He was taking him in in detail: the well cut clothes, the air of neatness, order, and well-being. And then a powerful fist had come out square to meet that of Henry Harper. But not a word passed. It was rather tame, perhaps, for the lookers-on. It was part of the Klondyke tradition never to take him seriously. An utterly comic greeting had been expected between these two who had sailed before the mast, a greeting absurdly nautical, immensely grotesque. It seemed odd that there should have been nothing of this kind in it. Those two commonplace words of Klondyke's were all that passed between them--before they went down to dinner, at any rate. And throughout the meal, the eyes of the two sailormen were continually straying to each other to the exclusion of everything else. Somehow, to Henry Harper it was like a fantastic dream that he should be seated in Elysium with the goddess Athena by his side and the immortal Klondyke looking at him continually from the head of the table. All through dinner, Klondyke was unable to overcome a feeling of astonishment that Henry Harper should be sitting there. He couldn't help listening to all that he said, he couldn't help watching all that he did. It was amazing to hear him talk to Mary and his mother about books and plays and to watch his bearing, which was that of a man well used to dining out. To be sure, Klondyke was not a close observer, but as far as he could see there was not a single mistake in anything Sailor said or did, yet nine years ago, when he left him in tears on the quay at Honolulu, he was just a waif from the gutter who could neither write nor read.