this packet.”
“I don’t think you do, Mr. Troop.”
Mrs. Cheyne had been looking at the faces—Disko’s ivory-yellow, hairless, iron countenance; Uncle Salters’s, with its rim of agricultural hair; Penn’s bewildered simplicity; Manuel’s quiet smile; Long Jack’s grin of delight, and Tom Platt’s scar. Rough, by her standards, they certainly were; but she had a mother’s wits in her eyes, and she rose with outstretched hands.
“Oh, tell me, which is who?” said she, half sobbing. “I want to thank you and bless you—all of you.”
“Faith, that pays me a hunder time,” said Long Jack.
Disko introduced them all in due form. The captain of an old-time Chinaman could have done no better, and Mrs. Cheyne babbled incoherently. She nearly threw herself into Manuel’s arms when she understood that he had first found Harvey.