in the little hut which he had built, and where all the years he had lived alone, he told us his story. it was hardly more than a word. when the vessel went down, he had drifted with one other, on a spar, to this island. the other had died next day from exposure, and was buried not far away. and winter and summer for twenty-one years the survivor had waited for those who never came.

at first he had hoisted the spar with a signal, but long since he had lost hope, and when at last a wind blew it down he had not replaced it. his speech he had preserved by singing and reciting such things as he knew, and so comforted himself. less than seventy years old, he was still a man of strength and vigor.

in return i informed him of our plight and briefly outlined our previous expedition. when i had finished my uncle nicholas regarded me for a moment in silence. then, smiling:

“so, nick, you found the warm south pole. my boy, i have believed in it for fifty years.”

316“i always thought of you in that way,” i said. “i knew you would have helped me. i even thought you might have gone there.”

“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 317for 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 318love 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.

“never mind, my boy. money isn’t everything. you are about to give to the world a knowledge it has long hungered for, and true love is of more value than either. besides you are—or would have been—my heir, if my ship had come into port. as it is, perhaps i can help a little. i have had a good deal of time to prospect, over yonder, during the past twenty years, and i have found indications that may develop something in the way of mining. we’ll go over to-morrow, and take a look. good night, now—i mean good morning—you must try and rest some.”

i retired, but sleep seemed far from me. the events of the day had been too momentous. and then my uncle’s words had left in me a spark of comfort—of hope. yet, from somewhere out of the spaces sleep did come, and the sun was pouring 319into the uptilted port-hole of my stateroom when i awoke.

we were off for the island again, immediately after breakfast. my uncle, trimmed, and arrayed in one of captain biffer’s uniforms, made now a most imposing figure, and this time captain biffer himself, with chauncey and edith gale, completed the party.

as we passed the point of rock where i had noticed what had seemed to me signs of hammering, my uncle paused.

“here is one place where i prospected,” he said. he pointed to a thread-like vein of yellow. “i believe that is gold. but i have never had tools to follow a ledge vein, and have done rather more at looking for placers, such as i saw in california, in the fifties.”

my hopes withered. the tiny yellow streak seemed to me so small and uncertain. as for “placers,” i only knew dimly that they were connected in some way with “pockets,” and “washing.”

we pushed on to his hut of stones. a very comfortable hut we had found it to be, and more roomy than it had appeared from without. my uncle entered first, and presently called to us. within, he indicated seats on the stone benches ranged around the walls. he first exhibited a few curiosities he 320had gathered during his long exile, then also seating himself, he said:

“my nephew nicholas confided to me last night a matter i take to be well understood by all present. it concerns chiefly himself and a certain young lady, who is not far away.” he looked toward edith gale, who blushed and smiled, but said nothing. “nicholas told me further,” my uncle continued, “of his lack of fortune, and his unwillingness to hold her to a promise made with different prospects ahead.”

at this point chauncey gale started to speak, but my uncle nicholas checked him. i did not look at edith, but she told me afterwards how she felt, and i sympathized with her. my uncle proceeded.

“i told my nephew that money was not all of life. that he would give to the world a treasure of information, and that love was still greater than either knowledge or riches.”

i began to grow uncomfortable. also, less glad than i had been that we had discovered my uncle. true, he had not talked to anybody for so long that he was doubtless anxious to make up for lost time, but i wished he had selected some other subject. we waited the end in silence.

“he would have been my heir,” he went on, “had my ship come into port. he is my heir to-day of whatever of property or prospect i may leave 321behind. of prospect i believe there is considerable on this island. of property—well, as i told nick, i have had a good deal of time on my hands during the past twenty-one years, and the result”—turning, he laid his hand on a great flat stone in the wall near him, and swung it aside—“it is in there—you can see it for yourselves.”

we leaned forward and looked into the opening made. beyond, there was a sort of storehouse or small room, the floor smoothly covered with skins. in the center arose a heap or pyramid of what appeared to be irregular yellow lumps of earth, or pebbles, of varying sizes—some very small—others quite large. no one spoke, but we looked at him questioningly.

“those are nuggets,” he said. “that pile contains, i believe, about two tons of solid gold!”